Tag Archives: motherhood

A Tribute to My Hero…

Happy Birthday!

I’ve never really been one to use the phrase, “my hero is…” and couldn’t even fill in the blank that easily, if asked.  However, I’ve found myself thinking, time and again, in recent years, “Wow, he amazes me!”  The oldest of my offspring, that is.

Sparing the details, I will say this…if I were asked to choose a hero, I’d pick him.          

 *Hero–noun,  1.  a man of distinguished courage or ability, admired for his brave deeds and noble qualities.*

I have watched, quiet and helpless, as my son has worked, endured, persevered and thrived.  He has not only pressed on through situations that would have driven me to curl up with a blanket over my head, but he has come through with dignity and earned respect.  Most impressively, I have never, ever heard him complain.  My oldest boy has shown strength of mind, body and character that I can’t help but admire. 

He is strong with a strength I didn’t, and wouldn’t still, know he posessed had he not gone out and faced the world.  He has some stories to tell and I don’t know the half of it.  I feel sure God will use them, everyone, someday.     

It’s interesting, to say the least, watching our children become adults.  There are times when I look back on this boy’s raising and thank God he made it to adulthood, especially as the *unbeknownst-to-Momma* tales unfold around the dinner table.  “You what?!  When?!  Where was I?! Why on earth would you throw a match into a puddle of unknown liquid to see if it’s gasoline or water…inside the garage!?!  Have you no brain?!” 

All those years my Grandma use to say, “Lord, have mercy!” and  I thought it was a figure of speech.  I’ve learned otherwise.  It was a fervent prayer and I pray it often.  And you know what?  God answers it!

My little boy, now my big college boy, is all grown up.  That doesn’t mean he is fully mature.  I think he may never be.  Come to think of it, do boys ever really grow up…fully?  A part of me hopes not.  I love the funny, if pesky, side of my college boy.  He brings laughter and fun to our family, though it’s sometimes accompanied by sisters screaming his name.  While at school, he lives with his eighty-something year old grandma, by his own choosing and doesn’t have to be told to go to churchHe takes his little brother and sister to “do things” and kisses me goodbye when he leaves the house (though I do sometimes have to remind him).  He buys sterling and diamond-ish earrings for his sister’s birthday, endures American Idol while college basketball is on the other channel, and always chooses to see the best in people.       

I could write a book about my children’s shortcomings; they reflect my own.  But in spite of it all, God has turned my big boy into a *make-his-Momma-proud* young man.

  Happy Birthday, Sporty!  You are a hero in my eyes!     

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Snow Day!

Time flies.  Time stands still.  Both true.  Both false. 

Days passed at a crawl the week before our vacation.  Our week at the shore, however, was mere minutes.   Both were seven days.  Time stands still; time flies…or so it seems.

The reality is that the Creator of the Universe “changes time and seasons”  (Daniel 2:21), therefore we can be sure time is constant, consistent.  He gives us the exact same number of minutes every single day, without fail. 

Time is *flying* in my life right now.  Children are changing almost daily,  little girls have morphed into young ladies, mere babes threatening to graduate and go to college, and the firstborn keeps flitting in and out of the nest between semesters.  Meanwhile, we are going to basketball games, piano practice, recitals, basketball games, shopping for bigger shoes, parent meetings, home group, basketball games, shopping for longer jeans, having friends over, and going to basketball games.   Can it be, that in the midst of it all, I’m missing out on something? 

Getting to class on this icy day was not a hazard for us; it’s just down the  hall and through the doorway on the right.  But we took a *snow day* anyway.  We (I) need to slow down.  Sit.  Breathe.  Enjoy. 

This snow was the perfect reminder to be still, to appreciate the time He has given me today,  to take in these little chickadees.  

   

I love snow days.  I loved this day.

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Better than Roses!

 

I love flowers…but not on Valentine’s day!  Sometime in my mid to late twenties I realized that I don’t particularly enjoy predictable gifts.  

I love fresh flowers about, but I would prefer to pick them up while at the market (in my world, that would be the grocery store, cleverly named Marketstreet) or to have them brought home to me when I least expect them. 

I also don’t typically prefer prearranged bouquets…a bit too perfect, not relaxed.  They can be absolutely lovely, no question, and I understand why so many girls love them.  They’re just not my preference.  I’m weird that way.  

Tonight, my little buddy brought flowers home to me for Valentines. 

Oh my!  I LOVE them!  

He came up with the idea all on his own, painstakingly picked them out, and paid for them with his own money.  They were four dollars.  He told me. 

My middle girl told me how he looked and looked and looked and kept coming back to the same little bunch.  He loved them, but had concern that they weren’t “real colors”. 

He was right.  They’re daisies, three colors.  I think the pink, for sure, and maybe the violet, are dyed.  I don’t like dyed flowers, but these are absolutely PERFECT.   They are.

I was humbled this evening when my heart was so tugged.  I was reminded that, if the gift is from the heart of the giver, the gift is perfect.   Dyed flowers are precious, when your little boy picks them out…especially on Valentine’s Day. 

Every mom understands.  Two dozen perfect little rose buds can’t begin to compare with the dandelion carefully plucked from the yard by the chubby hands of a preschooler.  Nor can the most expensive of gifts compare with dyed flowers lovingly chosen by a little boy for his mom! 

My little buddy gave me a gift from the heart!  I love my Valentine flowers.  I love my little buddy! 

 

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Ballet and Worship

The ballet was beautiful and worshipful!  I’m so glad I went.  There was no other option, of course, and I’m thakful.  Ballet and worship music together is a rare and beautiful combination.  

Being in the audience of such a presentation can be a real act of worship if your heart is right.  There are all levels of performers and each has it’s own unique place in the worship experience. Our Little Miss was, naturally, in one of the lower levels and it was absolutely precious to watch those young children dance, moving their arms and bodies in praise to God!  Blessing! 

Backstage.

And after. 

Do not forget to bring flowers to the ballerina.  I have made this mistake before.  She was fine.  I was not.   I nearly forgot again, well actually I did forget again, but thankfully a friend pulled through and had her dear son run and get some just before the performance began.  Thank heaven for friends!

 Ballerina and Grampa

Next on my agenda is the challenge of transforming Little Miss ballerina into Mrs. Teatime (aka Mrs. Potts) for Beauty and the Beast…coming up next week in her drama class.  My heart rate just bumped up an notch or ten.

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Basketball Mom turned Ballet Mom…

 

…for today, anyway.   And, to be honest, I’m having a hard time settling in to the whole idea of it. 

The whole family, with the exception of myself and my littlest girl, left this morning.  They are travelling just two and a half hours down the road to see my college boy and his basketball team play.  I want to be there like nothing else!  

My big boy plays basketball at a small university over six hours away and his games are never nearby, except this one time a year, when they play at a town just two and a half hours away from ours.  There are two universities that they play in that same little city, so they get to be there for two nights.  

My son is just over two hours away and I can’t see him!  How crazy is that?  I am the type of person to say, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way!” but, I’ll be doggone, if I just couldn’t make it happen this time…not and keep my place as a mom in good standing with her seven year old ballerina. 

My boy’s first game was played on Thursday and I was going to be there “come hail or high water”, but not “come snow and ICE!”.  We had a winter storm, here in West Texas, and the roads got icy.  The Captain decided it wasn’t safe to travel.  He stayed at work and I was left at home to pout, cry, and throw fits.  I did throw a pretty good little tantrum in my head.  I thought it best to do it there, so that the kids wouldn’t think  they were privvy to do the same thing the next time they were as mad and disappointed as I was then.  

Oh, but I did cry and fight back tears off and on all afternoon.  It was such a let down.  I had been looking forward to it since the day that I had written it in my calendar back in August.  Blast.  To make matters worse, I knew that this was my only chance to go.  The rest of the family could go to the second game on Saturday, but not me.  My little miss has her Winter Ballet Performance Saturday evening. 

What’s a mother to do?  Who else can go sit in the audience and watch a dozen or two little ballerinas on a huge stage and actually see one over all the rest, if not that little ballerina’s mommy?  Who else will do her little bun and tuck her long sleeves under so that they are 3/4 length sleeves (because they never did get cut and hemmed), if not her mommy?  

I’ll be going to the ballet tonight.  There will be no yelling or cheering or anxiety because of  the too-close-for-comfort score board and no correcting the refs for not calling the foul.  There will be beautiful music and beautiful costumes and beautiful little girls all performing to their hearts content for their “fans”.  

I’ll take flowers to give to my little ballerina (only because a friend reminded me of the protocol this morning, thanks friend).  Hopefully, our little girl’s daddy and brother and sisters will roll back into town in time to slip in and see the performance.  

It would make her day to get those flowers from her daddy.

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A Mother’s Work is Never Done…

This is my “Concordia Mom” mug.  

Sometimes it makes me smile.  Often it causes a little tug at my heart.  Occassionally, it brings on a slight wave of naseau.  Always, it takes me before the Lord in prayer! 

As mothers, we will never, ever be out of a job.  Never.  As long as I shall live, I will be drawn to go before the Almighty in prayer for my “babies”.  It can be quite a chore at times.  If I’m not focused directly on Jesus,  I can’t seem to finish a prayer before I find myself deep in “problem solving”.  It takes a very concentrated effort for me to pray for my kids sometimes.  Oh, but I am drawn to do so.  That is not to say that I always feel like it.  Sometimes it’s just plain tedious and I want to move on into my day.  I can pray as I go, of course, and I often do.  But that is not the same as being still before the Throne, interceding for those precious fruits of the womb…who can be such stinkers sometimes. 

I purchased this mug at my big boy’s school in August, when I left him there…all alone…without me…by himself….alone.

  I could have chosen the T-shirt for all to see (I am a proud momma, ya know), but when I saw the mug I knew I had to have it.  I love to have a cup of cream and sugar with a splash of coffee in it during my quiet time and I am picky about my mug.  It has to be large enough, but not too big.  It has to have a good handle that allows my whole hand to get a good grip on it.  I want no dinky little handles that require the pinky to stick up…those are fine for tea, not coffee.  Last, but not least, I want it to mean something…my mug can bring back a fond memory or reminder of a fun trip or maybe just cause me to reflect or ponder something I value.  Whatever.  I just like things to be quaint, by golly, especially if it’s too early to be up and I’m grouchy about it.  

This purple mug fit the bill on every count.  I didn’t anticipate the spiritual value it would hold for me.  I suspect  that it will remain my morning companion for the remainder of my boy’s college basketball years.  It reminds me that a mother’s work is never done.

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Steel Magnolias

Not so full bloom!

Not so full bloom!

If you’ve ever heard a magnolia bud hit a window, then you know how they came up with the saying, “steel magnolias”.   I heard one hit, then another, and another.  Bang!  Bam! Bam!  Dear Lord, what’s happening!?   Of course any mother’s instinct at the sound of  “gun shots”  is to seek out her chickens.  That’s when I found the “little angels” in the magnolia tree behind our house, along with half the neighborhood.  It was WAR!  And my magnolia buds were the ammo!  As I rounded the corner at the back of the house, I heard a whirling sound just before the hair over my right ear swished.  If they were trying to blow my brains out with that three and half inch steel bud, they missed it by that much!   

 

Lonely, but still lovely.

Lonely, but still lovely.

The ground was covered with my little magnolia embryos…my poor little flowers.   The tree bloomed a couple of weeks ago.   It looks a little naked, but the few blooms that were spared are impressive as always.  They’re the size of my face and oh so white.  I would love to see the tree covered in full bloom, but I couldn’t help but smile when I saw the naked tree and remembered the steel magnolia war.

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