An Indelible Christmas

My 6th grade year of middle school had been a remarkable one. I was 11 and felt as though I was experiencing the world for the first time. Thanks to some special teachers who were gracious with their time and attention, I learned that there were problems to be solved outside my tiny, blue-collar corner of Tennessee, and that one day, I might grow up and help to fix things.

As I gained confidence in my capabilities, my introverted nature diminished. I had an opinion now, a voice – and I used it as often and as loudly as any pre-teen is wont to do. I was especially ready for our extended family’s Christmas celebration.

Two gatherings were held: a party on Christmas Eve, followed by an early supper on Christmas Day. My grandmother’s house would be filled to capacity by dozens of family members and a table groaning with delicious Southern cuisine. Late on Christmas Eve, we would open presents, and soon Mammaw’s blue carpet would be covered with a rainbow of ripped wrapping paper. Sometimes an aunt or uncle, forgetting to buy ahead but feeling generous, would press a folded bill into my hand, filling me with delight.

My uncles and cousins would set up instruments and speakers and play old Ventures and Elvis tunes. Simultaneously, conversations would overflow from every room in the house, increasingly loud laughter punctuating most sentences. Every member of my clever, extroverted family was their most sunny and attractive at Christmas time, and I drawn to the sheer brightness of them.

I couldn’t wait to go to Mammaw’s house and show off the new, “sophisticated,” 6th-grade Heather. I was shocked when Daddy said, “Why don’t we stay here and celebrate, just the 4 of us?”

Immediately, I began to cry. We had never not gone to Mammaw’s house for Christmas. The mere thought of it upset me greatly, especially since I was so eager to show off. My mama and daddy tried to reason with me, but I could not be consoled.

After almost an hour of my tears, Daddy bent down in front of the couch and took my hands in his. His gentle brown eyes were sad and resigned. He looked as though he understood that he would experience many, many more adolescent outbursts in the years to come, and that each one would try his patience.

“We’ll go to Mammaw’s house, Heather Pooh,” he said.

I had a wonderful time at Mammaw’s house that year. It seems like we had more family at that celebration than any other I can recall. I remember vividly that Daddy ate a sandwich made with pumpernickel bread. He was the only one of us who liked it.

We were stunned when he passed away 6 days later.

He died suddenly at home in the early morning hours of December 30, 1989, a mere 144 hours after sacrificing his own happiness for the sake of his daughter’s.

Our Lord is so good and so faithful – although I suffered a terrible amount of guilt over that fact for years, He began to heal me as I matured in my own Christian walk. I came to understand that what my daddy did was leave me with a singularly important memory – an incredible, indelible example of sacrificial love.

Despite the loss, despite the pain, this remains my favorite Christmas.

Daddy modeled what I, as a believer, am called to do. His choice that night caused an influential and long-lasting chain reaction in my life. I believe what our Bible teaches about Heaven – that because I believe that Jesus hung on the cross in my place, I will one day see my daddy again, and I will one day meet our Lord. My daddy believed the same. He no longer has to believe because now he knows!

Perhaps Daddy will meet me one day as the gates to my eternal home swing open, and I can thank him for the best Christmas present he ever gave me. Perhaps I will slip my hand into his, as I did in 1989, and together, we will go thank our Lord for the best Christmas present He gave us, as well.

(Originally published at Devotional Diva.)

Heathern

My friend and I sat in the pew in front of my mother one Sunday morning at church.  We were giggling immaturely over hymn lyrics, delighting in our adolescent creativity while definitively proving that we could not be trusted to act like adults.

Suddenly, I felt the thump of my mother’s finger against the back of my skull.  She pitched forward in her pew quickly, and the rush of wind from her movement briefly lifted my hair.

“Quit acting like heatherns!” she hissed in my ear. 

My mother employed that word in all situations.  She thought not of one’s religious affiliation – whether one was a heathen in the traditional sense or not did not interest her – but only of one’s behavior.  To her, acting like a heathern meant acting obnoxious or, like you didn’t have any raisin’, as we say here.  Often, she meant it affectionately, although that wasn’t the case that day at church.

Mama’s accent prevented her from correctly pronouncing the word, and her Arkansan roots were seldom more apparent than when she inserted a hard ‘r’ into the second syllable.  You can imagine the crisis of confidence I had when I realized that my name, Heather, shares all but one letter with the word heathern.  Whether my moniker was bestowed on me with loving ceremony or just Mama’s commentary on children in general, I will never know.

Cussing

For Annie, featuring an appearance by our dear one, Patsy.

This isn't something I'm especially proud of, but, I can cuss with the best of them.

Maybe it was because my grandfather was a sailor, and he taught my mother some of his most descriptive curse words. During my tender years, I absorbed each of them from her as rapidly as a clean sponge soaks up whiskey. I didn't start cussing on a regular basis, however, until after my dad died. My mother, sister, and I were thrust into survival mode overnight. Suddenly it was acceptable, and perhaps even appropriate, to use tough language. It matched the mood of my heart.

My father, on the other hand, was a shining example of Christian gentility. He would have rather bitten off his tongue than cussed. Not only did he feel that it dishonored the Lord, but he believed cussing made one seem coarse and unloving. In the 11 years that I knew him, I only ever heard him utter one swear, after an 18-wheeler nearly side-swiped us on the I-40 interchange. Never mind that we had nearly been killed; I was so stunned by his emphatic word choice that I gave him the silent treatment the rest of the day.

Oh, the irony.

After I had wandered outside of the bounds of my religious upbringing for several years, I recommitted myself to Christianity and tried to break some of my bad habits. That included cussing. I had gotten so good at it - so lyrical, so creative - that using substitute words was nearly painful. It was like going on a diet and quitting smoking on the same day while shakily tearing open packs of no-calorie sweetener to pour in a cup of decaf coffee.

I still struggle with a desire to curse, but it's gotten easier with time. My favorite swear substitute is "turkey burger." It has a fair amount of syllables and good mouth feel. Try it in a sentence:

Some turkey burger scratched my car with their buggy!

If that turkey burger grabs my rear end one more time, he's going to be wearing his turkey burgers for earrings.

After she ruined my in-home party, I told that turkey burger she could take her overpriced essential oils and shove them up her turkey burger.

Don't you feel more holy already?

I also utilize a considerably more mannerly trick that my paternal grandmother employed. Mammaw would drop the middle phonetic section of the "S" word to rob it of its impolite power. She pronounced it "shhhhh-t," which always sounded to me like a short-tempered Appalachian librarian reprimanding a noisy patron. Even then, that word was only used sparingly. I wondered if it was respect for my father that kept Mammaw’s cussing in check. He was often the placid influence on our passionate, sometimes reckless, family.

Several years after my grandmother's death, my aunt and I cleaned out the cedar chest that had sat at the end of her bed. Mammaw had saved every church bulletin, school play program, and greeting card that anyone had ever sent to her. She had even hung on to the invitation for the Sweet Sixteen party that she hosted for me. I hadn’t seen most of the things in the chest for at least 2 decades. As I reminisced, I wiped away gentle tears as I thought of her adding each memento.

Mixed throughout were cards from her longtime boyfriend, whom she had dated for many years after my grandfather had passed away. Not thinking, I opened one and glanced at the inscription inside.

Mammaw’s boyfriend had given himself a rather racy nickname that definitely included a cuss word. It was both descriptive and boastful.

"What you got there?" my aunt asked.

I handed her the card her mother had received. She read it silently. Our eyes met.

"Why don't I just get rid of that?" she said.

I nodded. Sometimes, cuss words just aren't appropriate. Especially when you’re still too young to hear them.

September 30, 2021

Highly Favor-ed

I’ve always been told I favor my Aunt Patsy. I’ve heard it for years at family reunions and funerals. It’s a nice thing to hear. We have the same ash brown hair and eyes. We share the kind of face that evolves from sweet adolescent roundness to angled sharpness, maturity settling on us as an attractive map of honed edges. Our smiles are so tall that our cheeks briefly turn our eyeballs into thin horizontal slices. And when we flash these toothy grins at others, grins are always returned.

We both have a desire to show up in loved ones’ lives and make them better – whether that involvement is requested or not. We both love Jesus. And we both miss my dad.

Aunt Patsy showed up for me countless times in my life. Sometimes, her gifts were pretty and proper but merely aspirational for a grubby kid living in a trailer - a pearly lavender Bible, a custom ring from Pardon’s Jewelers for my sixteenth birthday, an electronic Brother typewriter. She even made chicken pox bearable with a delivery of teddy bears and balloons. These were the gifts I wanted.

Other times, her gifts were more practical – like the time she and Uncle Ken bought us a dryer so that we wouldn’t have to hang up our wet laundry in the closet anymore, or when she bought us back-to-school clothes and pretty blankets for my and Rebekah’s twin beds – which were also from her. These gifts, while decidedly needed, were harder to accept. There was no need for shame, though – in Aunt Patsy’s eyes, we, and everyone else in her family, deserved the best.

The evening after Daddy died, Aunt Patsy took 11-year-old me to her house to spend the night. She did so because she understood that I simply was not ready to set foot back inside our home. She did so because she loved my daddy and she loved me. I slept back-to-back with her that night, like I used to with my own mama, shattered by grief but protected by her devotion.

She never stopped showing up for me. She made it to both of my graduations and to my wedding in Georgia. Our bond grew stronger as I began to check in with her more regularly over the last few years. They say that you should make sure the people in your life know you love them, because you never know when you might lose the opportunity to tell them. I’m glad that Aunt Patsy knew exactly how much I loved her. We often reminisced on the phone about good times from the past. I thanked her often for the influence she had in my life.

“Well, I was happy to do it,” she’d say. “Call us if you need anything.”

After Aunt Patsy had been placed in hospice care, Ben and I were invited to come over. She wasn’t communicating much the day of our visit. Uncle Ken and I tried to rally her by singing the Cas Walker theme. I don’t recall what Aunt Patsy thought about old Cas, but I do know he wasn’t the only one who gave milk to needy children – so did she, along with dryers and back-to-school clothes and pretty blankets. He also wasn’t the only one who might threaten to whoop hell out of someone who needed it (like that time she took Rebekah’s band teacher to task – but that’s a story for another time).

I looked at Aunt Patsy. It was like time-traveling to the future and seeing what I might look like in 35 years. A hospital bed had replaced the one in which I had cradled next to her all those years ago. Ben and I prayed over her.

Afterwards, I spoke frankly. “Aunt Patsy, I think you’re going to get to see Tommy, my daddy, soon. And I’m going to miss you very much, but I’m so happy for you.” And I was. Loving people inevitably means letting them go, so they can continue their journeys without us. What a beautiful thing, to let go of a balloon and watch it soar, knowing that you helped weave the ribbons that used to be tied to your wrist.

I sobbed miserably on the way home, knowing that it was the last time I’d see her this side of Heaven.

But was it?

After all, don’t I favor her?

When I glance in the mirror, I hope I will always be able to see her – not only in my features but also in the way she helped shape me. Now and in the years that follow, I will not only count her beautiful eyes to my credit, but also her evident loyalty, her constant encouragement, and her enduring love. When I smile at her, she will smile back.

Paint

In honor of those of us who are irresistibly swayed by cosmetics.

One sunny afternoon, Mama and I waited for the bus in front of Miller’s Department Store. I had just walked through a flotilla of bays lined with confection-colored products. Mama’s rule, look with your eyes, not with your hands, was firmly in my mind as I mentally traced the rounded, neon edges of the counters. Each item displayed was designed to entice female passerby with promises of beauty, and I was enchanted.

Tired after a day of downtown shopping and mindful of the bus schedule, Mama hurried us out onto Locust Street. Naturally, I wanted to stay and poke my finger into every beautiful pan of eyeshadow and then swipe a rainbow across my brows.

To keep me quiet, she dug into her purse for the tiny, bullet-shaped Avon lipstick sample she had been given with her most recent order. She handed it to me, and I popped off the white cap to reveal a frosted pink mound. The top was shaped into a sharp horizontal line, an aesthetically perfect choice but one terrible for application.

Instinctively, I knew this wasn’t Mama’s color. Her auburn hair and blue eyes would clash with the icy undertones of this shade. This lipstick, however, looked like one my Mammaw wore, and since people were always telling me that I looked like my Mammaw, I thought it might work nicely on me.

I thickly outlined my lips with the soft, slightly greasy pellet. Rubbing my lips together the way I had seen ladies do, I looked around for a reflective surface.

“Excuse me,” a woman said to my mother, “she has your lipstick.”

Mama looked at me in that way that mothers often look at daughters when they know they are about to be pressed into a decision that has far-reaching consequences.

“I know,” she said wearily, “I gave it to her.”

I closed the sample and handed it back to her to keep until we got home and I could put it on top of my dresser. Perhaps I would reapply while watching the Mandrell Sisters on TV later that evening.

Finally, the bus arrived and we climbed on board. Settling into the seat and as content as a cat in the sun, I looked out the window and thought about lipstick all the way home.

I was 3 years old. For some Southern women, the siren call of the (marginally) more respectable type of ‘painted lady’ beckons at a tender age. 

June 25, 2021

Rage, Rage!

Today was the first time in 467 days that I hugged my mama. But who's counting?

"Ugly cry" doesn't even begin to describe it. This pandemic has robbed us of so much.

I wanted to pay tribute to Mom by sharing the following true story, which she gave me permission to post. It's from an upcoming project I'm working on. I mean for it to honor my mom. You may disagree how honorable it is, but if so, I respectfully counter: if you know my mom, then you will understand. On days like today, when I remember the former vitality of my mother and I lose count of the number of my own silver strands, stories like this one make me feel like we're all younger and shinier. So rage, friends! Remember and rage against the dying of that light - however you can.

Heffers

A “heifer” is the term for a female cow who has never given birth. A “heffer,” however, is the uniquely Southern word for a woman who is acting as stubborn as a bull, as dirty as a pig, and as dumb as a dog. Sometimes, this stinging arrow is incorrectly aimed at a woman’s appearance – but being a “heffer” has nothing to do with weight and everything to do with temperance.

Most of us, at one time or another, have been accused of hefferism. I first earned my badge in adolescence. My smart mouth and distain for even the basic tenets of housekeeping gave my mother the ammunition required to lob that moniker at me. I deserved it, too. Maybe I took being “as dirty as a pig” too literally, but boy, I was dumb as well. Who actively fights against living in a clean, pleasant environment where there is little strife?

Heffers, that’s who.

I consider myself a 'situational heffer,' but there are others who I am convinced are 'full-tilt heffer' from their hair to their heels.

Mama once told me, "When your daddy first became a preacher, this one woman kept trying to pray with him by herself, away from everybody else. She was real pretty but she was sly. She would pretend to ‘get the Spirit’ at church and act like she was fainting so that your daddy could catch her. I didn’t trust her, and your daddy was a babe in the woods who didn't understand what she was trying to do.

“So I decided to take the bus over to her house. When she opened the door, I told her, ’You better leave my husband alone.’

“She said, ‘I ain’t doing anything wrong. If I want to pray with Tommy, I will.’”

“'No, you won’t,’ I told her, and then I whooped her. I whooped her good.”

I picture my mother, petite, with fiery auburn locks, sitting quietly on a bench, waiting for a bus so she can ride across town to defend her matrimonial territory. I am fascinated by the denouement. After the fight, did she regret her choices?

Perhaps she nursed a wound of her own, a scratch, briefly considering it in the reflection of her Avon compact. I imagine her daintily spitting on a crumpled Kleenex from her purse and using it to wipe blood from her cheek.

“Did you still take the bus home after that?” is all I can manage.

Stubborn as a bull, dirty as a pig, dumb as a dog. The heffer who tried to mess with my daddy ticked each of those boxes. She did my mama dirty by cozying up to her husband. She was too stubborn to relinquish her hold, and she was too dumb to realize that my mama meant business. As a result, she got her butt handed to her.

I am aware, however, that my mama also ticked each one of those boxes. She was too stubborn to even consider that maybe That Woman wasn’t really doing anything wrong. It was a dirty move to show up at someone’s house and threaten them. And Lord above, it was beyond dumb to assault someone – if that’s indeed what happened.

I would describe myself as being ‘as shocked as a fainting goat’ or ‘as still as a hypnotized chicken’ after hearing that story. After all, when the full-tilt heffer is from one’s own barnyard, one may decide to play dead from embarrassment.

May 21, 2021

Building Blocks

It's said that the sign of a healthy city can be measured in the amount of cranes and construction found within its limits. Often, this growth is inconvenient or unwanted even as it is required.

Our lives are no different. Christians believe our paths are set by our Heavenly Father, to accomplish His will and not our own. Sometimes when He starts to tear down and rebuild, however, we feel like packing up and moving away rather than trusting the demolition process.

Ben and I have been involved in some form of demolition for months now, all of it good. Last September, right around the time Ben started with his new job, we decided to repaint the whole house. I knew that if we didn't start right then, by the time he went full-time in January, it wouldn't get done.

I love owning a home, but one thing I didn't realize was how nothing stays looking good for that long - especially paint. The warm historic green I chose for the interior 4 years ago faded to a dull moss that read more Swamp Monster than Dignified Estate.

Like everybody else on HGTV, we went with a gray throughout, and also painted the ceilings, doors, and trim. In addition, we swapped out light fixtures and use one of those DIY kits to repaint the kitchen cabinets. To be honest, I love honey-colored wood and will always love it, no matter how outdated some sponsored Facebook post tells me it is. Unfortunately, our honey cabinets were so damaged, painting them was the only thing that could improve them.

We spent literal months crouched over baseboards. I think we could have paid for a needy child's semester in college with what we spent on Frog Tape. Still, it needed to be done, and I think it turned out well.

Before:

After:

Den, featuring pink treadmill to help achieve #ladygoals

Kitchen

Living Room

When Ben returned to work full-time, it was the first time during our marriage that he had been able to do so. It is a tremendous outpouring of blessed opportunity from the Lord. Ben's full-time job is not just one that he is excelling in, it is a job that demands physical strength and stamina beyond what was possible for him even a year ago. He is now the sales director for a popular outdoor recreation course here in South Knoxville.

In 2018, after weaning himself (with the doc's ok) from unnecessary pain medication, Ben turned to exercise to rebuild his body and mind. He fell hard for SoKno's local ropes course, spending as much time there as he could. Not only did his strength and stamina increase, but eventually, it lead to a great job. If you would have told me this is where Ben would be in only 1 short year, I'm not sure I would have believed you. But praise be to God!

That catches us up to roughly January. So, we've got me still loving my job in radiation oncology and enjoying my freshly painted domain, Mom decently stable, and Ben seldom at home because of work, as predicted, but now hale and overlaid with a new layer of muscles like some adorable T-800.

Around this time, we found out that our district's councilwoman had been promoted to the mayor's office, leaving a spot vacant. The replacement was to be chosen in a special appointment by the other city councilmembers.

Ben decided to run, because, why wouldn't he? To Ben, this was just another God-given opportunity to prove himself so that he could have the opportunity to help others in a great way.

He spent every spare minute knocking on doors, meeting people and asking how he could serve them, meeting with every sitting city councilperson, our police chief, fire chief, and head of our most prominent homelessness resource. On appointment night, he and the 6 other candidates were sequestered for hours. One at a time, each answered the same 10 questions ranging from the city budget to systemic racism.

Ben's answers were so fair-minded, informed, and eloquent, I was moved to tears. At the end of his questions, even the outspoken supporters of another candidate cheered him.

Ben didn't win the appointment; another well-qualified and talented candidate did. Our district will be well-served with the winner. Honestly, we have an embarrassment in riches in South Knoxville. So many qualified and passionate people want to make our city the best it can be - there are no losers in that equation.

I am just grateful and thrilled to watch Ben soar. When the Lord restored Ben's health, I realized that our lives wouldn't look the same anymore, and that was a change. Ben's schedule isn't as flexible and he's away from the house a lot, and that's ok. I understand that Christ-loving men like Ben are too needed out in the world for him to stay home. Our world is crying out for people of character who speak the Lord's truth with love in every conversation, within every profession. What it means to be Ben's helpmate in our new reality looks different than it did before.

For now, I know the Lord wants Ben to continue to use his abilities to honor Him, more visibly than ever before. The community as a whole is just now getting to know my husband, but I'll share with you some parting facts.

Ben is the man who turns the car around on the highway in Harriman, TN, to try to catch a stray dog because he is afraid that it might get hit.

Ben is the man whose elderly neighbor comes over to ask directions, because Ben will patiently explain where he needs to go.

Ben is the man who prayed for each of the other candidates on appointment night, whose philosophical premise is, it's possible to be wrong about something, so he should always be willing to listen.

What comes next? More of the same, I pray. Continuing to unloose someone I love so he can serve you and others. Loving him enough to watch him fly!

My name is Heather Ream, and I approve this message.

February 24, 2020

Dolly Would

A few weeks ago, on some sort of adolescent and questionably-responsible whim, Ben and I purchased season tickets to Dollywood.

It was almost 8pm when we pulled into the parking lot. I was wearing jeans and a blouse in 90 degree weather - my church outfit - and yet we still decided to go on park until they closed. Ben managed to ride a few roller coasters while I ducked into every air-conditioned shop that was still open. We vowed to come back as often as possible.

Some of you may remember that Mom, Sissy, and I worked at Dollywood for several summers. I was in Jukebox Junction, the '50s nostalgia section, working every concession stand they had. (If you want, I'll sing the Brylcreem jingle for you.)

Sissy worked on Showstreet and dreaded her assignment. Because of her unusual teenage competence, she was given the Sausage Works stand to run. Nearly every day for 3 summers, she stood over a skillet the size of a dinner table, grilling sausage and peppers for overfed tourists as sweat stood on her face and heat wilted her auburn curls.

Mom worked at Aunt Granny's, Dollywood's "country" buffet. She was a lunchlady during the school year and a lunchlady during the summer. It was a seamless transition, the only difference being that Aunt Granny's referred to their side dishes as "fixins" instead of "industrial food vats" like at the high school. Mom got the job because she managed to call them "fixins" with a straight face, much to the delight of enchanted Northern visitors.

Everyone who knows we worked at Dollywood asks if we ever spotted Dolly while we were there. I once saw her perfectly styled head through a dark tinted van window. I was taking my money to the cash office at the end of my shift. "How do you know it was Dolly if the windows were tinted?" you might ask. Well, it was either her or a mannequin head with just her wig on it. I'm not sure that they would feel the need to ride her wig around in such a secure and secretive manner, so I'm guessing it was actually her.

Dolly pointed at Mom one day in 1998. She was being driven around her park on a golf cart and waving at everyone as she putted past. When she drove past Aunt Granny's, Mom hollered, "Hey Dolly! What's for supper?" and Dolly pointed at her and grinned.

We just love her. So of course, my whole family is best friends with Dolly Parton because one time 20 years ago, Dolly pointed at my mama with affection.

Working there was the best summer job I ever had. When I worked the pretzel stand, the only open-air, air-conditioned concession in that corner of the park, I made lists of things I needed for my dorm room and sometimes read a paperback just out of sight. Although the AC did little to diminish the sun of an East Tennessee summer, I lazily daydreamed about my future husband and what my life would be like after college.

It is a joy to bring Ben to the site of my heat-induced day fevers all these years later. On our first few visits, we held hands throughout the park and happily endured the other's choices. After a while, however, we decided to split up and enjoy things on our own. For instance, Ben is a roller-coaster fanatic, and I am not. I prefer to shop and immerse myself in the detail of the different themed areas of Dollywood, like the old-timey Village or the Southern Gospel Hall of Fame.

Ben, for reasons surpassing understanding, is the kind of person who prefers to be suspended upside down in a harness and twirly-whirled in circles for 5 minutes instead of simply touring a museum to see Vestal Goodman's handkerchief in all its lacy glory.

It's a wonder we married at all.

With Ben happily ensconced in the line for the Lightning Rod, I walk alone through Craftsman's Valley and wind my way around to the newest section of the park, Wildwood Grove. A precious kid, born into an increasingly virtual world, points at the beautifully lighted tree while his mama happily holds him. Nothing can slow the march of time. My thoughts turn bittersweet.

I remember 3 women, a strong mama and 2 strong daughters from long ago. Just clocking in at summer jobs, to be sure, but leaving seeds of themselves - hardworking, brave, hopeful - behind. I wander through the garden of my mind and think of Dolly's lyrics.

When a flower grows wild, it can always survive. Wildflowers don't care where they grow.

God scattered a handful of us in a silly, wonderful amusement park dedicated to another strong Tennessee woman. Surrounded by the majesty of our shared Smoky Mountains, I sit on a bench and pull out my compact. I wipe the tears and sweat from underneath my eyes and powder my nose. Saying a quick prayer of gratitude, I decide to enjoy every second of the rest of my day. And I decide to put on more lip gloss.

Dolly would, too.

September 12, 2019

On the Road...Again?

I have a confession to make. I really, really don't like to travel.

There. I said it.

I consider traveling to be a gigantic hassle.

Our sweet little house has a comfortable bed, good things stored on the DVR, and a hot water heater the size of a linebacker, so it never runs cold.

I use a CPAP machine, so if we travel, I have to carefully tote it with me to my temporary home. Afterwards, the remnants of the cloying hotel air freshener remain in the hosing for days.

Like many food-allergic people, I choose not to eat in restaurants. The risk of cross-contamination is real and serious. There's no point in being excited about Chicago deep-dish pizza or authentic N'awlins gumbo. I ain't gonna get to eat it. So, if Ben and I travel, we find a Kroger as soon as we get to town, I buy what I need, and I lug around my food each day. (In France, just so you know, it's called "Le Kroger.")

Shopping can be fun, although my budget leans more towards Belk than Bulgari. And if you've seen one Belk, you've seen 'em all.

Let's not talk about the last time those hotel bedspreads were washed.

Or the carpet. Definitely not the carpet.

I know, I know - I sound pretty bratty, don't I? Curmudgeonly. Ungrateful. A wet blanket.

(Why do the blankets at hotels always feel wet, by the way? Don't their Home Depots sell Damp-Rid?)

Occasionally, traveling becomes a necessity, like last week when Ben and I went to the University of Virginia Medical Center for his appointment with a short-gut specialist.

Ben has been doing well, very slowly gaining weight and holding on to hydration by eating a strict diet. His lab values continue to be normal, praise the Lord!

We wanted to find a doctor who specializes in short-gut to make sure we were doing the right things at home to build up Ben. UVA was our choice.

Ben's doctor was thorough and absolutely competent but seemed a wee perplexed by our proactivity. We've witnessed this before. Often, doctors are taken aback when we show up to try to prevent a problem rather than treat one. (What that says about the American medical tradition of symptom-based care, I'll leave up to you to decide.)

In any event, the doctor was pleased with Ben's progress and gave him a few suggestions on how to maximize his weight gain. He also wanted Ben to get an occasional internal scan, just to monitor the areas where he's had trouble before. Mostly, he emphasized that gaining healthy weight would just take time.

What an encouragement! We prayed and (I) cried as we walked back to the car, humbled by God's goodness. In my mind, this was the perfect benediction to our trip and a reason to pack up and go home already since we had already taken a little tour around the city.

The University of Virginia Medical Center is located in Charlottesville. You will remember their history was recently tarnished by an evil man. He killed a woman who was lawfully protesting against some white supremacists that had marched into town.

Every person we encountered in Charlottesville was remarkably courteous and friendly. I wondered if they had always been like that. Did they made a conscious choice after this despicable act, to choose to be welcoming and forgiving? I didn't know. In comparison, so many of us in East Tennessee are hotheaded, volatile, wild. I thought of relatives and ancestors and our tendency towards foolhardy and rash actions. I'm not sure how I would react if, Lord forbid, something similar happened at home.

This is the one drawback to my travel ban. It's easy to forget there is a world of people out there doing things differently.

The next day was my birthday. I continued to think about similarities and differences while Ben drove us 2 hours north to Washington, D.C. When Ben proposed we extend our trip by an extra day to go there, I agreed enthusiastically. I hadn't been to D.C. since my 5th grade Safety Patrol trip. However, trying to decide how to go and where to go only made me tired and cranky. Plus, it was going to be 95 degrees that day. My long-suffering husband, as he is wont to do, plucked the map from my hands and finished planning our excursion himself. Whether he did this lovingly as a favor to me or just so he could have 10 minutes of silence, I don't know, but truly, it was a gift.

I'm not sure what's going on in this picture, but I was excited to be there.

We parked the car at the first Metro station we passed and took the train into town. Within 45 minutes, we were standing in the middle of gorgeous Union Station, surrounded by thousands of busy people. My bright pink backpack, comfortable shoes, and preparatory umbrella assured all that we were tourists.

Union Station, and...a dog!

Constitution Avenue

What I wanted to do was visit the Museum of American History. After we got off the bus, I video chatted with my mom while on the National Mall. Then we toured the museum, which was beautiful and affecting.

The cafe was inside, next to the entrance. I unpacked my food and ate while I watched people enter the museum. Hmm...lunch at the Smithsonian with my husband, on my birthday. A great way to start my 41st year.

I studied each person as they walked past. Some looked like me, some did not. Each of us was different, but no person was better than another. We are loved equally, and incredibly, because Jesus gave His life for all. All the people who streamed through the doors on my birthday. All the ones who visited the day before. All the ones who will visit next week. All the ones who will never visit. Even all the hotheaded hillbillies.

I agree with Dorothy. There's no place like home.

The shoes

But sometimes, travel is necessary, to remind me of my incredible blessings and the love of my Savior. One of these days, I'll go on to my eternal destination.

That's an expensive ticket and a long journey, but I'm not worried. Someone else has already paid for it.

July 6, 2019

Rest, Relax, Repeat

*Lazily drifts past on a pool float*

Hey. Would you hand me my drink?

*finishes store-brand sparkling water, makes that annoying empty cup sound with my straw while you wait for me to say something*

Thanks.

What's been going on with you since the last time we hung out? Hope things are well. They are with me. Lots of good things happening, and lots of time to enjoy them.

I've shared with you our physical, emotional, and spiritual stressors over the last year or so. You know about the amazing double-whammy blessing of Ben's new job and continued good health. Simultaneously, I applied for a new part-time job I thought would be perfect. We assumed it was time to jump into the deep end of the pool again.

Not so fast.

Many, many mornings during the last year and a half, I would cry from stress. Ben drove me to work most days, sometimes because he needed the car, but often because driving would cause me to have panic attacks. (I can't tell you how many times I've had to pull over and get out of the car for a couple of minutes because I was hyperventilating. And I don't even drive on the interstate.)

"Lord, I just need a vacation. I need some rest!" I would wail. Physically, I was depleted, even though our specific stressors had diminished. I didn't actually want to go anywhere. I just wanted to sit still.

Isn't it amazing how we can trust God to give us what we need?

Because things with my employment have been moving slowly, I've spent the last several weeks resting. Waiting. Taking my time. Sleeping so much and so deeply I drool on my pillowcase.

It's been glorious. Obviously, our money has been tight, so on one hand, I kind of feel like I did during summer breaks before I was old enough to get a job - poor, sort of bored, privileged to be creative with my time. But mostly I feel renewed.

In fact, I'm amazed at how much of a difference this recovery is making in my life. I had no idea how badly I needed it. But my Lord did. I've been able to enjoy so many more things since He cut the heat out from under the overflowing pot of anxiety in my body.

So what have I been doing with my time? I've gone to the library more times than I can count, often climbing the steps to the 3rd floor reference stacks to read the bound volumes of old magazines. I washed and rehung every curtain in our home. I take more time each day to read my study Bible and then watch an uplifting sermon afterwards. (I call it my Steak and Dessert Hour.) I'm talking on the phone with loved ones and getting to know them better. The other day I spent a quiet, languid 90 minutes in Walgreens picking out cheap eye cream and looking at clearance Easter candy. It was silly! And delightful.

I've also been able to drive greater distances without anxiety, and this has been incredible.

In March, Ben went to Atlanta to train for his new job. He was gone for an entire week. (He's doing wonderfully, by the way. Loves the company and his coworkers. Also still eating his weight in Subway sandwiches everyday.) It was the longest we'd been apart since we were married. By the 3rd day or so, I was doing pretty well. I started sending him selfies from different places around town where I had driven. I even drove myself to see my mom, and she's 45 minutes away.

Going for rockabilly hair, settled for fundamentalist church lady

No one has ever been this excited inside a Walmart before, y'all

You already know that Ben and I are hardcore civic cheerleaders, and we are also local government geeks. We've been able to participate in several city council and county commission meetings lately about a hot-button issue here in SoKno. Most of those meetings start at 5 or earlier, so I've usually been at work and unable to attend.

Hardly none of y'all care about our political opinions, and I respect that. Just know Ben and I are locally passionate about sustainability, neighborhood walkability, local synergic businesses, and equity. If you'd like to know specifics, here's Ben's recent interview about Chapman Highway speeding, and here's me last summer, looking like an extra in an '80s teen party movie, telling everyone how much I love turning roads into parks. My point is, all this rest has only made me more engaged and I'm grateful.

I haven't even told you about my new job yet. Remember how I thought I wanted a front desk-y job with a local hospital system? It was with a hospital that was barely 10 minutes from my house. I interviewed, did well, and they offered me the job, contingent on having the hours approved from a different department.

That delay of approval is the reason I have been able to take this time for myself. I just didn't realize how long the employment process was going to take. Listen to this, though - a couple of weeks after I had been offered the first job, a second hospital system asked me to come interview for a front desk-y job in their radiation oncology department. I interviewed, twice, and was able to meet the staff and spend some time with them. Although the second hospital system is across town and much further away, I felt a immediate peace about the second job that I didn't feel with the first, despite the fact that everyone in every interview was kind and competent. I'm not one to use feelings as markers, because they are often bad indicators of what is reliable or good. However, the second job seemed like an excellent fit, so I accepted it and took it as another example of the Lord's blessing in my life.

Not only does this job offer a nice benefit package, even at part time, but the dress code is business casual, allowing me to be out of scrubs for the first time in years. I know a lot of people like wearing scrubs, but I do not. I think they are shapeless and depressing and I always forget that I have Kleenex stuffed in one of those tiny pockets and then I spend 10 minutes picking bits off before I can iron them. I get to wear pretty clothes again, so hooray!

Seriously, though, the most honorable and humbling part of this job is the fact that each patient I will encounter is battling cancer. What an opportunity to be His ambassador! So many chances to show kindness and compassion, to uplift and pray for others. I will be able to start this new chapter rested, refreshed, and well fed on His word. Please pray for me as I begin.

And hey, the best part is I still have a few more days to relax before going back to work. Apparently, getting hired on at a hospital takes time. So if you want to hang out, let me know. I am happy to do precisely nothing with you as we sit on the porch and watch the world go by.

April 27, 2019

Spring Forward

Today is the first day of spring. The start of a new season - one of renewal and rebirth. In East Tennessee, tender buds and smatterings of bright color pop up on every available grassy surface, a reminder of God's bountiful, beautiful creation.

Spring makes my heart sing.

On Island Home, looking toward downtown Knoxville

The last time you and I met, it seemed that this past season of our lives - the non-stop stress, caregiving, health scares, unemployment, and the like, was winding down and that something new was winding up. Ben and I wondered exactly what the Lord had in store this spring.

Have you ever stood on a flexible diving board, preparing to jump into the water? When you're ready to jump, you have to fully commit to that decision. If you hesitate or overthink, that extra second of your weight on the board won't propel you as far into the water, and you'll miss your mark.

The Lord has propelled us into our new season.

Recently, Mom has had more bad days than usual. This is part of the progression of her illness. She has started experiencing insomnia and mild psychosis, which necessitates her nurses needing to call me often. I need to be able to answer the phone when they do.

At work, my boss changed some things at the office, and our patient volume exploded. All of a sudden, it was just too much to try to advocate for Mom and work full-time in a busy chiropractic practice. It also wasn't fair to my boss to have a distracted employee. So, I quit. I had been working there for 3 years and really enjoyed it. I wasn't expecting things to change, but they did. I guess sometimes God has to nudge you along to the end of that diving board.

Ben and I decided that we would make a part-time job work for me, so I've spent the last week updating my resume and applying for jobs. I interviewed yesterday for a hospital patient registration job that I think I'd like very much. Please keep me in your prayers as God reveals the mechanism in which I will serve Him in this new season.

I have to share a wonderful story with you. You might remember that the company Ben had worked for for many years had suddenly folded. It was a stay-at-home job and perfect for both his health needs and disability restrictions. On social media, Ben had shared that his dream was to finish college, go to work as a project manager, and be healthy enough to eventually work full-time again outside the house. "Like a grown-up," he joked.

Dears, if you're blessed enough to know Ben, then you know that I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that he is a treasure. He has a brilliant, assured mind and a hero's heart. If he hadn't had so many health struggles, there's no doubt he would have helped find solutions to half the world's problems by now. (Or maybe he just would have become a rich eccentric, adopted all the strays in the world, and staged an all-dog version of Steel Magnolias. He would cast an English Bulldog in the role of Ouiser and Annelle would be played by an Afghan Hound. Don't act like you can't see his vision.)

This has been something that weighs on him greatly. Other people who feel their disabilities or circumstances hamper their potential probably understand this very well. Have you ever thought, if I just had the chance to prove myself, I could help others in a great way? To not have that ability when you want it, however, is a lesson in patience and trust in God's sovereignty. It's been a challenge for Ben to stay faithful in God's timing, but he has done so admirably. While he has been waiting, the Lord has been restoring Ben's health. He hasn't gained any weight back yet, but his weight is holding steady and his labs are good.

Out of the blue, a friend of Ben's from high school messaged him and said that his company might have the perfect job for him. The job was a remote, work-from-anywhere project coordinator position for a national company that deals with energy projects. Ben was excited, of course, but told his friend he hadn't yet finished college and needed a very specific pay structure. His friend said, come interview, and we'll see what we can do.

Ben went to Atlanta for the interview and came home with his dream job.

This is a job that, on paper, he wouldn't have seemed qualified for. No hiring manager in the world would have even given his resume a glance - except that God wanted Ben to have this chance. So He made it happen. He orchestrated it so that Ben's generous friend would happen to see a social media post at the perfect time when there just happened to be a job opening that would be a perfect fit for Ben. The Lord has given Ben the opportunity to prove himself so that he can have the opportunity to help others in a great way.

This is the God we serve! What seems impossible to us is not impossible to God.

We are still in shock over this success. Please join us in praising the Lord for this opportunity and for Ben's good health. Please pray that Ben will excel in this new position and that God's name will be honored by Ben's actions.

I pray the Lord will pour out bounty and blessings to all of us in this new season. May we flood each other with the same love and care we use to shower our garden blooms.

And if you find yourself at the end of the diving board, have no fear. Have faith in the endless pool of God's possibilities.

Spring forward, my friends. He is there to catch you!

March 20, 2019

Don't Dread the Tread

It's been a tedious month.

A few things have gotten better. Most things stayed the same. Have you ever had a season of treading water?

Ben has maintained his weight, but hasn't gained anything yet. This has been tremendously frustrating, as we are literally spending $15 a day on Subway sandwiches that seem to have the perfect ratio of carbs to protein for his particular gut anatomy. Dude, that's over a hundred bucks a week. Not even Happy Gilmore was into Cold Cut Combos that much.

We're trying to duplicate these sandwiches at the house, but so far, Subway's still the best for digestion. It's like Ben's guts are ravenous '90s teens on their way home from a school basketball game.

"Turn down that Soundgarden CD and hand me my flannel," I think I hear. "We're stopping at Subway!"

The great news is that we have found an oral rehydration solution recipe that is working well. Ben's liver numbers actually returned to normal a couple of weeks ago and his other electrolyte values have been in good shape. His doctor ordered him to skip IV hydration for 2 weeks. If his numbers hold steady, then he can have the central line removed.

We've chosen to stay away from church and other group gatherings since Ben's line was implanted, for safety's sake, so we're very much looking forward to the end of flu season. I'm using so much hand sanitizer and soap right now that my fingers look like dried-out cocktail wieners left out on a paper plate overnight.

We miss our tribe. And moisturized cuticles.

Ben hasn't had much luck finding another at-home work position, so this month's been a little lean, but his plan is to try working part-time outside of the house once his line is removed. He should have the doctor's blessing to try it. Please pray that Ben's numbers will hold steady so he can have the line removed. He is so ready to work outside the home again. Ben is such an extrovert and loves nothing more than meeting strangers and making friends, twenty-four hours a day. I am quite the opposite. I like people, but only in small groups or one at a time, and only if I have a clearly marked exit. So who knows - maybe, prayerfully, we can flippy-doo and Ben can find a great job outside of the house while I find a work-from-home position.

I would love to spend more time writing. Right now, I'm doing most of it on breaks at work. I dream of tooling around South Knoxville on a cute, retro-styled tricycle and stopping at Honeybee Coffee or Suttree Landing Park to write. I even imagine sitting under one of the huge oak trees at peaceful Woodlawn Cemetery, where some of my people are buried, with my laptop open and only the birds for company. I'm hoping to become a typical Knoxville bohemian, I suppose, compelled to create art in the way that speaks to me.

I have been drawn to writing since childhood and been encouraged by others to produce it for just as long. For reasons that are His own, this is the season - the exhausting, terrifying, mournful, unpredictable season - that God has chosen for me to start writing in earnest.

A lot of Christians say that God does not put a talent or dream in your heart without giving you the opportunity to use it. While I think some well-meaning Christians stray too far off the Biblical path with this concept, I mostly accept it. The challenge is, how do you use your God-given talents, whatever they are, to glorify Him and not yourself? Especially when you write about yourself?

I know I don't do that perfectly, but hopefully, you know I try my best. I don't have any expectations about the future success of my writing, but I do know that I will not be successful in any way if I forget Who deserves the credit. I was encouraged that I actually got paid a little bit for an article that will be published next week, so we'll see. Fortunately, I live a modest lifestyle, so maybe what I might consider being a "financially successful writer" is within my reach.

Maybe.

I'll end this post with an update on Mom, because she was the impetus to begin this blog in the first place. We celebrated her 71st birthday this past weekend. My sister drove a total of 14 hours just to spend a few hours with all of us. We piled in the car and went up to the Apple Valley Cafe in Townsend for lunch. Then, we sang Happy Birthday and toasted with a gigantic purple cupcake that turned everyone's lips blue.

Much like Ben and I, Mom is treading water. She's stable, but not strong and not happy. Ben and I continue to advocate for her, which is necessary even though she is in a good facility. It's always necessary, no matter where she is. That is part of our loving duty. We continue to visit twice a week and talk every day, but we can't supply all of her social needs. She really enjoys when people reach out to her on Facebook or send her cards. Like all of us, she just doesn't want to feel forgotten.

I'll keep you posted, friends. Ben and I both think the Lord is close to moving us into that next season. Prayerfully, we will have the opportunity to be grateful and gracious, humble and helpful, patient and passionate.

I can only guess as to the reason God has for this season, but the important thing to remember about treading water is that your legs become so much stronger for it. Then, you're ready for the next event, to run the next race. If you need me or Ben right now, we'll be over on the side of the track, warming up.

On His mark, get set, go.

February 18, 2019

Get Knocked Down Nine Times, Get Up Ten

You must be exhausted by the sheer number of times I ask for prayer.

Ben picked me up from work this past Friday evening. He said, "So...was your day pretty good?" in that way you know you're about to hear something you don't want to.

"Yes," I replied cautiously.

"Everything's ok, but 2 things happened today. I got turned down for life insurance."

I was already drawing a breath in panicked protest when he finished, "but I'm not worried about that."

"(The company Ben worked for) folded. We all lost our jobs."

"Like, it's gone?" I asked.

"Completely," said Ben.

Which brings me to my prayer request. Just, generally - please continue to keep us in your prayers.

First and foremost, we're going to be ok. The Lord has been so good and faithful to us over the last year in this way, this way, and this way, to name a few. I don't believe He's gonna stop now. But ooh-wee, am I battle-weary.

Ben failing his life insurance physical isn't that surprising, but it is terrifying. I literally don't know what I would do financially if he died. I could only pay half our bills, if that. I'm far from the only spouse in that situation. Let me tell you, there's not a lot of fat to trim from our budget should I ever find myself there. Our (adorable) house is less than 1000 square feet, so our mortgage is the same amount as a 1 bedroom apartment in Knoxville. It wouldn't save me any money to unload my one asset to rent instead. The cost of our mortgage of course doesn't include utilities, phone, car payment (or repair), or insurance.

I've worked mostly in chiropractic administrative healthcare since 2006. My wages, like many others, are stagnant due in part to insurance companies slashing their reimbursements to providers.

So, I've been online reading up on how to survive the Worst Case Scenario. (Pro tip: only like, 3 out of every 10 comments are productive. The rest will make you fear for humanity.)

Get another job, some might say, that pays better. Get another degree if you have to!

That's easy to say if you can point me in the direction of a boss like the one I have now, who doesn't have a meltdown if I need to miss work, say, to meet my ailing mother at the hospital or stay home when I'm ill. In between all that, I could get that extra degree with Monopoly money when I'm not working a 2nd job that minimizes exposure to my deadly allergen, tree nuts (which pretty much excludes restaurant work and most retail). Then, even if none of that worked out, I would at least have any modest wealth I inherited from my parents to cushion me a little, right?

Y'all.

Mean face

I'm amazed at how often people who didn't grow up in poverty or who have never struggled financially are the fastest to offer definitive and often heartless solutions to complicated issues. It's no fair bragging about hitting a home run when you start out on 3rd base.

We're all in this together, friends.

Sorry to be so defensive. I'm just so tired of the lack of compassion and sheer ugliness I witness daily. Aren't you?

Anyway, I know I can trust the Lord, but I also know He wants me to be wise and prepared to the best of my ability. Ben and I are also looking forward to seeing how the Lord will provide another tailor-made job for Ben. He had worked from home for his former company for 8 years, and they were so wonderfully supportive and flexible. I don't know of many jobs where you could be hooked up to TPN while working. Please keep the rest of his former coworkers in your prayers, as well. The bleeding's not so bad for us, because Ben can only work part-time. Lots of other people there lost full-time work. He considers them all good friends, including his former boss.

So that's life this week. I'm looking forward to sharing more positive news with you soon.

I firmly believe the heat I'm feeling is the flame that transforms the phoenix and not, gulp, the fire that cooks the proverbial goose.

January 14, 2019

De-liver-ance

The last time you and I spoke, Ben had just finished having a big needle poked into his chest and a central line put in for hydration. A month later, he's doing well.

For a few weeks after the procedure, Ben wasn't allowed to lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk.

Boy, did he milk it.

I completed the vast majority of our chores for a while - laundry, cleaning, garbage, recycling, yelling at the recycling bin for tipping over backwards when I opened it too fast, checking the mail, yelling at the mailbox because the mail carrier had left it open again, grocery shopping, and, as usual, not cooking.

I was a ray of sunshine.

We did have a medical scare that I wanted to tell you about. We had assumed that Ben's remaining intestines were just having a difficult time readjusting to him not being on a serious pain medication. (“Ben's Remaining Intestines” is a great name for a band. I'm just throwing that out there.)

One of the positive side effects of his former medication was that it decreased bowel motility, which is wonderful if you have short-gut syndrome, like Ben. However, the negative side effects outweighed the good, so he made the decision to safely wean off that medication. We thought that after some extended IV hydration, he would start gaining weight again and would get back to his normal.

Ben had an appointment with his GI doctor to discuss bloodwork results. When he picked me up from work that evening, he was calm at first, but worried.

"The doctor wants me to be tested for something called PSC. He's afraid I might have it because of my history of Crohn's and since I'm losing weight. My liver function is not normal and I need an MRI so he can check for it."

He went on to tell me that PSC is a type of auto-immune disease that specifically attacks the liver.

"If I have it, there's no cure. I would need a liver transplant at some point," Ben said, and broke down crying.

My stomach went hot and my skin went cold. As I've told you before, Ben is a stoic warrior in regards to his health. He's been through so much. Not a lot phases him. Seeing him so upset terrified me.

My mind was reeling, so I did the only thing I knew to do. I held Ben's hands, bowed my head, and prayed.

"Lord," I began, my voice trembling, "we trust You."

I paused while the tears came and said it again.

"We trust You."

I finished my prayer. I imagined Ben and I huddled together in a small cave, watching waves pound onto the shore while a furious wind whipped sand into the air. How long would this storm last?

In moments of crisis, I tend to hold up pretty well. I might fall apart in the aftermath, as the shock wears off and I'm left with emotional trauma, but I'm good at triage. I began to research PSC and found some success stories of people who are living and thriving after liver transplants. I found out that a liver transplant can be from a living donor. I vowed to knock on every door in the country to find a donor if I wasn't a match.

At home, I did something completely new for me. I felt a motivation - almost a compulsion - to do my absolute best to focus on speaking lovingly, being positive, and staying in prayer.

That might sound like a cakewalk to you - in fact, I hope it does - but it's often not easy for me. Please don't misunderstand me - I'm not saying that I think that I created any measurable positive outcome in Ben's health by being nice or Jesus-y. That's not a theologically sound way of interpreting Scripture, in my opinion.

It's more like - the Holy Spirit seemed so near to us that I had no choice but to live in joy, in peace, in reverence to the awesome power of our Creator. I wanted to invite beauty into my sphere of influence because it would have been disrespectful and sinful to do otherwise. I simply didn't have the desire to upset the abiding goodness of the Presence in our lives. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced.

Whether we received good news or bad, it was clear that we would never be alone. Jehovah-Shammah, the Lord is there!

We were on our way home again the evening we got the results.

"Mr. Ream, I've got some good news for you," said the GI nurse over the car's speakerphone, "there's no evidence of PSC, hepatitis, or cancer. You need to follow up with the doctor in a couple of weeks, but we've ruled out a lot of stuff."

This time, I didn't say anything but thank you. Thank you, Lord, thank you, thank you.

In the time following this news, we've continued to seek out the perfect combination of fluid and foods so that Ben will hang on to his hydration and gain some weight. He continues to get IV fluids weekly and will soon meet with a dietitian who works with short-gut patients. We're back to the theory that his gut will readjust eventually. He's eliminating some specific artificial sugars to see if that will improve his liver function.

We're both aware of the sweetness lingering in our home after this past month. Although it is January, I wouldn't be surprised if I looked out my front door and saw bright, sunny jonquils already blooming. I continue to praise my Lord for showing me it was safe to trust Him.

I consider the baby birds that make nests in our neighbor's tree every spring. Sometimes, they fall onto the ground and must be tenderly rescued by those much bigger and powerful. I am no different from these tiny, fragile things. And yet, my God says I am far more valued.

I pray this majestic, monumental peace will remain and pray your weary heart will be enveloped by God's gentle Spirit, as well. For now, the storm is gone, and the horizon stretches out in an endless, limitless field of blue.

January 4, 2019

For Better, For Worse

So I'm sitting here in the UT Medical Center's Vascular Center waiting with my husband, Ben. This morning, he's having a central line (also called a Hickman catheter) surgically inserted into his chest.

Central lines are used for administering things like chemotherapy, or in Ben's case, IV hydration and nutrition. Central lines are considered long-term placements and can be in place for weeks or months at a time.

Over the summer, Ben, with his doctor's permission, weaned off a very powerful pain medication he had been taking for years. He was concerned with its safety and efficacy. Ben's doctors supported his decision and gave him some short-term pharmaceutical help while he went through withdrawal. Even with the help, Ben's withdrawal was horrible. For the first 2 weeks, he marked off each day on a piece of paper, like someone on a deserted island might do to keep track of the days. We stayed in near-constant prayer during that time. Every small relief was a praise.

Once Ben normalized, he was amazed by how much better he felt. As he suspected, the medication he had quit didn't help much with his chronic pain. He felt as though he could manage without it. He started feeling so good, he even made plans to finish college.

Unfortunately, one of the positive side effects of the pain medication was that it slowed down his bowel motility. Ben has short-gut syndrome, which means that he doesn't have a lot of surface area in his intestines for nutrition to be absorbed. Maintaining weight and hydration can be very difficult for him because of it.

Despite his best efforts, Ben plummeted another 10 lbs. after discontinuing the pain medication. Since he never fully gained the weight back he lost after having the flu in January, Ben and his doctors decided that having a line put back in for awhile would be the best. That way, he could put on weight and give his body some help while his bowels readjusted.

When I met Ben, he had been battling Crohn's Disease for years. Long before we were married, his colon and most of his small intestine had been removed. The Crohn's is under control, simply because they have cut out just about everything that could be affected.

Ben has an ileostomy, meaning that his waste is expelled through a stoma on his lower abdomen. It collects in a disposable bag that can be emptied and is attached by a special paste.

When I tell you that Ben is a warrior, I am not exaggerating or heaping hyperbole on him because he is my husband. He is the toughest man I know. One surgery had him literally staring at his own intestines under a vacuum seal while he waited for another procedure. A more difficult surgery prevented him from eating anything by mouth for five months. Five months. The worst thing about liquid nutrition, he said, is that it doesn't prevent you from feeling hungry. Your stomach still growls.

If you take all the time he's spent in the hospital and add it together, it would equal more than a year. And most of it happened before we met.

On our first date, Ben said to me, "Look. Something's bothering me, and I want to bring it up right away. My teeth are in bad shape from the Crohn's and all the medicine. I'm really embarrassed by it."

I suddenly realized that he had never given me a full-tooth smile. As I watched him speak, I noticed that several of his teeth were broken and jagged. He had endured so much and didn't even have the comfort of a healthy mouth. I could never match his bravery. A wave of admiration swept over me.

"I'm from Tennessee," I told him casually. "I'm used to it."

Before our wedding, Ben went through another very uncomfortable procedure and had the rest of his teeth extracted. It was a very good thing to do, because his body was constantly fighting infection from decaying teeth. He's worn dentures for years, prompting all sorts of unrequested mailers for Jazzy chairs, bladder leak products, and the like to our house. I guess we're the youngest senior citizens on the block. I'll take that as a compliment.

Once his central line is put it, his doctors will create a special mix of liquid lipids, fats, and proteins called TPN (total parenteral nutrition). It looks like milk and comes in an IV bag, just like normal saline solution does. He'll also have that, which will help hydrate him. A home health care company will deliver all of this to our home weekly. Ben is so well-acquainted with this procedure that he actually hooks up his own IV bags. He was on TPN for an extended amount of time a few years ago, so I'm familiar with it, too.

Ben's doctors only want him to keep the line for the shortest time possible. Any central line is susceptible to infection, clotting, or creating scar tissue. We have to keep a close eye on it.

He's back in the room now. Things went well with implantation. He's groggy from the drugs but currently eating Baked Lays and a turkey sandwich. We'll go home and rest today. Thanks for keeping me company.

Ben came with a lot of baggage. (So did I.) It was so much baggage that the people closest to me were understandably concerned when we decided to marry. I knew I was taking a big risk.

The best analogy I can come up with is this: have you ever seen an action movie where the hero is trying to rescue a precious jewel from the bad guys? Along the way, the jewel gets dropped into crocodile-infested water, snatched back right before it falls into a volcano, and wrestled out of the villain's hand while the hero is dangling off a train car. There are many close calls, but our hero wins out. At long last, he restores the jewel to its rightful place and saves the day.

Sometimes, when I watch movies like this, I imagine that I'm the hero, and Ben is the jewel. Other times, I see Ben as the hero, and his health as the jewel. The real story, however, is that God is the hero, and Ben and I both are jewels. In a perfect world, the jewel would have never been stolen in the first place...but we don't live in a perfect world. The story of its return to safety can't be a short and easy one. Where's the fun in that?

I don't know why the chapters of our lives contain so much harrowing excitement. I am confident, however, that there is a purpose and a reason for it.

Just like the hair-raising scenes in the movies, the only way I can watch some of the adventure is with my eyes firmly shut. As long as I'm praying while my eyes are closed, though, I'll be ok.

December 11, 2018

At Least I Have a Glass!

I've long been a 'glass half-empty' kind of gal. It's just how my brain is wired. Science tells me that some of that pessimistic tendency is genetic, and some of it has to do with experiencing the childhood double-whammy trauma of poverty and the death of a parent.

Science also tells me that the brain is 'elastic.' I can reteach myself to be more resilient, more joyful, more secure. It's not an easy process, but it's achievable.

Thanksgiving is a special reminder for me. A holiday that focuses on gratitude - with a bonus emphasis on togetherness - is great practice to think on more good things than bad, even for just one day!

Our holiday was pretty darn good. My sister and brother-in-law drove down from Ohio to spend it with us. We're not Thanksgiving food traditionalists. My sister slow-cooked some pinto beans in the Crock Pot and made cornbread for her and Mom. (I was responsible for ingredients, and somehow managed to forget the cornmeal, so I was very thankful for Kroger's holiday hours.) Ben and my brother-in-law got takeout from a local restaurant. One of them had catfish, the other a cheeseburger. I put a couple of turkey patties on the George Foreman grill for me and Porter, which we ate with broccoli. He had already finished his plate and was by my side begging for more before my second bite.

That statement is not a humblebrag about my cooking. Porter's just an insatiable sausage on stick legs.

After lunch, we took Mom back to her nursing home and decorated her room for Christmas. Our dearest friends, Charaity and David, met us there to celebrate. Mom was pretty quiet most of the day, but she enjoyed herself. Rebekah helped her with Christmas cards and we chatted about any and every thing. At one point, I lamented over the difficulty a lot of us feel when our families are fractured, far away, or dysfunctional. We also acknowledged that other relatives sacrificed their own time with us so that we could spend it with Mom.

"Hey," said Charaity, "our family is right here in this room."

That's a beautiful thing. Each celebration can be a precious memory, no matter the size of the guest list.

Holidays are probably always going to be a little harder for me, as they are for many of us, and that's ok. It doesn't mean I'm going to stop trying to see things differently. Maybe if I twist my neck and squint my eyes, the glass looks half full.

As we drove home, I tried to focus on the positive side of things. Mom has changed so much in the last year, but thank God she is stable and safe now! There are so many hungry people living on the street - but look at how many other people lined up to serve them food today and will be there to help tomorrow! What about the fact that the kid we have for Angel Tree needs shoes and underwear as much as toys? Remember, Heather, you were once an Angel Tree kid yourself, but now you have the financial ability to make things better for someone else!

Lord, I prayed, help me not to be so paralyzed by my own grief that I am ignorant of Your blessings. It was not lost on me that I was praying from the interior of a clean, well-maintained automobile, riding down a street in Maryville that was free from violence. What a blessing that was in and of itself.

Ecclesiastes tells me there is a season, and a time, for everything. Is this the time to heal, to build, to laugh, to dance, to gather together, to embrace, to search, to keep, to mend, to speak, to love, to be peaceful? I do not yet know, but I have hope. Maybe all I have to do is simply decide that it is time to do these things. Some of you have already started. Since we're all in this together, anyway, I ask that you take my hand and teach me what you know. I'll do the same.

Either way, there is enough in the glass for a toast. So, here's to the best in all of us.

November 24, 2018

Been There, Done Fat

There is a picture of me, age 20, standing at the buffet table at my grandmother's house. A family friend is in the foreground, dressed as Santa Claus, holding my young cousin on his lap. They look happy, even jolly, as is expected at the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.

I do not. I look embarrassed because I am obese and the person taking the picture has captured me mid-bite. It is Christmas Eve and the table is heavy with festive food of every sort - cheery green punch as bright as a jewel, meatballs simmering in a Crock Pot, fancy deli meats, breads, cookies, pies, chips, Chex mix, fudge - with nuts or without. I believe I am indulging in a smear of cheeseball atop a cracker when the photo is snapped.

It is a veritable feast of Tiny Tim proportions.

I am dressed carefully for the occasion. White t-shirt, jeans, blue button-down shirt worn open for some color contrast. My jewelry is small and tasteful. My hair is trendily cropped short, and I am doused in Clinique Happy like many reasonably privileged young women in the early 2000s.

But the truth of my life has been captured in this picture. No matter how mainstream my dress or how quietly I sneak extra bites, I am fat and I am miserable.

That picture was 16 years and 70 pounds ago. I keep it hidden in my things so when I'm having a tough day, I can look at that picture and marvel at how far I've come. It is just for my eyes, though. It is too painful to share with anyone else.

I thought for a long time about what I wanted to share in this post. First, let me tell you what my intentions aren't: I am not looking to fat-shame anyone. There is no doubt in my mind that beautiful people come in all shapes and sizes. In fact, my own experience has taught me that being romantically successful has much more to do with self-respect and understanding that you deserve to be treated well than it does with any physical trait. There are also people healthier than me than have a higher percent of body fat than me. So, I'm not here to make blanket statements about any of it.

I guess I want to offer some encouragement and real talk for my friends who are either looking to lose weight or just curious about my experience. I've gotten a lot of questions about the details of my weight loss. I want to make a very important point: slimming down was not a panacea for me. Plenty of things got better but others stayed the same or got worse. That's the truth.

I was at a healthy weight until 3rd grade. Then, I got chubby. I stayed chubby until after my dad died. By my freshman year of high school, I was obese, and I stayed that way until 2008. If you've never been sensitive or suffered trauma, you may not understand how food can anesthetize you so your bad feelings temporarily go away.

If you've never been poor, you may not understand how buying name-brand snacks and soft drinks is the one easy and inexpensive way you have to fit in. You may not think that rolling into a party holding a Mountain Dew or Frappuccino bottle instead of a generic cola drink makes much of a difference socially, but it does. If you've ever agonized over having to wear a pair of store-brand sneakers from the Pic-n-Pay on the first day of school, you know what I mean.

Being poor also means limited food choices. Sometimes, we wouldn't have eaten if Mom hadn't brought home leftovers from the cafeteria. Unfortunately, the leftovers weren't usually healthy. School pizza is uniquely, unquestionably delicious, but no one needs to be eating it several times a week. Many people have little access to better options.

I write these things not to offer any excuses but to remind you that obesity is a complicated subject. Even once I found an effective caloric-burning formula for myself in 2007, my reasons for wanting to lose weight in the first place were not coming from a good place - so my head was a wreck.

My old nemesis Anxiety and I met back in 2000. For years and through various treatments, it has waxed and waned. In 2007, it had waned, and I moved from Atlanta to Knoxville with my fiance at the time. He was a nice guy and a decent person. I wasn't happy with him, but I wasn't unhappy, either. I thought, quite frankly, that I was too picky, and that a 'not bad' marriage would be just fine.

At the same time, I was fast approaching my 30th birthday, and felt like I owed it to myself to try my hardest to lose weight. I was already worried about some health problems I had developed. I felt that if I could 'fix' myself, I would know once and for all what to do about him.

Girl. Who were you kidding?

I made losing weight my top priority. Every day, with few exceptions, I stuck to a 1500 calorie diet. I also walked on the treadmill or Sweated to the Oldies or put on headphones and danced around for an hour almost every single day. And that's it.

Before, 2004

After, 2009

It took me 23 months to reach my goal weight, and I spent almost a year trying to lose the last 12 pounds of it. Let me say that again: It took me a less than a year to lose 58 lbs, and almost a year to lose the remaining 12. Real talk.

When I hit my goal weight, I threw myself a huge party. I knew that Richard Simmons, whom I had adored for years, had a reputation of being kind and loving to his fans. (I knew this because he didn’t have my mom arrested when she broke through the barricade at the St. Jude’s Walkathon in 1991 and ran up to hug him. He just hugged her back.) For fun, I emailed his company and invited him to my party. I was thrilled when he wrote me back, that sweetheart.

"I am so proud of you. I will keep you in my prayers. I will ask God to continue to give you strength on your journey. Thank you so much for sharing your story. It made my day. Love, Richard"

Anyway, most of you have read the story of how I met the man I married, so you know I eventually broke off my previous engagement. I've stayed a healthier weight, as well, usually gaining or losing those same 10 lbs depending on A1C and cholesterol levels.

It's a full-time job, keeping a healthy weight. A few days of carb-heavy heaven takes a few weeks to remove, especially as I get older. Here's the good stuff, though: I have seen a huge improvement in asthma symptoms and blood sugar crashes. I used to have to pause halfway up a staircase because I was out of breath - that's no longer the case. When I was obese, I used to feel such shame shopping for clothes or talking to doctors or eating in front of others or even exercising in front of others because I was embarrassed by my fat. Those things don't even enter my mind anymore. I don't give them the briefest consideration.

You probably believe that those last victories aren't that great because no one should feel embarrassed by any of those things and I agree. I'm just telling you how things are different for me now.

As always, I aim to be blisteringly honest on this blog. Plenty of things didn't improve after slimming down. My crippling anxiety issues didn't disappear with the weight. If anything, they can be worse because I don't use food to self-medicate anymore.

I made a conscious effort to keep my goal weight a little plumper than the BMI chart recommended. You can't lose 70 pounds without your skin losing elasticity. However, keeping a little extra weight helped minimize that effect. (Let's just say, I'll never wave goodbye to you wearing a sleeveless shirt.)

During the process, I also had to re-evaluate and recalculate a lot of relationships. Your resolve to reach your goal has to be stronger than friends, family, and co-workers who begin to endlessly comment on your food and new eating habits. As you change, your relationships with them might change as well. Sometimes they feel threatened because of it. This happened to me.

Real talk.

This has been my journey since 2007. Slimming down was a definite net positive but it didn't solve everything, and the maintenance never stops. Becoming healthier is a full-time job, and it doesn't look the same for each person.

2018

If you need encouragement, I will give it. I will not judge you, because I understand how hard it can be. No matter your method, though, please know - the time and effort you invest in yourself is worth it!

October 17, 2018

Litter-ati

Each time Ben and I walk around South Knoxville picking up garbage, we are inevitably asked, "Why are you doing that?"

"Because we just wanted to be good neighbors," we reply.

Usually, the person asking fails to disguise the note of incredulity in his or her voice.

"Huh," is a typical response.

We can almost see the wheels turning in their minds. Why would you go out and pick up garbage that isn't yours? I mean, especially if you aren't getting paid, or you haven't been forced into it by a court of law. This is typically followed by a polite, "Well, thank you!" Some people watch us for a bit, while others walk quickly around us, fearful that we'll ask them to join our grouchy 2-man crew.

Ben and I decided to start picking up garbage in 2015. We were renting a house in Vestal at the time, which is considered by most to be the roughest part of South Knoxville. Litter was everywhere. Convenience store detritus was more prevalent than wildflowers. When we stumbled on a car door left abandoned in the ditch, I snapped. "This is ridiculous," I fumed, myself littering nearby neighbors' ears with creative curse words. "Let's just pick it up ourselves."

So we did. In July, we set a goal to pick up 50 bags of litter by Labor Day. A well-known local columnist from the Knoxville News Sentinel wrote a story about us. Then, WATE did a story on us, following us along on a pickup.

The clip began with me crushing a crusty can of booze with my grabber. "Ben," I said, "you really have to stop leaving your beer cans out here."

We reached our goal and planned to continue our regular cleanups, until Mom moved back to town. Our free time was instantaneously curtailed, and we lamented our little corner of the world's inevitable return to Trashtown.

Since Mom has stabilized, Ben and I have once again been able to spend some evenings picking up garbage, and we love it. You wouldn't believe how peaceful this exercise is. Plus, there are few activities where you can see an immediate difference after an hour of hard work. It's like doing cardio at 5pm and getting to buy a smaller pant size at 6.

Please know - we are far from the only people cleaning up litter in South Knoxville. In addition to the professional city crew, there is a dedicated city volunteer group that travels around Knoxville picking up trash. They'll even give you free supplies, if you call and ask for them. There is a local South Knoxville business, Good People, who does local monthly cleanups...just because it's the right thing to do. There is a group of nature lovers who meet once a month to clean up the beautiful Fort Dickerson quarry - because it needs it! Plus, there are scores of individual neighbors who share in this never-ending task.

I have some theories why there are so many trash-holes in Tennessee. Part of it is sheer laziness. Part of it may be because some people weren't taught any better, or perhaps they feel hopelessness in their own situations and it is expressed by their actions. And no doubt, part of it is due to some people who just don't care.

Since the bigger cleanup groups tend to tackle the larger, more public areas, Ben and I try to stick to neighborhood streets and grimy apartment complexes. These places are patrolled much less often. My personal fastest cleanup was filling a garbage bag in less than 10 minutes with nothing but styrofoam gas station soda cups. Residents at a nearby complex's parking lot had created some sort of arbitrary garbage collection point, despite the fact that there was a dumpster 50 feet away. Why? Why was this necessary? It boggles the mind.

This evening, Ben and I chose an apartment building that faces a busy intersection in South Knoxville. A few months ago, there was a fire in the building and several people were displaced. We thought for sure that they would demolish what was left, considering that you can look directly into the destroyed unit and feel certain that it will crumble into itself at any moment.

We were wrong. People still live there. Since I don't know what's going on with the owner, I will refrain from giving my potentially libelous opinion. I'll just say, I hope these families are given more attractive living spaces immediately.

Anyway, Ben and I got to work and picked up a sizeable amount of garbage. We can never get it all, because lawnmowers chew up the larger pieces into a hundred little ones. As usual, we find drug paraphernalia and numerous unsavory items. It's like the World's Grossest Bingo game.

A lone tampon wrapper and multiple cigarette butts. Girl, bless your heart.

Drug paraphernalia

A pair of men's underwear. Somebody's going to be missing those when the weather turns colder.

My bag of garbage, full after only 30 minutes.

Tonight, I relaxed into the peaceful, repetitive motion of collecting the litter with my picker and stuffing it into the bag. It reminded me of the song we sang recently in church. Lord, make us instruments of your peace. Where there is blindness, we will pray for sight. Where there is darkness, we will shine His light.

I liked that idea, that my dollar-store picker could be an instrument of peace. Gathering litter as a teeny, insignificant way to love our neighbors as ourselves? It's both a naive and pompous thought.

As if on cue, a woman called to Ben and asked, "Why are you doing this? Are you just...blessing us?"

With all my heart, I truly hope so, ma'am.

September 26, 2018

Transitions (but not the good kind from LensCrafters)

A coffee filter flower that Mom made and gifted to me

Many kind people ask me, "How's your mom doing?"

I usually answer, "Not great, but she's in a wonderful facility with wonderful caregivers so we're blessed." That's the short answer and the truth. It's not the complete answer, because the truth is often too long to report, and sometimes, I can tell that people aren't prepared for it or desire to hear it.

That's why I'm grateful to have this blog so that I can boldly write about my family's experiences. One of the comments I hear most from readers, particularly Christian readers, is that you appreciate my candor, especially with difficult subjects. I want you to know that I appreciate your support of this blog, and I doubly appreciate the encouragement.

I also want you to know that my candor is a deliberate choice. I hope it is one that glorifies our God. After my dad died, I often felt as though I couldn't just be a sad kid at church. Very few kids my age (11 at the time) had a frame of reference for the loss I had suffered, and adults at church, well, they usually caught a whiff of my mom's polarizing behavior and our extreme neediness and relegated us to that infuriating corner of our faith reserved only for food baskets served with a condescending smile.

I don't write that to shame or hastily judge anyone; I'm just telling you what we experienced in our church. It was so painful that I wanted little to do with Christianity for close to 20 years. (How Jesus rescued this sheep from her grief is a story for another post.)

Anyway, I have found that there is often a disconnect between the struggles in our lives and what we choose to share with others. Sometimes this is appropriate, of course - maybe we don't want to share or shouldn't share for whatever reason and that's a fine and good thing! And sometimes at church, if I only have 20 seconds to talk to a friend, we probably can't get a deep conversation going.

But my default is to spill my tea all over the place. What good is it to publicly honor a Savior who rescues us from sin and brokenness if we won't reveal the pockmarks and shattered corners that will be or have been restored?

In that vein, I will continue to share with you honestly. My prayer is that the Lord will be glorified throughout. And if you consider it unfair, unloving, or unseemly for me to write so specifically about another person's struggles, let me be the first to offer embarrassing and shameful details about myself. Here's 2 off the top of my head: First, I cheated on science homework in 5th grade. I had been out for a week with the chicken pox and purposely didn't turn in a worksheet packet. When my dear teacher, Mrs. Bird, asked me about it, I feigned innocence and told her I put it on her desk. She believed me and didn't count it against me. I have never admitted that I did that wrong thing until now.

In 1997, I caught a stomach bug and messed my pants on the way back from a college French class. I had to leave class quickly and walk back to the dorm with my shirt tied around my waist. I dropped that class after that incident, too embarrassed to return. Literal merde, y'all.

(Maybe Mom and I have a more even playing field now.)

She has good days and bad days. Good days are days when she calls me as soon as I get to work to tell me she loves me and asks me not to ever forget her. On good days, she plays Bingo or goes to Bible study or eats poundcake that she and the other residents make together. I breathe a little easier because I know she is not miserable. This is a good day.

On bad days - and there are a lot of them - she calls me as soon I get to work to tell me she loves me and asks me to forgive her, because she is positive she brought mini-strokes and vascular dementia on herself. Often, she adds that God is punishing her as well. She asks me, will I know her when I see her again? She thinks she looks so different now that I will not recognize her. She then calls me several more times throughout the day, increasingly hysterical, sometimes telling me that the staff is laughing at her or not helping her clean up after an accident. Her obsession then changes to telling me her teeth look terrible, her skin is drawing up and falling off, and she can't swallow. All of her clothes and bedsheets feel wet. Everything is cold and wet. She says she wants to die, but she doesn't want to die slowly like she is. She will choose to have supper in her room, and then go to bed shortly thereafter. This is a bad day. Rinse and repeat, at least 4 times a week.

When Mom has a complaint, I call the staff for an explanation and an update in her treatment. Ben and I are on a first-name basis with every nurse and CNA on her floor. I've written before - her nursing home is top-rated and has a good reputation in our area. Inevitably, Mom's problems turn out to be functions of her disease and not negligence. Despite our trust in the staff, we always check again when we visit - twice a week, every week. We have never had a concern or question go unaddressed for long.

Mom is taking a cocktail of safe and well-proven medications for anxiety and depression. She has access to daily activities and additional mental health resources if she is interested in them. And she has prayers - so many prayers - offered up by loving hearts.

It is a lonely thing when a life-long Christian loses hope in the Lord. Mom cannot or will not accept that God is not punishing her with vascular dementia. I do not know if this is supernaturally-weaponized despair from the Enemy or just sheer narcissism on her part. It doesn't really matter either way. My solution is the same - I try to pray with her every day over the phone. I remind the Lord that she gave her life to Him many years before I was born, and I ask that He fill her with peace, wisdom, health, and hope. After each "amen," I feel a small victory.

A sweet friend at church shared with me that her mother, also a life-long Christian, similarly despaired at the end of her life. While I have no doubt that I will see her mother and my own in Heaven one day, it is sobering to bear witness to their anguish. It is painful. It is honest.

There are events in our lives that we must experience alone. The transition to our death, whether quick or agonizing, is one of them. I will die. You will die. My mom will die. I do not understand why we must face it at all, or when we do, why it is so much worse for some. I have my logical, theological answers, of course, that have to do with our fallen world and our satanic Enemy. Those answers, while trustworthy, are often drowned out by the emotional cacophony that a daughter experiences when she sees her mother suffer. And yet, my faith remains. It is a gracious miracle.

It's hard to know how long this season of our lives will last. I wish I had a succinct and uplifting ending to present to you. But I don't yet have one. All I can offer is my honest plea to ask you to pray for my mom and every other suffering person on this planet. Please pray that their heartache be soothed, that their physical symptoms be eased, and that they may only see the goodness of God as they convalesce.

Pray that those of us left behind remember our loved ones glorious, triumphant, vital, and reborn as they enter their eternal rest and celebration of our Father, who art in Heaven. May they give their earthly life only the briefest consideration as the gates swing wide open to welcome them Home.

August 29, 2018

Summer Magic

When I was a kid, summer vacation stretched from the end of May to the end of August, allowing all a full 3 months to relax and recover. If you had a bully, it was a great time to forget about him (with the possible exception of hoping he'd catch a baseball to the face when you saw him playing on your cousin's team at Little League - true story, y'all). If you had a sibling, summer granted you endless hours of sunshine to create a sweaty, Icee-stained world fueled by your imagination. You probably conquered a few fears by jumping off the deep end of the pool or making it through Camp Ba-Yo-Ca without calling home every night. By the time school started, you were generally more resilient and better equipped for the coming year. (I think the grown-ups call that "maturity.")

I've enjoyed that cycle all my life. For me, summer continues to be a riveting dichotomy of activity and reflection. How can I not be drawn outside? There are innumerable summer events in Knoxville - everything from outdoor movies to Shakespeare on the Square. And despite the sweltering humidity, Ben and I live within walking distance of the gently flowing Tennessee River. What could be better than to sit along its banks as the evening softly approaches? The meditative "REE-a-REE-a-REE" song of the jarflies never fails to soothe me.

This season has felt more like the aforementioned typical childhood summer than any in my adult life. Ben and I continue to recover from the ongoing care of my mom. She is well-cared for in her nursing home, and we are regaining strength. The Year of Our Lord 2018 has felt like an especially tough grade of school with an especially tough teacher. That's why I have been fiercely dedicated to creating as many joyful experiences as I can, and my family has made that possible! My in-laws visited earlier this summer and treated us to a trip to the aquarium. It was an absolute delight. Never have I pushed so many 4-yr-olds out of my way to look at penguins and smiling stingrays.

Little Tammy and Timmy, I apologize.

Ben and I took an enjoyable ride out to Harriman, TN, the self-proclaimed 'Utopia of Temperance.' The sign in front of its old university hall stated that the town was founded in 1891 and created to be "an ideal industrial city, an object lesson for thrift, sobriety, superior intelligence, and exalted moral character." Unfortunately, I can only check off 3 of those 4 boxes, but we sure loved looking at the historical homes.

Since our mom was diagnosed, my sister has made visiting a priority. She lives 7 hours away, so time spent with her tends to be carefully planned so we can make every minute count. This past weekend, she, my brother-in-law, and their hound mix Porter 'Wag'oner came to see us. On Saturday, we spent the entire day hanging out, just the two of us. It was literally the first time in 14 years that we had had a chance to do so.

Like many other summer days of the past, we spent our time in Pigeon Forge. We began by touring the Apple Barn. My sister contemplated buying a Papaw Hat complete with embroidered apples while I admired a University of Tennessee-branded chip-and-dip platter that I would use precisely zero times if purchased. Next was the Christmas Shoppe (which is pronounced "shop-pee," if you didn't know), home of about 150 competing candle scents and some pretty decorations made out of reclaimed barn wood and, I dunno, artisanal apple scrapings? It was nice, though.

Finally, we made it to the Island, which some consider a more upscale version of Gatlinburg's main tourist area. For example, there are way fewer places at the Island where you dress up like an old-tyme saloon girl and have your picture taken, and you will likely not see any crudely drawn trademarked characters airbrushed onto clothing. Whether you consider that more upscale or not is a personal matter, however, and one that changes regularly in my mind.

We went shopping for gummy army men for my husband at the sweet store, and got a friend some limited edition Nerds flavors. I bought my sister a candy watch, and she devoured it in the time it took to leave the store and walk past the beef jerky outlet. She was the same way as a kid. All she needed was an extra-syrupy grape Slush Puppy to wash it down with, and it would have felt like 1988.

My sister, candy jewelry connoisseur since birth

On Sunday, we took Mom out for a picnic at our favorite park along the river. Mom was having a pretty good day, and I was grateful. She couldn't finish the big cheeseburger she had for lunch, so she shared it with Porter. He had a pretty good day, too.

Students start back next week here in Knoxville. Although I am long past school age, I use this date as my unofficial start to the end of summer. I'm not a fan of cold weather or holiday cooking, so I tend to want to squeeze out every last drop and leave it a dried-out, empty Fla-Vor-Ice tube of a season.

The holidays are coming, and with it, a Santa-sized bundle of grief and stress as we navigate our new normal. I'm thankful for the respite the Lord has given me, for reminders of summers past and for the opportunity to create more memories.

School is almost back in session. What will we learn this year?

August 2, 2018