like pictures in a frame.

I had a tear-invoking memory of Eric this morning.   
Every time I think of him my throat stings, but I can usually contain the tears.
Not this day.
I miss my friend so much.

Grief is a funny thing; how it comes in waves.
I just sat there alone, fanning my face and trying not to ruin my make up.
I just kept telling myself to get it together; it was only 8:15 a.m., and I look like crap with no make-up.

I'm thankful for all the memories,
even though they make my heart hurt sometimes.

I wrote this poem a long time ago, but I think it's fitting for today.
It's about the transition that people, places, and things take into being a memory or sentiment, and not wanting to let go.
The good thing is, we don't have to let go.
We just have to remember.
And remembering just happens to be one of my gifts. 

Oh sweet memories,
how they turn away and change,
or sell for cheap at a second hand store.

Frames on the wall tell all the years contained;
alluding to a life from day to day.

Say it ain't so,
you're going away?
Leaving me with all this change?

I will remember you every time I say goodbye.
It will always be the same,
I'll hear your name and close my eyes tight to bring a sight of you.

Memories, how they fade
like an old photograph in a frame.
Telling a story,
bringing a tear,
showing me beauty,
how I wish you were here.

Follow up.

Because I believe in the value of a good, solid praise report,
I must share that my dream of having an historic home will soon be realized. 
After months of making frequent visits to the historic district, and checking the classifieds for houses, I basically concluded that I was torturing myself because most of the renovated homes weren't in our price range.  I gave up several times and figured we would just stay put.  
However, hope remained springing up in me, and I had a lot of encouragement from my friends to just keep looking and see what happens. 


Once we found this house, which happens to be an awesome deal, I obsessed for about a week.
Feelings of fear were surfacing; fear of not wanting to be disappointed, and not wanting to make the wrong decision.  
With being on a tight budget and being a student, it's scary to change anything and open the door to the unknown.
What if the utility bills are sky high?
What if traffic is an issue?
Will we like the urban lifestyle?
What will I do without a garage?


Once we made a decision to just go for it, I haven't really worried at all.
I've also decided I will not live in fear.  

The house is beautiful, I absolutely love it. 
It's about 800 sq feet bigger than our current home.
It has lots of charm and character. 
It has a front porch and a sweet little entryway. 
The mailman walks across the porch to deliver the mail; I just love that! 
Original hardwood floors and mantles. 
Carlos finally gets a studio that isn't a walk-in closet.
I finally get a bedroom free of gear. (PTL)
Living, dining, kitchen, mudroom, office (studio.)
4 bedrooms, 3 full baths.
It was built in 1912.  


This might sound weird, but I feel like the house needs us.
To fill it with love, to respect its history.
The neighborhood is slowly returning to its original splendor after being run down for a period of time. There is so much potential there, and we get to be a part of that.


It just feels right.

I am so excited!

  

hanging in there.

Well, I had a full circle moment the other day when I cried in math class. 

They weren't happy tears, either.

They were the kind of tears that come when you realize that something will never be easy, and you're just so tired because of it.  

Math, ugh, the bane of my existence.  

I sailed through psychology, humanities, sociology, and human growth & development.

I heard the angels singing in English composition. 

But math is basically a foreign language for me. I just have to drill, drill, drill until it finally sinks in.  

My tear-filled full circle moment, was produced by the sting of a failing grade; something I hadn't experienced in almost 20 years.  I felt that absolutely nothing had changed between then and highschool.

There wasn't any amount of life experience that could change my proficiency, or lack thereof, in (pre)algebra.  

Math doesn't care how many babies you had, how many cupcakes you've frosted with a perfect swirl.  Math doesn't care how bad you want to understand. There's no points for effort.  

I drove home, almost hyperventilating from panic and disappointment. 

I wondered if I have what it takes to finish college and be a nurse. 

But then I realized there's only one way to find out, and it's to proceed.  

Truth is, I don't have a bad grade, (89.5.)

I re-took the quiz and passed.

It's just soooo hard for me to master the units that a good grade doesn't feel like a victory, it's just passage into an even harder unit.  

Getting my math credits is the only thing keeping me from taking Anatomy, micro-biology and Chemistry, and then I can apply for the program.  

OMG, y'all, college at 37 isn't for the faint of heart.  

History and wonder.

I love historic homes. They have a way of speaking to me way down deep. Whenever I see one, I can't help but wonder, has a baby been born in there, has anyone died in there, has anyone gotten engaged on that porch? My heart starts to bond with the story of the home, with the majesty of architectural details that have all but gone extinct. Waking across a wooden porch and opening a creaky screen door is heavenly to me. It makes me think of MeMaw's hunting lodge, and seeing grandma Stella's smile through the tinted mesh when I used to visit her.
I love pretty houses and manicured sidewalks.
I'd like to think I'm going to have my very own historic home one day.
I'm just letting patience have her perfect work. Meanwhile, I dream.

taming momma bear.

It's no secret that I can go from sweet to ferocious in 2 seconds if I think for one moment that my children are being mistreated.  I'm just not one of those moms who can embrace my kids’ heartache as a means to toughen them up.  That's been a hard one for me. I am a communicator, a fixer, a nurturer, and a protector.  

I am momma bear.  

And, my youngest cub is sensitive.  

Sensitive. Sigh. What a loaded word. 

It's a strength and a weakness. A blessing and a curse. 

But that's just one side of him. And there are very few people who get to see the rest because there are very few people whom he feels comfortable around.  He is precious, hilarious, smart, compassionate, and he's painfully shy.  And he’s sensitive.  

Well, a few times over the last few weeks I've wanted to come to his rescue.  I wanted to find the fool who hurt his feelings and rip em' a new one.  But I just heard the Holy Spirit hush me; tell me to wait.  (I really don't rip people a new one per se, but I mediate through emails or little talks with teachers, etc.)  The main point I'm always pushing with him is forgiveness, and how proud he should feel over his sparkling manners.  He doesn’t treat people badly; he has manners and character.  So he wins.  And I win because he's mine.  

Lately, he has really been surprising me with his ability to stand up for himself.  Like when a little girl gave him “tips on how to be cool;” which basically entailed him developing an entirely new personality and set of friends.  He told her he didn’t need her tips and that everyone is different.  He wasn’t even hurt over it; he mostly seemed surprised by her audacity. 

I was proud of him. 

A situation came up recently where I was concerned about him getting his feelings hurt.  I felt I needed to do some pre-damage control, however I felt hesitation and decided just to wait.  I prayed about it, and I felt like I was supposed to trust God with his heart.  After all, He loves him even more than I do.  Well, like everything God does, it went better than I could have imagined.  I saw stars in his eyes; the kind that only come out when something real special happens.   If I had gotten involved, the whole thing might have been called off.  

So, I’m officially taming the momma bear.  I mean, tame doesn’t mean sedated or buried.  It just means disciplined and slow react. 

It’s time.

safe keeping.

I came across the best interview the other day, and I wanted to post it here so I can read it whenever I want. I've had a long standing respect for the soy bomb guy. He's just as much a part of my life as the cast of Friends and the lyrics to my favorite songs.  He's just there, in my arsenal of pop culture influences.  He's one of my all time favorites.

 I remember watching this live. I was at home with Alexandria, who was about 6 months old, enjoying BobDylan's song when the Soy Bomb guy started flailing around. I was mesmerized. This was before social networking and texting, so I had to wait a few days to discuss it with my friends. Imagine that.

What I like about the interview is his wording; it's so weird yet impossibly brilliant.
I hope he gets to make a comeback one day.

The real question on people's minds at the 1998 Grammys wasn't "How did some guy with 'Soy Bomb' painted on his chest get onstage with Bob Dylan?" No, the more pressing question was, "How did this guy get to STAY onstage with Bob for almost an entire minute, before security realized he wasn't part of the act?" Bob seemed as confused as everyone else.

In a new interview with Yahoo! Music, Soy Bomb, who is a respected artist and whose real name is Michael Portnoy, explains his motivations behind that night. "Comedy is for people who have a sense of rhythm but can't play an instrument. Rhythm is for people who like to hit animals but instead stretch them over clay bowls. The art world is for people who want to be comedians and musicians, but don't like driving in vans with other males, or practicing. Soy Bomb was intended to be a simple poem, but my arms stole all the attention."

Asked if he would ever crash national television again for a performance art piece, Portnoy replied, "If the delivery of all the nation's programming were confined to just one Jumbotron in the heart of the country, I might consider occupying a few square feet in the lower right corner of the screen as a kind of living punctuation."

We assume that means yes!

beauty in the breakdown.

When I read through my old posts, I really miss being able to sit and write.

Now, most of what I say is pointless and 140 characters or less.

I don't miss being sad or feeling misplaced, but I miss the heightened feelings that went along with it. The only way I can explain is to compare it to how good you feel when a headache goes away.

You-don't-know-how-good-it-feels-to-feel-good-until-you-feel-like-crap-for-a-little-while.

The last season was the hardest ever, but it was also incredibly beautiful.

I struggled more than I ever have, but I was overwhelmed with grace.

I cried more than I thought humanly possible, but just the same, the beauty of the foothills, or the valley, or the fall leaves glowing would make my heart feel like it might explode out of my chest.

Today, I had a "me day," I sat alone and did nothing. It was just alright; it left me wanting something more.

I remembered my old back yard, my afternoons in the hammock looking at this tree.

It always looked like a dancer to me. A dancer who was reaching out, and It made me want to reach out. God gave me beauty for ashes at every turn.

The struggle I experienced made me a better person.

I embraced the pain, and journaled all the lessons it brought.

So, my question is, now what?

I'm in such a happy place, just breathing deep.

But I'm kind of bored.

I miss the revelation and sometimes I even miss the tears.

The only crying I do is on my emoji keyboard. (holler)

Truth is, there's something about being an emotional basketcase that is slightly redeeming.

It's just the fluidity I guess.

No walls, nothing bottled up.

You actually might pray for the ability to bottle something up, but you can't.

It's just all overflowing at the surface, coming out whether you want it to or not.

I wouldn't want to be like that again.

But from someone who's lived to tell, I can wholeheartedly say, there's beauty in the breakdown.

So, this long, weird, rambly mess of a post is just reminding myself to not stop reaching out.

To always seek the Lord, crisis or not.

I want to be that oak, dancing in the afternoon breeze, all for his glory.

To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair. In their righteousness, they will be like great oaks that the LORD has planted for his own glory. Isaiah 61:3

Well, Christmas was wonderful and fun.

It was the first time that we traveled as a family since our overnight trip to orlando for Matthew's birthday last year. We needed it, too.

Sometimes, driving across the state line is worth it just for the wonder of returning again. No matter what, there's no place like home.

I've been a little sad that December is already over, I wish it could stay just a little bit longer.

Don't get me wrong, I'm happy for the new year, but I always wish the festivities hadn't gone so quickly.

I've realized, during my pondering on the matter, that celebrating is just being intentional.

I want more of that in my everyday life. I thought I had invented an original tagline if I ever opened a cupcake shop, it was, "because every day is a celebration," (but cupcake girls had the same original idea.)

Everyday is a mini celebration, worthy of good meals and laughter. The world outside can say what it will, but inside the four walls of my home is a haven. Dim lights and music at night, impromptu dance parties, baking cookies. In whatever way we chose, we can celebrate and create days our children will remember.

That's how I want my life to be.

I'm packing for family Christmas in South Carolina.

I'm excited, my kids are bouncing off the walls.

Meanwhile, my heart is heavy.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about Eric, his family, and everybody else who loved him.

My heart goes out to his regular customers; after all, he's made their coffee for six years.

That's a special bond, too.

And considering that Eric had perfected the art of retail conversation, I am confident that his customers will feel the void.

I'm just so sad, and I don't know what else to do than to write about it.

This will be the first time in six years that Eric and I won't exchange texts on Christmas, so I'm going to write him a letter instead.

Dear Eric,

Well, friend, this sure isn't getting any easier. I'm trying really hard to pull from your humor and not be so sad. Carlos and I have laughed hysterically several times, just sitting on the bed remembering you. And I keep sending Michelle "remember when Eric, ...?" texts. I can't help it, it's just the way I'm processing all this. We are all in shock, but I think you always knew you'd die young. I'd hush you whenever you'd say it, but you knew.

You were a mix of a child at heart and an old soul. You had a depth about you, I always felt like you genuinely cared about me. You were fiercely protective over us girls whenever creepers came around, or hard times fell. I'm sorry for the times I was unkind to you, that store was sometimes like a pressure cooker, and you often got the brunt of it.

Because I know you'd want to know, I got the boys each a 3DS for Christmas.

I miss you, buddy.

-me

then space began to toll.

I felt a funeral in my brain,
and mourners, to and fro,
kept treading, treading, till it seemed
that sense was breaking through.

And when they all were seated,
a service like a drum
kept beating, beating, till I thought
my mind was going numb.

And then I heard them lift a box,
and creak across my soul
with those same boots of lead,
then space began to toll.

As all the heavens were a bell,
and being but an ear,
and I and silence some strange race,
wrecked, solitary, here.

And then a plank in reason, broke,
and I dropped down and down--
and hit a world at every plunge,
and finished knowing--then--

-Emily Dickinson

my friend...

Today I got the kind of call that nobody wants to get.

My dear friend and former co-worker, Eric, had died.

He was standing on his feet one minute, collapsed the next.

At first, I was obviously in shock.

I felt the need to go outside, I don't know why.

It just felt like it was too much energy for my little house to contain. I needed to breathe.

I called my friend, Michelle, and we talked for a while.

Michelle, Eric, and I all worked together, and we had a special bond.

I came back inside, and that's when the tears hit.

That's when I realized that I'd never see my friend again.

What followed next was a lot of sobbing, and telling Carlos my long list of reasons why I loved Eric so much. Carlos happened to know and love Eric as well, so he just listened and nodded his head while I rambled on.

I know I probably sounded like I was over explaining, that's probably because Eric and I were unlikely friends.

But what y'all have to know is that my Starbucks family kept me going during a very hard time in my life. They were a gift to me. Sure, we had our own blend of dysfunction, but what family doesn't?

Eric was a 20-something gamer, proud to be born on halloween.

He was the most hilarious, intelligent, awkward, tenderhearted guy.

He'd tell me things like "every time I watch an action hero movie, I ask myself if it's an ok movie for your kids to see." He never steered me wrong, either.

He'd give my kids video games he didn't want anymore even though he could have traded them in for money.

Once, I dropped my car keys into a trash can of rancid whipped cream and other disgusting things, and he went in after them.

He was an old fashioned southern gentlemen.

He'd never give any of us girls a hug because he was afraid he'd "accidentally grab our boobs."

He'd throw himself into a violent wall hug to avoid any inappropriate contact when he's go around the corner at the same time as anybody else.

He would occasionally get off the mountain dew and it would result in the "fun bobby" affect.

Theres a thousand funny, happy, sweet memories that I have of Eric.

I will cherish them forever.

Rest in peace, Eric.

And from the bottom of my heart, thank you for being my friend.

I love you.

Christmastime is here.

I love Christmas.
I love the soft glow at night when
the tree is lit, and it's chilly enough to wear flannel pajamas.
I love baking for my kids, and listening to Christmas music.
The crafts that come home from school, delightfully exploding in glitter.
(this year, from my last remaining elementary aged child.)
When the kids get out of school for break, and the freedom in the air is palpable.
It's magic. Pure magic.

We're going out of town next week for Duke family Christmas.
I have a vision in my head of it going perfectly.
If that's a pipe dream, I don't want to know; not yet.
I just want to breathe and take it all in, but somehow it always ends up being more work than anyone could ever imagine. With meals, cleaning, entertaining kids, it ends up being mostly like the opening scene of home alone- where everyone is secretly wishing their family would just disappear.
But I love it, though.

I'm happy for the new year.
I have a few simple resolutions tucked away in my heart.
I feel like I'm on the edge of glory in many ways.
I feel like I'm getting better every year.
That's just how Christmas makes me feel.
Perhaps that's why I love it so much.

Merry Christmas, y'all.