A Job Well Done

We are in the midst of doing a little rearranging here at the Jones house. Mr. Jones is helping me fix up a little craft area in our guest room. I'm going to set up my mom's sewing machine and my fancy-dancy cutting machine. This little setup involves converting our old, beat-up computer desk into cutesy little craft desk and replacing it with a new desk for the office. Truth be told, that's the only reason Mr. Jones is leading this project...he's been trying to get a new office makeover for quite some time. Well tonight he thought we'd pop over to do some desk shopping which meant an early dinner. Sounds like a sweet little evening, right? How wrong could I be?!

It started off well enough. I came home and got it in gear. Cooking a fabulous Italian dinner (a new recipe from Pinterest), working with Graham on his letters, and straightening up the house in record speed. Just as I was marveling at my awesome wifey/mother skills this evening, dinner was "done" right as Mr. Jones came home. Well just as I'm spooning the "done" chicken onto everyone's plates, and of course handing over my children's plates first, I happen to notice that the chicken isn't done. After I execute a near nose dive to grab it from my son's hands, lest he ingest some on the way to the chair, I try to figure out what to do to fix this mess. The whole top part of the dish is done...almost well done, but the chicken isn't???? After years of worrying that some chicken dish isn't cooked through and I find one...right when I think I've got stuff under control over here. Lovely. Dinner was a wash.

Next, we decided to keep moving forward. Since we have this big evening of shopping planned, we decided to just pick up some food on the way. I'd like to say things got better, but Graham really insisted on chicken. Of all the food in the world. Chicken. Of course, I should have started my "we don't get everything we want" speech, but the way things were going, we just went with it.

Finally we find ourselves at the store with more vowels than consonants in its name, and we locate a desk that both of us love. Things are really looking up because Mr. Jones always disagrees with whatever I pick out (his taste isn't what it should be sometimes). Problem is, we can't find someone to help us. This store has two levels and we can't find one person. When we locate a store assistant, he tells us he's busy and we'll have to wait. That seemed a bit of a harsh way to put it, but okay. It's late and I'm sure he's tired. So approximately five minutes later he comes over and just raises his eyebrows at us and does a slight eye roll. No words. Just eyebrows. I guess that was code for "How may I help you?" but I wasn't speaking his language.  This man did not just get attitude with me in front of my children. You DO NOT approach someone with eyebrows and I let him know it. I let him know that when he walks up to a customer, he will need to use some manners because that is your job. You will use your words and they will be nice because that is your job. All I need is a little help and you will give it because that is your JOB. And when he asked me how he could help me nicely, I knew I had done MY job.

I am the nurturer, nurse, counselor, teacher, janitor, cuddler, and general caretaker of this family. Cook, clean, pick up, set up, make up, whatever it takes. It's hard and I am tired and not everything goes right. I often fail at my job, in the example of tonight, almost giving my family Salmonella, but I will always keep at it and I will do it with a smile. Because that's my job, and I like it.  And if I ever feel like I don't like it, I need to suck it up because that's just part of the job, too. Mr. Manners reminded me that of that tonight. We were not promised easy and there is no sense in pouting when we don't get it. Instead, it is the effort that should be the focus. That is what people will remember.

In my heart

Dear Graham:

Tomorrow is your Christmas program at school, and I won't be there. I have wrestled with the difficulties of being a working mommy, and this is one that I just can't beat. I will miss your singing and your dancing (Mommy was in Show Choir, so really put some emotion into it for me). Even though you won't see me sitting among the other parents there, please know that at exactly the moment your performance starts, I will be thinking of you and praying for you to not be scared. I will sing your little songs in my head and when Daddy brings me the video, I will watch it with you and ooohhh and ahhh at how amazing you were up there.

Mommy often hears how much better a parent I would be if I just accomplished _______ or just stayed home to ________ or just did ______ the way they did. Well, you never say that to me. You never mention any shortcomings I have or anything that I'm missing. You don't ever start a conversation with something that I'm not doing. Instead, you run to hug me when you see me. You share your secrets (and your chocolate) with me. You cuddle up to me and beg me to read you Charlie the Ranchdog just one more time and scream with excitement when our favorite show, "Doc McStuffins" is coming on (which I think you only like because I do!). And so I am confident that your day tomorrow is no where near ruined because I will be at work, but that you will LOVE to share your excitement with me when I meet you at the door tomorrow afternoon. I adore you, Graham, and anything you do, create, sing, bake, or imagine up is simply intoxicating (I particularly enjoyed yesterday's wolf...aka Miss Beasley...hunt that you and Ollie went on). You are an amazing child, and I am so very lucky that I am allowed to be your mother (even if I am a working one).

All of my love,
Mommy

PS--If Oliver screams at you while you are singing, don't get angry with him. He just loves you as much as I do and wants to join you up there.

Lost and Found

When I was a little girl, I was obsessed with all things Barbie. I had tons of supplies for her, so I really should never have wanted for any one piece. Nevertheless, I would spend countless moments digging in the box to find that one little high heel that was always in the bottom of all those doll clothes (even though I was sure that searched that one spot probably 4,000 times).  I would get frustrated to tears over that little pink shoe and I remember my mother telling me to put my energy into praying about it. I haven’t thought of that for years now, but I was reminded the other night. I was doing Bible time with Graham and at the end of the story of the olive oil, the boys’ study Bible suggested that we talk about how God can help us with ANYTHING, even the smallest of things. Before I realized it, I was sharing how I would pray over my Barbie box and feel better. I didn’t know it then, but my mother was teaching me to cast my anxieties on Him (1 Peter 5:7). Why has it taken me so long to see what was engrained in me at an early age? And why didn’t I ever go back to thank Momma for teaching me that?

 

My latest struggle has me once again digging in a box for answers. I am afraid that my mother’s life never allowed her to reach her purpose. I hate that word, purpose; the reason why one exists. And I hate the search for it; as if we don’t all have enough on our plates. I felt like something was due to my mother and that this sweeping motion would come to her to make all of her trials and tribulations worthwhile, and in turn she would impart that wisdom to the world (or at least my corner of it). But things never changed and she died. She died and nothing was solved or made better. Where is the sense in that? Lord, I trust you, but can you check that her death wasn’t scheduled for another time? Because I’m pretty sure that she is supposed to see my boys’ Christmas picture this year. And she and I were going to have a big conversation about some really important stuff. And I know that she was supposed to give my dad that Christmas present that we discovered she was working on. This is simply a mistake.

But it’s not. It’s real.

So, my Barbie plan is how I’m getting through right now. I’ve lost something, so I’m praying to God to calm my anxious heart. And, surprisingly, what I end up finding is answers to some of my questions.  Specifically right now about “purpose”. I have discovered that I don’t need to worry about mine because God has decided it and all I have to do is throw my hands up and let him direct me.  I’m a much happier person that way. And as far as my mother’s purpose, I need to remember that if she didn’t use those moments when I was frustrated over doll shoes to teach me to lean closer to Jesus, that I couldn’t share that with my husband and sons.  It seems small, but maybe it’s what’s largely important in this journey I’m on.  Right now I feel a giant pull to create something with what she left me. Part of that is tangible (I’m going to try to start sewing with her machine and left over fabric, so keep your fingers crossed for me) and the other part is untouchable while I try my best to do something substantial with the life she created when she made me.  I’m searching for much more than that missing Barbie piece…but I’m still praying through it because I’m pretty sure that’s the point of all of this.

 

Thoughts on Thanksgiving Pie

It's hard to believe that it is Thanksgiving. I absolutely love Turkey Day...the parades, the cooking, the feast, the Christmas kick-off.  This year Oliver is running around and chasing everyone he can while making growling noises. It was just a short year ago that he slept through his first Thanksgiving. Graham has been busy cooking...he's especially into perfecting the dressing this year...more bread he told me.  He has his own apron (thanks to a sweet friend) that has given him that extra edge in the kitchen lately. Mr. Jones is busy tinkering with something with the TV...apparently when we watch the parade tomorrow, it's really going to look and sound amazing (at least that's what we all better tell him or he'll do something else to it). I also have to give a special mention that my hubby smoked the turkey again this year. He makes a mean smoked turkey (and that's what we all better tell him so he gets that "tur-duck-en" idea out of his mind). I've been busy cooking all the non-smoked, non-turkey sides...or as Graham says, I'm in the cooking business as his helper.

It was two months ago that Momma passed away and I've been weaving around the idea of Thanksgiving ever since. I've stayed so busy and tried everything to dodge what is one of my favorite rituals each year. Well today I could no longer pretend it wasn't happening, and I opened up my recipe box. I flipped to the dessert section and ran my fingers along the only pale blue index cards out of the off-white rectangular bunch. I selected two cards, my mother's pumpkin paradise pie and pecan pie. And there was her handwriting. The shaky curves, the underlined emphasis on certain parts where she wanted me to pay close attention, and even the hearts that ended her exclamation points (yes, she used exclamation points in her recipes). What was not so obvious on those cards, but yet clearly there, is the fact that I will never again make these pies with her. Never again share them with her. Never again have her laugh at the time I put the pecan filling into the mixer and ended up with one runny pecan pie that year. And the lonely feeling that I had so dreaded surrounded me.

And almost instantly, the boys rush into the kitchen and Graham wants to help me with the pies. There is no time for sadness when you're teaching your little guy the art of pie. Through tear-drenched eyes, we mix and beat and roll. And we ended up with some pretty good-lookin' pies if I do say so myself. As empty as I feel, having her recipes fill the table tomorrow helps me. In fact, all of the people I love who won't be at my table still will be in some fashion...Teresa's corn casserole, Marie's mandarin orange salad, Dawn's sweet potatoes, Nannie's dressing, Brad's peppers...and Momma's pies. I'm thankful for the pieces of all of them that I will forever have with me. Happy Thanksgiving from the Jones family.

Bittersweet

I told myself that I wouldn't write anything again until I could write something positive. I have so much to be happy about that it should be pouring out of every vessel of self expression. However, I just haven't felt like putting on my happy pants. I finally realized that I can get close though...

I just got back from an *a-ma-zing* women's retreat. I listened to the fabulous Shauna Neiquist speak, encourage, read and lead. I'm currently tearing through her book, Bittersweet, which is largely about being thankful, open, strong, determined and growing during times of suffering. Obviously she wrote this book for me, although she forgot to dedicate it to me. We can all read between the lines, though. Well the word bittersweet won't leave me alone. I'm seeing it everywhere. Bittersweet. Bitter. Sweet. Bittersweet. Why do oxymorons such as this even exist? Why do they have to go together? Dare I even ask?

Bitter is harsh, sharp, disagreeable, unpleasant. I'd like to do without that, please. Sweet, however, sure. I like sweet's unelaborate definition: not bitter. Oh, well that sounds wonderful. Why must we mix them? The answer is simple...so that we truly appreciate what is sweet. We often forget that. Or at least I do. I get it, but I forget it. Maybe it's just that I flat out ignore it. All worthwhile experiences in my life are bittersweet. Marriage is love, companionship, holding hands, feeling giddy, waking up with your soulmate. Marriage is also him leaving his shoes right there, watching Pawn Stars, and compromising when you clearly know you are always the right one. A little bittersweet I'd say. Motherhood is sweet kisses, hearing 'Mommy', seeing your eyes in another person. It is also losing sleep, runny noses, stepping on Matchbox cars, and being thrown up on or just having something thrown at you. Definitely bittersweet. Death is loss, pain, emptiness, stinging reality, finality. It also means that if you feel that, you felt love. What is more bittersweet than that? If you can see through the veil that is pain that the bitter brings for just a moment, the sweet is oh-so-wonderful. It's not just chocolate cake. It's chocolate cake that you made with your own hands and baked to perfection. The best kind.

I've decided that life is like the coffee I drink each morning. Straight up it is not at all comforting. It's disgusting. With too much creamer, I don't likely pick it up again; it's just not that enjoyable. When I find the perfect mix...the bitter coffee sweetened just enough....well that's what makes me get out of bed. I just have to trust that each day will have the due balance of each. When the day seems a little too much, I will reach out. Bittersweet. Thanks for reminding me of this, Shauna.

Fall-ing

So much of what makes me happy is wrapped up in the word "fall". I love the crisp, cool air in the mornings. I love the baking, the changing leaves, setting up decorations, and picking out sweaters. I spend three other seasons of the year patiently waiting for this one. There is this slow dwindling of daylight outside of my window each night now and I can see my trees swaying gently. Everyone I know is buzzing about the fact that it is actually going to be jacket weather this weekend. Fall is definitely here.

Right now, my life is definitely wrapped up in fall, but one of a different sort. The kind of fall that doesn't bring comfort. The kind of fall with bitter cold and stinging reality. The fall with sorrow attached. This one, too, brings change, but it is of course unwanted. My phone rang with the label "Mom" again today. For a brief second my heart leaped, but it was reminded of the truth and fell. When I try to understand why or grasp on to something, I can't...I just fall. The term 'falling' refers to a sensation. The term 'sensation' refers to a feeling. A 'feeling' is an awareness. If you are aware, informed, knowledgeable, you should be able to move up, not down. It just isn't so right now.

When my little guy, Graham, sees me crying, he tells me not to because Nana is still at the "little white house". In his reality, there's no need to be upset when you haven't lost anything. His reference to the funeral home may be inaccurate, but he is once again correct that you can't lose what's in your heart. This weekend, for the cooler weather, I plan on making my mom's caramel pecan cinnamon rolls with my sister. My mother made them every autumn. I vividly remember the morning I was in seventh grade and my mom woke us up to tell us there was a fall coolness in the air and she had made us the caramel pecan cinnamon rolls to celebrate it. Of course, they take a couple of hours to make so she had been up quite a while. That's in my heart along with so much more, so even though I'm falling, I know I can see the season through.

The New Normal

My house is clean. The kiddos have fresh laundry picked out. Our mail is out of the mailbox. There are a hundred other things that I accomplished this week that would be classified as normal. I know that's a good thing, but it feels so foreign to me right now. You see, right now I'm in a room with no lights on; I know they're out but I can't convince everyone else of it. The world around me is continuing and I'm trying to tell them that's impossible, but they just won't listen. Instead, they tell me my mother has been buried for over a week now. They tell me that life is moving on and I'm being strong and that it will all be better soon. I cover my ears because I know that's not true.

I miss my mother for so many reasons. I think about how there is no one else left in the whole earth that can recall the day I was born. No one knows about my first hair cut. No one can tell me if I was three or if I was four that Christmas on the way to church, I fell down on the ice, scrapped my knee and ripped my pretty white tights. The one who knew those stories is gone. I desperately want to be seven again. I want to sit under the tree in my Nannie's front yard and hear her tell me that she loves to hear me make up little songs like Momma used to. I was in such a hurry to grow up and move on, but I wish there were a few pieces I could have back. I laugh to think that I would ever want to return. Even though it will never make sense to most of the people in my life currently, I have a bunch of unresolved scars from my childhood. I have hurts that I never quite learned how to box up. Sometimes the house that built you is full of cracks, but it's still yours.

God told us in Luke 12 that he knows the hairs numbered on our heads. Isn't that an amazing thought? That in the millions of people who pass you by, know nothing of you, there is still one who knows your heart and mind. I pray now that he searches my heart and knows my anxious thoughts like in Psalm 139 and carries me through. If you've spent much time with me, you know I've always struggled with giving it to God. I never meant to, but if you've never had much control, it's hard to throw your hands up and tell him to take it. My whole life must have been a dress rehearsal for trusting God because right now there is no question of whether or not I can. I can only put one foot in front of the other because he's carrying me. Even though my eyes are shut tight, wanting to pretend it will all go away, I can see because Christ is my light.

My new normal is anything but. It's not at all what I want or what I asked for. And I know one day it will be...that's just hard to grasp right now. Luckily, God doesn't ask us to have it all figured out. He just tells in Proverbs 3:5 to trust him with all our heart and lean not on our own understanding. For today, that's the only thing that feels normal.