A Lesson from a Non-Diva

For some reason, my muse is writing several blogs at once....(no, I do not believe in literal muses.)

Just for fun, though, let me update you on my sugar ants. They have been GONE for two months! I tried Keila's suggestion about a sugar solution mixed with Borax. It works so well and very quickly. Such relief.

It's very possible they've just moved next door to my neighbor's house. Maybe I should slip the recipe for sugar ant destruction in her mailbox?

Here's what I've been composing in my heart and head since last night. A little background is necessary-- especially for the other blog that the muse is writing.

I've been a fan of musical theater my whole life. If I could live my life as a musical, I would. Sometimes there is a pause in conversation that simply begs for a musical cue and melody. I'm quite positive that my life would have been without blemish if during the darkest of moments dancers had simply appeared and lifted me without effort. I would belt out my tune and simultaneously solve my momentary dilemma.

As a season subscriber to a Dallas theater company, I received advance opportunity back in March to purchase Kristin Chenoweth tickets. Kristin is a Jedi Master in musical theater. Without hesitation I bought the best seats available. (Yes, Mom, they were very expensive.) I immediately texted my dear friend Patty Breckenridge and invited her.

Patty was my instant choice because she is truly a star in her own right, not only as an accomplished, award winning actor and singer; more, as a stellar human being. I knew that she would match or surpass my enthusiasm--that's a task.

I've known Patty since she was in elementary school. I cherish time with her. My face and abs will often hurt after I've been with her because I've laughed so hard at her spot on impersonations of her family, even me. I'll often have learned an important life lesson or have something profound to chew on based on a comment she has made.

Another dear friend who knows Patty well saw Kristin in Houston the night before us. She texted and said, "Tell Patty to brush up on Elphaba's part in "For Good" for a duet with Kristin. They had four people near the front and Kristen picked the one who answered with confidence that she knew the part!" That text was copied and sent to Patty post haste.

I made up my mind that I would do whatever necessary to get Patty on that stage. That would include losing all sense of dignity and squandering meager self esteem to be noticed, loud, and oddly charming enough to convince Kristin that Patty was her girl.

I only needed to convince Patty. Much more, I wanted to make sure she really wanted me to risk my public humiliation to sing with Kristin.

Tunnel vision and creativity are both my friends and enemies. I chose to employ every method possible to convince Patty. These included, but were not limited to manipulation and strong arming. Although I had no input on her wardrobe choice, we both laughed aloud when I let her know I was glad she was Dallas snappy casual. L- "You won't look like you were planning to be on stage." (Which, of course she wasn't.)

True Kristin fans always have Wicked downloaded on their phones ready for car sing alongs. Patty humored me and "warmed up" in the car. At one point, I got to be Glinda and she was Elphaba. That, folks was the highlight of my night. Really.

Just as we'd been apprised, after intermission, Kristin asked for a volunteer to sing with her. Before Kristin had completed her invitation, a young girl catapulted herself from her seat to her sandals. Patty, ever so gently, but firmly, grabbed my right arm and shook her head with a firm "no". With hesitation, but the heart of a mother, I relented.

Kristin, with her arm wrapped tightly around the girl sang the first verse, offering support and confidence to a girl whose knees were trembling slightly. When the duet partner opened her mouth, we were all stunned. She had real talent. Jackie was so talented that Kristin felt compelled to tell the audience that her duet partner wasn't a "plant". At the end, while Kristin was smothering Jackie with a motherly bear hug, the audience rose to its feet and erupted with thunderous applause. It was easy to see that Kristin remembered what it was like to be a dreaming 14 year old. In darling diva fashion after having told the audience to remember Jackie's name she said, "Now. Get off the stage." Perfect.

Assuming I'd been successful--which frankly, I WOULD HAVE BEEN! Patty gave Jackie, the 14 year old Broadway wannabe the pinnacle experience of her life. Patty also offered her old friend Lori a gift in return. I was able to relish the moments of watching a dream come true for a little girl--a little girl with this memory and only dreams ahead of her. I also witnessed the stars in Patty's eyes twinkle as she leapt to her feet with a loud whoop. Patty remembered too.

See, this is a perfect Life is a Musical moment. Cue strings.

 "Because I knew you, I have been changed for good."

What happens before a Scar?

I'm sitting in carpool line. If I time it just right, I can park directly in front of my daughter's classroom door. We are most often the first ones out of the gauntlet. I won't waste your time explaining the illogical rationale for this daily frenzy at 2:50. I will say only that I must arrive at least 40 minutes early to get my spot.

I told you it was illogical.

I spend that time reading, writing, or napping. The only blog I read daily is http://www.aholyexperience.com/. It arrives about the time I pull into my elite spot. If I'm not too cranky or tired, I read it. Some days I don't want to hear or think about pure or holy things. I can never grasp everything she is saying. Ever. I try to contemplate just one idea.

Anne is talking about scars today. As always, it's lyrical, lovely, and profound. After reading this, I have the odd desire to have more scars.

I have scars. There's the one on my bottom lip that juts out and makes a fabulous pout which I'm still inclined to use. This is my first lasting scar occurring just before my first birthday. It's a reminder that I've always, always been clumsy. Then there's the large one on my shin. The summer before 6th grade I was absolutely DONE with dark, long hairs on my legs. Dressed in jeans --in Houston, no less--to conceal my gash, I asked Mom if I could shave the day after my introduction to razors. She replied in no uncertain terms, "NO!" That scar is a reminder that my uninformed, impulsive behavior can cause injury. As a seamstress, I was mad as a hornet when a C-section was performed during my hysterectomy. Any self respecting sewer knows what happens when a straight line seam is sewn below an area with a curve. I didn't need a stitch to create a band for the excess to fold over, thank you. I cannot see that large scar, so it doesn't count.

For about a year after I took off the wedding band I'd worn perpetually for over 22 years, I had a white, atrophied circle on my left finger. I called it my scar. It was the only physical evidence of a gaping wound within.

Aside from my ring finger, I can touch any of the scars I've mentioned and I have no sensation whatsoever. They are painless.

If you are a visual reader and are grossed out easily, just click the red box and be done now.

Right now I'm pondering what happens before a scar forms a monument to a past wound. Obviously there is a wound first. The depth of the wound and the source of the wounding are critical to the care administered. If things go awry, bad stuff happens. Garden variety cuts and scrapes form a scab. That scab, when ready, will simply fall away revealing a white or pink layer of new skin. Sometimes there are accidents and the scab is ripped off before it's ready. Ouch. Then there are people like me, who, bless my stupid heart will pick that scab away. Mom still keeps band-aids at the ready. (Apparently there is a "picker" gene.) I cannot imagine how much worse I'd been if Hello Kitty and Micky Mouse band-aids had been in every cabinet in our home in the 70's. Even with the knowledge gained that picked scabs delay healing, I still did it. I will, in mindless moments, still pick at a scab. (I'm pondering that on an emotional level too, now. Hmmmm.)

I'm astonished at the mystery of watching something jagged, with dimension transform itself into new skin. New life. I'm even more fascinated by emotional healing.

This week I had this thought, "I think I'm recovering." Instead of being mired with impatience, anger, and worry, my days are filled with daily minutiae, joy, possibilities, and the normal frustrations of living in a broken world. My potty mouth has even improved. I considered, quite briefly, if I'm forming scar tissue.

Until one email from my ex-husband ripped the scab off the wound and I was oozing with rage, disbelief, even shame. That's why I'm thinking about scabs.

I'm wondering aloud if some wounds never heal completely in this life? Particularly ones involving loss and children. Ask anyone who has buried a child or someone who lives with a disability. I truly don't know.

I've been mad for several days that my scab was ripped off. I'm mad that I have an enemy. I hate that I have to keep an attorney on retainer. I'm incensed that co-parenting is not possible for me.

In the past, I would have directed that fear and anger inwardly and sat down like a bunny--blinded and scared by an oncoming car. That was then. This is now.

I'm directing my anger and frustration into the power that can thrust 30 pounds of steel weight over my head for the fourth set of 10. I'm using my electric sander on chairs bought at thrift stores and garage sales that will give my house a face lift. More importantly, I'm asking God to continue the work He started in me. I long for wholeness-which for me will include lots of scars. No doubt, more to come.

I love the passages of scripture that speak of Christ's resurrected body. Even that perfect new body had scars. It's because of His scars I know that, one day, I will be complete. For the time being, I find comfort that as Anne says, "He knows. He knows."

And so this afternoon I offer back my wounds and my scars and ask, "Lord, make me more like you."

**Full disclosure- I feel compelled to correct the idea that if available in the 70's I'd had smiley faces or Mighty Mouse adorning my body. My mother, in a million years would NEVER have bought those. If hidden cameras were available at the Cleburne Kroger, I'd bet the farm that EDaddy buys the fun band-aids available at Star Ranch. If I'm wrong, I'll agree to never to pick a scab again.

1st, 3rd, and 5th

First, Third, and Fifth had no relevance to me until the early part of this century. No one in my family had been divorced with children prior to that time. It's as familiar to me now as my iPhone. 

You may be the only person left in America still in the dark regarding that term. I have two things to say to you:

1. Congratulations! You don't live with the consequences of divorce in your world. I'll broadly define world as you or someone you know well enough to know his/her schedule. 

2.  1st, 3rd, and 5th is slang for standard possession for the parent that doesn't have the children living with them full time. (I'm trying very hard not to use legal jargon. I know it now; but, I think it can be confusing and unnecessary. And pompous.)

The judge in our case gave my ex husband the option of expanded possession. This means he gets our daughter every Thursday night overnight and returns her to school on Friday mornings. On, (fill in the blank) 1st, 3rd, and 5th weekends he returns her to school on Monday mornings. Holidays are alternated between parents. During even years, the father gets Spring Break. The expanded schedule, over the course of the year is a couple of points away from a 50/50 time split. 

March had Spring Break and a 5th weekend. A cursory counting on the calendar and I'm counting 18 days that I've spent with my 10 year old since March 1st. Most of those are school days. It's a consequence and reality of my life that stinks. I'm grateful, truly grateful that she enjoys being with her father. On days when I don't hear from her, I've learned to be content knowing that she is busy and happy. 

This is the our first weekend together in eons and I had all kinds of wonderful plans for the two of us. I enjoy her. I'm particularly enjoying conversations with her now. She's witty and has some surprisingly mature insight.  Of course, I'm already informed regularly of my ignorance and am being taught the real ways things should be done.

And so I sit here alone in our house.

Her clear choice for the evening was for she and her "best cousin" Emma to attend Friday Nite Live. It's sponsored by the Lewisville School District and is a "total blast". My plans were never mentioned. Instead, I made the arrangements. I savored the moments of listening to them laugh and talk in the back of the van during the transport from our rendezvous spot with the other van driver and money provider, Carol. There are few things that satisfy my soul more than hearing two little girls whom I love passionately enjoy one another. Their laughter resonates within my marrow. 

Neither child will even consider what I'm doing right now. If by some freak of nature one of them asks me what I did, my guess is that it will only be out of Southern courtesy. They don't care that I'd rather be with them listening, participating, sharing in their world(s). They have no idea that I would think staring at the TV when they are watching A Pair of Kings would be fun because I could relish watching them crack up over silly humor. They'd assume my laughter was based on the line delivered by a Disney child actor.

If either of them would have been concerned about my loneliness and offered to forgo their plans, I'd be vastly more despondent tonight. My heart is pleased that they are making memories together. I'll hear about the pie eating contest, the Cheeto relays, and what they bought with their tickets on the drive back to Richardson. Their neon hair will glow in the rearview mirror. Their location jokes will not translate well and yet, I am positive that I will engage my genuine laugh at several points in the telling. They are living the lives of little girls. I can't believe they are 10 and 11 now. I'll blink and I'll no longer be told in detail the events of the evening. I won't be needed to chauffeur and I'll be even dumber and more embarrassing than I am now. Grace will be there then, as it is this night.

It's made me ponder.  I wonder how many times God has really looked forward to spending time with me, only for me to choose differently? In the past, I'd have immediately felt shame. Old tapes would say, "Lori you have hurt God's feelings....you are unloving and selfish." Tonight I am able to ask the question and consider a wholly different possibility. Maybe God feels pleased that two of His beloved are growing up. Lori can sit with her loneliness and make healthy choices about how to manage those feelings. It's not Annie Beth's job to fill the lonely spaces within me. As parent, I delight, sometimes, (wink) in my child and who she is becoming. I am confident that Annie Beth made the best choice tonight. She's with her cousin and her friends in a safe, supervised environment. Even without omniscience or omnipresence, I can enjoy her from afar. How grateful I am for the profound gift of parenthood. Even with creature-ly limitations, I can glimpse a bit of how my Father might feel about me. 

I am lonely tonight, but I am never alone. Grace abounds.

Only two more hours and I get to pick them up.

 

Physics, Who Cares?

In the perfect logic of a 19 year old, I chose Social Work as a major for two reasons:

1. One math class was required  

2. Football Physics could count as a science requirement.

Okay, three reasons:

3. Once I got married and had kids, social work would surely help me be a better wife and parent. 

I'm not kidding. And I'm embarrassed to admit number three was absolutely something I'd say aloud. Note to self, "congratulate yourself for learning to filter some truths."

I graduated from Baylor in 1987 with a Bachelors Degree in Social Work. I did not, however, leave with better math skills or one iota of concern for physics or science, really. 

Whether or not I intended to become intimately involved with two physical laws, is hard to estimate. But with a needed shove from a friend--pretty sure there's a physics term for that--force?, I joined a gym and hired a trainer. I think of physics constantly now. Particularly, these two laws:

1. Inertia-in·er·tia/iˈnərSHə/

Noun:

A tendency to do nothing or to remain unchanged.

*A property of matter by which it continues in its existing state of rest or uniform motion in a straight line, unless that state is...

2. Gravity

grav·i·ty/ˈgravitē/

Noun:

The force that attracts a body toward the center of the earth, or toward any other physical body having mass. 

I can also add, free of charge, that Inertia makes Gravity FAR worse in the mirror. Back to that defintion...If inertia is a uniform motion in a straight line, explain cellulite! I see no straight lines.  I actually understand that another law of physics is involved in that process, so don't lecture me about that law. I earned  my hail damage through this equation:

Buttercream Icing + Intertia = Cellulite.

Let me share what I know about physics after about a month in the gym. I'm a word girl, not a symbol or equation person. I'll keep this simple.

Intertia- Something that hasn't moved in years will hurt when you move it again. It can make you dizzy, sick, and utterly exhausted. All day. 

Gravity is unavoidable.

If something hangs lower because it's older and bigger, it hurts trying to lose it or reposition it. A lot. It will cause profuse sweating, muscle fatigue, and can trigger sounds you never knew you were capable of making. By the time you get that doggie lifted towards the imaginary hydrant, the beat of the music is no concern.

I take this moment to apologize to every adult I ever sneered or laughed at when he or she grunted while rising from any position. I also apologize to those "old ladies" my Mom's age who faithfully attended the aerobics class I helped Carol teach. I understand your problem was not lack of rhythm. 

Annie Beth asked me the other day, "Momma, when will you stop grunting everytime you get up or walk?" L- "Sweetie, it's permanent. It's penance for scoffing at physics."

If you're at my Neighborhood Wal-Mart and hear groaning or grunting, holler, "Hi, Lori!" I'll be on the next aisle silently cursing the 16 year old stock boy for putting my Ozarka water bottles on the top shelf. I picked those because they required only arm forward motion.

PS...I vow not to be obsessed with weight loss and calories in this blog. I just want to be healthier and enjoy living in my body more. I will not give up buttercream frosting for a lifetime. Or banana laffy taffy.

Starting over at 47

I turn 47 tomorrow. The path I'm on now was never, ever one that was on my list of hopes and dreams.  And yet, I'm thrilled and terrified about new possibilities for Act II.

I just celebrated jointly with the classes of 1982 and 1983 the 30th anniversary of the first graduating class of KHS. We started Kingwood High School together. It was a brilliant move on the parts of those that planned the reunion to combine our classes. There was a great turn out. So many that I didn't get to chat with many of the people on my long list. Just to see faces, hear voices of so many that I'd known during years of important milestones and growth was deeply satisfying, and oddly comforting.

I recognized mannerisms in people instantly. Whether I'd forgotten or I didn't realize I even knew that Gene Kirsch tapped me on the arm when making an important point or to punctuate a punchline was comforting. To see Shannon McElroy dancing in a group of people who were talking, not dancing made me chuckle. It also made me remember that she was leagues above the curve in 4th grade when I saw her dance for the first time. While standing in a darkened private room in a bar, I knew instantly that the woman making a crazy face at me was Lisa Menna. Lisa Menna, the friend down the street that had her life planned out at 15. Lisa Menna who could quote things I'd said and long forgotten. It was no surprise to know that her dreams were accomplished. I'd forgotten until she hugged me that Clair Jones, tiny little thing that she still is, gives BEAR hugs. Tami Hayes still has that contagious laugh. Jackie Parker can jump still easily up on a table and yell louder than the crowd. Doug Fountain still nods his head and smiles when he talks with you.

All these people.
The same age or older than our parents the last time we saw each other. Most are parents to kids themselves. We shared years that shaped us, in part, into who we are now.
Most I talked with are essentially the same
    just yet older and more experienced.

I knew everything when I saw these people last. For that cock-eyed optimism, I'm grateful to many. I thank people in my past for helping me learn well. To Mr. Wells, I thank you for providing an environment of safety and order so that growth and excellence were the benchmarks. I thank Sue Francis for leading and guiding the student council to think outside of our convenient Kingwood boxes. To Anne Goetch, I say, thanks for giving me the beginnings of a thicker skin. I've discovered that thin skin tears easily.  I thank those that voted for Lori, Woman of Steel. I got my first chances to be a leader because you believed in me--or really liked my slogan and hand-drawn posters.

Strangely, though, my greatest strengths were not acquired through my successes. My failures have shaped me more. I know what it's like to permanently take off a wedding ring worn for 22 years. Failure. I know what it's like to starve myself in order to gain acceptance and love. Failure. I know what it's like to turn to food for comfort and denial, to ease pain that won't go away. Failure. I know what it's like to reject a friend because I didn't agree with his lifestyle. Failure. I know what it's like to hide behind the facade of "Christianity" because I had poor self control and such insecurity. Failure. These are the short listed failures.

I'm not rejecting my successes. I, with wonder, look back and see how I was able to rise above the stigma of being obviously different with a back brace during Middle School and part of High School. I'm pleased that I have deep abiding friendships from every portion of my life. I'm proud that I published a book. I am proud that I can edge a perfectly straight line with my weed eater and change out a battery on my car. I can put together a gas grill from the box to completion. I developed and ran my own business that lives on in a different form now. My failures, though, have helped mold me into a person that can see beyond the surface. I'm grateful for a faith that helps me redeem the failures--not of my own accord. It's grace that makes redemption my reality. I'm the person that has no illusions about perfection being a viable life choice. My failures, humbling as all of them are have enhanced my ability to recognize that I have limitations. I can laugh at myself without shame. My failures have increased my capacity for loving myself and, in turn, loving others. I embrace them as much as I do the good stuff. Embracing my limitations gave me courage to return to a KHS reunion, knowing that not everyone would approve of me or even like me. There might even be a few that were glad that skinny Lori Hudgins got fat. It's true. I'm fat. And maybe I was just snooty enough to someone that my weight gain might feel like vindication to someone. I've got Bingo arms and I'm better able to say on most days, "I am enough."

I'm working in Act II to integrate the old with the new. To recognize shame and to speak truth into areas that need bolstering or tempering. I was wildly encouraged when many of my childhood friends told me there is life after divorce. Jean Mikkelson, Miss Kingwood High School herself told me, "Lori, I started over at 44 and I'm happier at this moment that I've ever been." She had no idea how much I needed to hear that.

Happy Birthday to me! With grace and a thimbleful of faith, I'll press on towards the mark.  (with a lifetime supply of L'Oreal Natural Brown and a wardrobe of various sizes.)

Dear Heloise: Sugar Ant Hell

I love those helpful hint columns. I always have. I may not be the girl who can tell you exactly what years the Civil War took place; but, by gum I can tell you that they used the first generation of duct tape to cover wounds.

I ignorantly laughed years ago when someone wrote:

"How do I get rid of sugar ants?" 

The columnist wrote: "MOVE!"

Sugar Ants are a bain to my existence. I go from hostility, to shame, to utter apathy. I've tried it all, except for the recent one about Borax....If I could ever remember to buy it, I'd try it. (Yes, it's on my list. I just can't remember to look at the list while I'm at the store.) I also have the name of a chemical that would kill my whole neighborhood if they lick my foundation. I never seem to make it to the Kill the World store to get that either. Honestly. I just squirt the ants with Clorox and wipe them away.

If you live nearby, you've heard me say, "If you're coming to see me, drop by anytime. If you're coming to see my house, every other Tuesday is the day." (If I'm really effusive, I'll add,  "for two to three hours after Laura leaves.")

The last two times I had weekend guests I made blanket claims about my sugar ant intruders and gave quick demonstrations for their extermination. I've also made disclaimers about the chaos in the house and the transitions, blah, blah. If Heloise graded my hostessing, she'd give me a D. Martha would fail me--that b--&%*. How I wish I was that punch people in the throat woman. And those poor grades are for the sugar ant problem alone. They could also add:

1. Setting the oven ablaze with the Paula Deen Get Diabetes and Hide it Bread.

2. Having to throw away the wool rug in the kitchen because a cat, angry at Sarah for not moving off his spot on the love seat, peed all over it. The kitchen reeked.

3. Opening up Bisquick that hadn't been used for well over a year to find weevils everywhere in the pantry.

4. Not fixing that handle on the microwave only to have someone else pull it off in her hand.

5. Not fixing that chair that wobbles only to have it break WHILE your dear friend was sitting in it!

6. Preparing all meals in advance. (A+, even from Martha.) Remembering at 4PM that you didn't put the crock in the slow cooker!

I could actually go on. You get the point. If I'm using helpful tips and certain cultural standards as my measuring stick for being a good hostess, I'm a big ol' failure. That's why I like to consider what I'm measuring and the best tool for that measurement.

If you were to ask any of my guests if they would return to my home, I'm pretty sure all of them would say, "Yes!" I even get people on a regular basis who will invite themselves over or do a drop in. I tell people to push stuff to the floor and come in.

I know how to laugh at myself. I also know how to be fully present in the moment with my guests. Sometimes that means the two pounds of butter in a dish may catch fire. It might also mean that I might forget to take the brisket out of the refrigerator. There is always flour to put out fires and chips and salsa for dinner.

If you love your guests, they'll come back. 

Linda, Sarah, Beth, and Keila will return. Linda is in charge of making sure the food gets in the oven. Sarah will keep us laughing in all circumstances. Beth is not allowed to open the microwave. Keila told me about Borax for my ants. Besides, when she had guests whom she'd never met in her home, she, with her guests, watched through the window as her husband beat an enormous rat to death with a broom. 

Forget Heloise. Be you and love people into your life.

Will someone please communicate to my sugar ants I feel NO love for them?

Be My Balentime

Valentines Day 2012 will be marked in my heart as a favorite. In fact, I think I can safely say that it's my best one ever.

Let me preface my story with a question I've been pondering daily for weeks now, "How do I know you love me God?"

Well versed in Bible head knowledge, I've got right responses ready to pull out of my convenient answer bag. That said, I believe the Bible is true and it says, "God loves me" over and over again. I read it regularly and am happy for the privilege of reading His inspired words. I trust His Word--mostly. On good days and sometimes on really bad days I believe. It's the middle days that strangle my faith.

And yet......ever the child looking for evidence and something tangible, I search in other places as well.

Our culture, and sadly, at some level, I too am caught up easily in the notion of romantic love. Valentine's Day can just stink if we measure our life based on romantic love alone.

Here's a snippet of a conversation I had with God last weekend.

L-Lord, I know what you say in the Bible, but I need you to show up and be God today. I'm just days shy of 47. I failed in my marriage. I'm lonely. I'm also really lazy and I don't want to do things I know you've asked me to do. I'm tired. I'm mad. And. I'm starving because I'm truly trying to lose the weight I gained trying to avoid life and pain. I know you love me, I'm just having a hard time seeing it today.

God-

L-also, if you could, would you let me feel it with my heart?

God-

L- and while you're at it, I'd like you to demonstrate your love physically as well.

God-

L-I'm ready and I'm waiting. Give me eyes to see it. If I can't see it, any kind of nudge will help.

God-

Valentine's morning I'd baked heart shaped muffins for Annie Beth and dropped her off at school. I got a call from Jenny asking if I could have lunch with them. I couldn't. I later received a text from her:
If you'll be home at 9:45 we're going to stop by.


Jenny, punctual as usual, knocked at the door at 9:45. The next few moments are freeze framed captions in my mind, yet they happened in a few seamless seconds. I opened the door and Jenny stepped to the side. I saw Brenner, 2 1/2 walking up the pathway. Dressed in red striped overalls donning his black felt fedora, he was grinning from ear to ear. His paced picked up and he trotted towards me. The bouquet of pink roses was sort of smushed against my legs as he hugged me with all his might. As if remembering he wasn't supposed to hug first, he pulled back and handed me the roses. Just as quickly as he placed them in my hands, his little right hand slipped into the back pocket of his engineer type overalls. As if by magic, out came a chocolate bar, that if seen from behind would have covered almost half his back. He, pleased with his efforts, walked into the house. Jenny, with a gentle reminder and a whisper in his ear said, "Brenner, what else?" At this point, I'm leaning down. I was almost eye level to him (Darn. I wish I would have kneeled the whole time.) He looked right into my now watery eyes and whispered, "Be my Balentime."

I'm weeping now as I write this etched memory.
It's a love story.

It's about a friend whom I've chosen as family. She's a younger sister who has walked alongside me both literally and figuratively for almost 10 years. We prayed fervently for another baby for her family. We were training to walk 60 miles in 3 days for breast cancer that year when conception and desire seemed like enemies. That November, Jenny would happily wave down a sweep van to take needed breaks from the 60 miles because she had just discovered she was pregnant. She was well into the pregnancy when I filed for divorce that Spring. I was there when Brenner was born on July 9, 2009. I will someday apologize to him that I was convinced he was a girl and took something pink for him to the hospital.

I can't explain this part at all, I just know that Brenner loves me. Even as an infant we had a special bond. He has a name especially for me. He calls me MiMi. I haven't a clue why. His grandmothers are Grammy and Nanny. He knows my name is Lori. Last summer he just started calling me MiMi. It thrills me! Regarding his love for me, it is possible that he loves me because I think everything he does is splendid and I believe in candy. And yet, I know it's more and I just receive his love as a gift. Which I, in turn, give back to him in ways that he can feel with his heart and his perfectly porcelain skin.

I'm demanding of God. I learned from studying the Psalms, in particular, that I'm one in a long line of others who just talk to God and sometimes, quite unwisely, ask God to show up and be God. And yet, when it comes to asking Him to demonstrate His love, He's never failed. I believe with all my being that He delights in responding to love demands.

This love story is nestled inside so many other love stories. Most importantly it's just another page in the story of God's love. He was responding to an earlier conversation with me. The astonishing part is that He used two more family members to demonstrate that love. He nudged Jenny's ever sensitive heart and said something like,


G -"Hey! Why don't you buy some flowers and candy and let Brenner give them to Lori?"

She listened and said,
J- "Sure. And I'll practice with Brenner and have him tell her something special."

Jenny didn't know about my private conversation with God. She just listened and responded to a prompting within her heart. And, I, with just a few years of experience in recognizing and knowing God's voice, His style, and His signature, knew in that split second that He was showing up in the form of a child to lavish me with enthusiastic touch, tangible, beautiful gifts, ending in a hushed child's voice, "Lori, I love you."

My response back to Him now is to tell a few others about how tenderly and perfectly God loves His children. He is who He says He is. He has a love story to tell and wants us to be a part of it. That's amazing.