Welcome to a new baby girl!

Though I never felt unwanted I did grow up thinking that every parent wanted sons. Boys seemed to be the gold standard for children; a bragging right. From the very first moment that I considered having children until this very day I have always wanted boys.  I have been richly blessed with three incredible sons and a backdraft of blessings from them but today we are celebrating and awaiting the arrival of our second grand daughter.

Our grandchildren, Kallie(8), Eli(6), Cash(4) all belong to our oldest son, Angel.  They are wildly exciting, talented, sweet, smart, and a bag of chips.  I bet every MeMe would say the same about her grandchildren.  Today our middle son, Levi, will hold his first child in his big ol' shaking hands for the first time.  He will look at her round little face and wonder how life will ever get better than this.  It will.  Everyday will just get better and better. One day she will smile and his heart will flutter into his throat. She will belly laugh and he won't be able to get to a video camera fast enough!  She will cry and he will join her in tears. She will say "dada" and it will sound like choirs of angels.  The best things in life are wrapped snuggly in a blanket his Mammie made.

This is a recycled piece I wrote several years ago for a beautiful friend expecting her first daughter.  I tweaked it but thought it was worth revisiting for this occasion.

An untraditional bouquet of roses. One blue, one red, one white, one yellow, one pink, one peace...

The blue rose is for the tomboy she will be. For blue jeans and baseball games, mud pies and fireflies; camping trips, fishing trips and squirrel hunting with Daddy.  Blue is for cowboy boots, spitting and sitting unlady-like.  Blue is for tagging along with your cousins, playing the guitar and catching lizards.

The red rose is for the day that Jesus breaks her heart and she realizes unconditional love and the blood it took to extend it to us.  For the first time she will shout AMEN in church, the first time she sings “Jesus loves me”, and for the day that she is baptized.  Red is for knowing that Christmas ain’t about Santa Claus.

Pink is for hair bows, Easter dresses, and Prom dresses.  It’s for the little pink socks with lace and paten leather shoes and makeup.  It’s for hula-hoops, baby dolls, and dotting your “i" with a heart.  Pink is for pom-poms, Girl Scout cookies, diaries and lip gloss.  Pink is for Scott Baio posters above your bed and giggles and giggles and giggles and giggles.

The Peace Rose is for those teen years.  When she’ll say (maybe to herself) “I hate you” because in the moment she thinks everything you do is to make her life horrible. She will cry and you will cry.  The peace rose is because you will love her every moment like you do today knowing that one day she’ll understand that special place in your heart that God made just for her.  The peace rose is for not changing her curfew or your values, it’s for doing what is hard knowing it will be worth it one day.

White is for wedding gowns and garter belts.  For that day when the man she always wanted to marry walks her down the aisle to the man she never dreamed would come along. White is for happy ever after and the generations that have been there.

Yellow is for friends.  For that friend that will take up for her on the playground, for the girl that stays up the latest with her at her first sleep over and for the one doesn’t tell that she still wets the bed sometimes.  Yellow is for the one friend she’ll tell when she has her first kiss.  For the one who knows what her voice sounds like when she’s crying on the phone even when she’s trying to hide it. For the one that can make her laugh and cry at the same time, the one that cherishes the same things and respects the differences.  Yellow is for the friend that knows that when you gripe about your mother, you never stopped loving her. Yellow is for friends that love you enough to tell you “It’s not always about you!’

Warm and loving welcome to Darcie Rose.

Let me tell you a love story

I have said before that Valentines Day is one of my least favorite holidays.  I am not religiously opposed to the saint that was credited for the celebration and I am certainly not against love. I have always appreciated chocolates, candies, jewelry, and flowers but I need to know I am loved not just on Tuesday, February 14th but on the Monday before, the Tuesday after and everyday in between.  Without all of the day-in day-out gestures of love and appreciation and affection I don't think the three pounds of Russell Stovers chocolates would be anything more than my next cavity. 

If you asked me for a love story I might tell you of about a man nearing 70 years old who married when he was not much more than a child. For decades he has stood tightly to a bride that suffers from life altering mental illness because he said in front of God and family that he would.

I might share a story about a young preacher who one week prior to meeting the love of his life surrendered to God the search for his one and only. 

I might tell you about the last time I saw my daddy stand on his own and how he shook as he wrapped his arms around my mother.

I could tell you how a self-professed but now sober alcoholic found his happily ever after on Match.com.

I might tell you about the friend who at 40 years old said 'I do!' to her best friend. 

I likely would tell you about the engagement ring that my mother-in-law hocked to buy gifts for her boys the first Christmas after their daddy died.

There are many love stories all around us.

I remember several year ago when Stacey was barely in school we had a Valentine picnic. We spread a big black and red checked blanket on the floor upstairs where we ate pizza and played a silly game I named, "if love were..."

If love were a food it would be.....pizza. We all gave different answers.  If love were a flower it would be a .....rose.  If love were a color it would be....red.  That seems simple enough but let's stretch it a little.  What if love were a roadway? Some might say a black top while others might say the autobahn and still others might say a dirt road up the steep side of a mountain.  If love were a bird it would be a red headed wood pecker to me but to you maybe a majestic eagle or a beautiful swan that started off as the ugly duckling. 

Try these: 

If love were a car it would be a....

If love were an animal it would be a.....

If love were a beverage it would be a....

If love were an ice cream it would be sprinkled with...

If love were a piece of furniture it would be a....

If love were a place it would be.....

If love were a body function it would be a....

A hug! 

Ok, maybe it's just getting silly now. Truthfully we can make rhymes of metaphors and riddles of love similes all day long for fun but we don't define love. Love is defined for us not by us in 1 Corinthians 13. From the God that is love through the pen of the apostle Paul we have a very clear definition of love through a list of what it is and what it ain't.  

Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up,

Doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil;

Rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth;

Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.

Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. 1 Corinthians 13: 4-6.

Levi and Melody used this scripture beautifully in their wedding a few years ago but I think my favorite picture of Love from the Bible comes from Matthew's gospel. In the 22nd chapter Jesus is being quizzed by the Pharisees then the Saducees and then again by the Pharisees.  Finally the lawyer asked him to tell them which was the great commandment. Jesus declared the first and great commandment, as instructed in the Old Testament, to love the Lord thy God with all your heart, your soul and your mind; with all you have.  And though the Pharisee didn't ask for the top two that is exactly what Jesus gave him when he said, the second is to love thy neighbor as thyself.  

What I love about this scripture is the visual of love.  If we love the Lord with all we have we create a vertical connection to God or more importantly he creates a connection with us. When we love our neighbors, those that walk this planet amongst us, we intersect that with a horizontal line forming a cross. That is the true symbol of love. Remember that God so loved the world that he sent his son to hang on that cross. That is a cross we should pick up daily; Love God, love others.  

Celebrate true love!

Try a carrot please

The super-duper daddy egg sandwich 

Here's a memory for you:  

In the late 1990's or early 2000's the Golden Corral restaurants were on our list of affordable dining options.  With 3 kids to feed our budget was too tight to even consider dining out but we often did anyway.  I remember one afternoon at the buffet we had enjoyed a big dose of comfort foods and were looking seriously toward the dessert buffet. 

Let me pause here to give you some background information on Levi Adron.  He had struggled for years with allergies, runny nose, asthma-like bronchitis, weepy eyes, ear infections - you name it! Levi had it.  Levi also had a tendency to only eat the foods on the approved (by Levi) list.  Fine dining options like pizza, French fries, bologna sandwiches, and tacos with no veggies were on the list.  The unapproved list was relatively short as it included 2 foods: those grown in dirt and those that looked yucky. 

Like most parents I liked my kids to step out every now and then to try something new. And while I did not expect them to embrace a Brussels sprout I thought a carrot to be a doable option.  Statistically, 2 out of 3 boys can handle that.  More noteworthy, 1 in 3 boys will expel carrots along with approved list buffet choices all over a public table in a crowded Golden Corral.  

It was my fault.  I bribed him with ice cream.  Taste one carrot, I said, and I will let you have ice cream. 

It wasn't until a few years later that he was officially tested and determined to be allergic to carrots as well as many other foods. Parenthetically he tested positive to a milk, thus ice cream,  allergy as well but we never wasted that in a instant replay in a public place. 

I remember very little about my childhood in comparison to the memories my sister has stashed away.  Bits of stories are pieced together with other memories.  Dates and places are confused and blurred.  Sometimes as I recall an event to my mother she will politely unscramble the timelines to remind me of how and where it actually happened.  Maybe because I am the baby I was too young to remember clearly? Maybe because I blend what I remember with what I have been told? Or maybe I just wasn't paying attention?  

One thing I do remember is the super duper daddy egg sandwich!  I don't know when we first had it and why we felt the need to name it but I remember clearly breakfast for supper and the super duper daddy egg sandwich. My dad was an experimental chief. One of his most famous original recipes was the spaghetti omelette. It was triple-D worthy before Guy was old enough to drive that convertible.  

The super duper daddy egg sandwich was indeed super duper.  Yard eggs with just a touch of milk scrambled in the electric skillet then piled on white bread with just a thin smear of Miracle Whip at nine o'clock in the evening when we probably should have been in the bed. Makes my mouth water to think about it! There was only one secret ingredient that made us belly up to the kitchen bar for such a treat and that was the event created by the fry cook himself.  It was all in the presentation.  The enthusiasm he had for cooking with his kids gathered around. The way my mom readied the next step as if she was preparing a path for him to delight his children. The choreography as they worked around the skillet together.  I guess if my daddy had plated duck feather marinated in creosote I would have grabbed a fork and jumped in.   Kitchen memories are the best! 

Fast forward to Levi in 2017, the allergies have settled, he passed the peanut challenge (that's a story that he would not like to see in print).  Levi married his high school sweetheart as his mother did and every Sunday after church we gather four generations around the table; his grandmother, his parents, his brothers and sister-in-law, his niece and nephews and his bride.  I am often amazed at the servings he dishes onto his plate; mashed potatoes with gravy, pastas that are not Mac and cheese.  I even saw him smear a little basil garlic pesto onto his sandwich last Sunday.  

I consider Levi's picky eating habits when I plan a meal but it is nice to see him try new foods, maybe expand the approved list. Don't get me wrong I don't push him too much. I learned my lesson at the Golden Corral.  I think it is that super duper young lady that grew up beside him that makes life and lunch worth sampling.  

Sticks and Stones.

"Sticks and stones will break my bones but words will never hurt me" is likely the biggest lie told since the day it was published in 1862.  

This is not an anti bullying campaign or an attempt to have your words filtered or censored.  It is simply a reminder to myself that my words are not free; they come at a price of ownership.  That is one of the stiffest challenges in writing a blog, posting an opinion on Facebook, or texting a friend.  Whether they are pecked into a qwerty keyboard, inked across your back, or pulled across the sky by a prop plane they are forever out there; even on Snapchat.

Remember in 3rd grade when "Anne" (fake name to protect the heartless heifer) followed you into the bathroom in the elementary school hallway.  You went into the stall as usual but when you came out she asked, "why are you so fat?"  To this day, 40 years later I hold onto those words. Why? The same reason I hold onto the words of a dear high school friend who said, "hey, that note you handed me after school meant so much to me."  I need to have the old heart strings plucked every now and then. I need an emotional reality check on the words I spew all over a conversation.  I need a reminder that even unintentionally, words can hurt worse than sticks or stones. 

Just as there is a difference in wisdom and knowledge, there is a difference in where and how I store all of my word entangled memories.  For instance, I can recite a large portion of the Gettysburg Address. This is rather useless information but for whatever reason I maintain a portion of the words of Abraham Lincoln deep inside my mass of neuronal cells that rattles around between the ears.  Occasionally as a parlor trick or party favor I retrieve and recite to impress my friends, colleagues and strangers alike.  While I love the meaningful words given by Lincoln in 1863 I do not store those in my heart but in my head.  

The things I tuck deep into my chest for safe keeping are different. They are words that have changed me when I didn't want to be changed, hurtful words uttered by those that love me, and shocking words that I would like to purge from existence forever.  They are the sweet and sour, harsh and happy words to live by. They are a halogen bulbs to shine over my next sentence or statement, they are my reminder words that I have wedged into that small space just above my heart. They are the word memories that lump up in my throat just before I cry. They are the words that shaped me yesterday and define who I will be tomorrow.  

Some of the words I have tucked away are simply these:

Hey, Mama. What's going on? No, I just ain't talk to you in a while. You sound upset. Is something wrong? Are you upset with me?

No, Angel. I'm not upset. I'm not upset at all. It's been a long week and I'm really tired and just ready to lay my head down.

OK. If you're sure you're not upset. I sure hope you get rested soon. I guess I'll talk to you later. I love you, Mama.

I love you too, Ange.
Mother? Where are you? Are you busy? Can you talk a minute?

I'm on my way home. I should be there later this evening. What's going on?

Well, you know, I just had a thought and I wanted to tell you. I was thinking, well you know I've always got a plan. Let me know what you think about this.

That sounds great. You have always got a plan. Is that something you're going to start soon?

Oh, I don't know. I was just thinking about it. you know I've got some time on my hands to be thinking about stuff. Well be careful, Mother, and I will see you in a day or two.

I love you, Levi.

I love you too, Mother. 

Good night, Mommy. I loveth  thee thou

Oh, Bubbie.  I've missed you and I loveth thee thou as well

Sometimes when I've been away too long I wonder around in my memories to find these sweet words from my boys.  These words are like sweet hugs that give me direction, support, and energy to combat all that comes at me.  

I own these words. They were gifts from my boys. 

Ruts and Grooves.

Some know that my oldest son's nickname is Angel. Even though I am really the only one that has ever called him by that name I have shouted it from the bleachers, across the yard, and up the stairs since he was just two years old.  Several family members and friends referred to Stacey as Space or Space Monkey. Occasionally a somewhat curious friend will ask if Levi has a nickname. Well, he does.  Sometimes we call him Levit, short for Leviticus though that is not his name. When he was just a toddler we would call him "babycakes"(for the obvious reasons).  Also when Levi was younger we referred to him as the King of Everybody, Always, and Never.  Although Levi is a very peacefully content young adult, as a preteen and teen he would often be heard saying, 'how come everybody always gets that and I never get any?' So he was dubbed and crowned the King of Everybody, Always, and Never.  

Oddly enough, as an adult I would like to be known for that type of consistency.  Wouldn't it be nice for everyone to have an idea of what you were going to do or at least attempt to do always and never?  Which brings me to my point and I do have one.  

Traditions and consistencies: 

Consistency: if you asked me what I look for in a friendship I would consistently answer consistency.  I would likely follow that with this statement, 'even if you are a witch, if you're a witch every time I see you, I can handle it.'  I think what I like about consistent people is not that they are boring or predictable. It's more about the way they make decisions.  Example, a forward thinking individual tends to be forward thinking on many things, the way they view the day, their job, their relationships, their responsibilities, and their opportunities.  It doesn't


mean I don't like folks that are not forward thinkers, it means I prefer the genuineness of a person that shows through their consistent attributes.  

One more example: Someone who is consistently respectful. They respect their elders, children, strangers, authority, bosses and coworkers.  In addition they respect what they have yet to learn as much as what they know a good deal about.  They respect likeness and diversity and it shows in the way they consistently show respect in many facets of life. 

Traditions.  I have often told people in my philosophical ramblings that the only real difference in a rut and groove is your level of acceptance, contentment, and intention?  Think about that from the front bumper of a four wheel drive pick up truck cruising south along the National Sea Shore.  Transitioning to a groove makes for a smoother cruise along the shore where as falling into a rut may lend itself to a rather expensive tow bill. Yet when we describe the two as they are seen from the bumper of the Laramie they are quite similar.  

I said all of that to say, traditions are grooves that we can snuggle into to develop memories and stories.  Remember that first time you took that trip to Larry Joe Taylors Music Festival? Remember how every time we would go to Mammie and Berr's we would have a jungle lunch? Remember that story/saying/song that Grandmother had that always made us laugh? Remember how we always hung that special ornament on the tree? Or remember how we never ate supper in front of the television? Remember how we never were allowed to eat in the bedroom? Remember how everyone used to call me Jake? 

The groove tradition is the one that puts you on the lookout for more grooves.  It makes you search for ways to create that warm familiar feeling for those you love.  

For me, the groove is putting up all of those Christmas trees every year so my grand children will cherish the traditional trees and the true meaning of Christmas.  The groove is digging deep into Peepaw's wallet for a trip to Winston's Candy store every time we are in Port Aransas, it's wading the washout bridge to the swimming hole even when it's too cold to swim, and it's "God is great, God is good" until they are old enough to word a prayer of salvation.  

Everybody, always, and never seem pretty far out of reach but for now I will attempt to be consistent in my dealings and giving in my traditions.