Holiday Heroes

Wow. I keep trying to come up with a better word, but that one word is the best I can do. I’ve thought of bigger ones, more descriptive ones, fancier ones. But every time, I just keep coming back to Wow.

I guess that is because "wow" is the word I have been thinking of over and over again these past few months during the Boxes of Love campaign.
We did it last year, and it was a success. We were pleased and proud at the community’s support. But this year. Donations. Toys. Food. Volunteers. Wow.

Last year, we were new and unknown. This year, we were a little more organized, and had more time to get the word out. But make no mistake, Ignite didn’t do this. Blytheville as a whole did this. The churches did this. The individual volunteers did this. The civic groups did this; the factories and the workplaces and the schools did this. Above all, God did this. He gave us the vision and the means to see it through.

Due to an unscheduled trip up to the Mayo Clinic, I didn’t get to participate in that last, frantic week. I didn’t get to take part in the distribution of the Boxes; which makes the madness beforehand worth it.

I stayed in touch, because my dad would call me with frequent updates. We got in another load, unexpectedly, of toys. Wow. A delivery truck just pulled up to the back door with more food, a truck we weren’t counting on. Wow. We got in more money, money we didn’t know we were going to get. Wow. Another truck, with more food. Wow. More toys, great toys. Wow. More people came to volunteer. Wow.

How amazing. How awesome. Just look what we can do when we do it together. To each individual, each group, each and every person that thought about the Boxes of Love program and contributed, we thank you so much. We quite literally could not have done it without you. We are awed and humbled and so very grateful for the trust and the respect that you have shown us by allowing us to help serve this community.

When it comes right down to it, wow is still the best word. It is the word that we have thought time and again through this project as our needs and expectations were not only met, but exceeded. Thank you, Blytheville, for making us able to say "Wow."

Of Trails, Trailers, and Traditions

My Mom and Dad just got back. My husband went a few weeks ago. My son can’t wait to go. I, on the other hand, am not so anxious. I am talking about that almost holy and oh so glorious place, the deer woods.

The "deer woods" is a different location for different folks. For my husband, it is several locations. One main place and a few backup places. But for my parents, it has been one spot for more than three decades.

When we were growing up, my parents were adamant about two things. We never missed church, and we never missed school. The exception was one time a year, when we went to the deer woods.

They would get all of our assignments from school, and we would take a whole week off. We had to do our school work, but we got to do it in the woods. We still went to church on the Wednesday night we were away, but we went to the small church in the nearest town.

That one week is etched into my and my sister’s memory. Any other vacation we took through the year was from Sunday night after church to Wednesday morning or Wednesday night after church to Saturday morning. Missing church was never an option, never even considered. The pastor doesn’t skip a Sunday, or even a Wednesday.

We grew up with three day vacations, and even then they were never guaranteed. If someone was sick or in trouble, the vacation got cancelled or cut short.

The week of deer camp was set in stone, though. The only exception was the death of a church member. Teresa and I knew that if we could get away before someone called, we could stay away. In an age before cell phones, deer camp was too far for someone to be able to find us.

The four of us were squeezed into a twelve foot camper that only had electricity when a generator was running. It started at 4 a.m. when the men in the camp got up. As the smallest, I slept on the world’s tiniest bunk above my parents. Before technology proved deer have super power like abilities to smell, every morning Dad got up and brewed coffee and cooked bacon or sausage for breakfast.

In that little camper, on that little bunk, the fumes just about choked me every single day. There was no way for him to be quiet, or to keep the lights off so the three girls in the camper could get their sleep. He probably wouldn’t have even if he could have.

We had an outhouse that the whole camp shared. I won’t go into details, but I can tell you that my sister and I also share memories, and not good ones, of that experience. Nothing wakes you up faster than a walk through the woods at 4 a.m. in 20 degree weather.

The men would go off to hunt and gather, or sleep and shiver in their stands, and the women and kids would work, visit, and play around the camp fire. We explored in the area immediately around the camp, although we didn’t go too far for obvious reasons. Our parents didn’t want us to be mistaken for deer and get shot.

We ran and rode our bikes in the fields, and roasted hot dogs and marshmallows stuck on cane poles we had stripped of their leaves at night. Most of the people in our camp were other ministers, family, or church members, so the fellowship was always good, clean fun appropriate for all ages.

The ladies cooked for their families, but almost always cooked extra to bring to the fire. We sampled all kinds of food, and ate until we were stuffed.

Things are different now. That 12 foot Scotty camper has been replaced by a much bigger, much nicer trailer. It doesn’t make sense to me. When there were four of us, they had 12 feet. Now that there are two of them, they have 35 feet, with hardwood floors, a microwave, television, stereo, and a Jacuzzi tub. And indoor...facilities. No more 4 a.m. walks through the woods. Doesn’t really seem fair, does it?

We, on the other hand, still very much rough it in a camper only fit for the deer woods. I’m not sure it is even fit for that. Gary stays in it, and so does Logan. However, the dog refuses to, and so do I.

Whenever we are at deer camp, the doggie and I sleep with mom and dad, even though Gary and Logan sleep in our camper. You could accuse me of being a bad mom by letting my child stay in our camper, except for some bizarre reason he enjoys it. He thinks it adds to the experience.

He probably would have liked walking to the outhouse, too.

The Blessings Of A Broken Road

Last week, I talked about my parent’s celebrating their 46th wedding anniversary. This past week I marked another anniversary. This particular one was not celebrated or talked about or probably even noticed by anyone but me. It was a very important date, though, because it was a date that changed my life.

Sixteen years ago, on Oct. 16, 1992; I drove myself and all my possessions across the border from Louisiana to Arkansas. All my possessions sounds lofty, but what it really encompassed was what could fit into a Toyota Corolla. Me, my cat Isaac (named because it means "laughter" and I so wanted laughter in my life again), some clothing, a 12 inch television, and a few things that were sentimentally valuable to no one but me.

I was, in effect, running away. I was running away from hurt and violence and fear and the constant threat of never knowing when an angry vile filled eruption would occur. But I was also running to. I was running to peace and tranquility. Running to acceptance and understanding. Running to the unknown, which; although scary, was so very much better than the known.

I had very little money. I had no home. I had no job. I was going to be living temporarily with my best friend, sleeping on an air mattress for the immediate future in the only spare room she had. Her laundry room. We fixed it up and it turned into a fine, if a bit noisy, second bedroom. I worked as a temp at dozens of jobs, making less money than I had known was possible.

There were some hard days, some scary days and some lonely days when it seemed like I was all alone in the world. But being all alone was better than being in a toxic relationship, and I cherished the peace and the quiet–just beautiful quietness and peaceful silence–of coming home to a house where no one was waiting in anger when I opened the door.

No one was waiting to accuse me of one more wrong, to challenge me about one more fault or flaw or shortcoming. Knowing that I didn’t have to dread coming home was one of the very best parts of my day.

Coming home to Arkansas was the best decision I have ever made. Actually, it was a group of decisions. I had to decide to leave an abusive relationship. That sounds like it would be easy, but it wasn’t. I meant every single word of "till death do us part" and breaking those vows broke my heart. I took the failure personally, and it took me years to decide that there was nothing more I could do to save the relationship.

I had decide where "home" would be. I had been raised in Arkansas, but I wanted to go somewhere and totally start my life again. I thought a fresh start somewhere completely different might be better.

In the end though, home was here, and I longed for my place, for my people, for my way of life. I met my husband here, and we had our child here. I reconnected with my family here, found old friends and made new ones.

There’s a song called "God Bless the Broken Road." It talks about how every long lost dream leads to where we are now, and how others who broke our hearts were like stars guiding us to the ones we are with now.

My husband and I have been married for fifteen years. We have a 13 year old son that we cherish. My relationship with my family is precious, and I love his family as though they were of my blood.

Driving into Arkansas 16 years ago, I crossed through a little border town called Crossroads. I thought it was a pretty good description of the place I was in my life. I hoped I would find peace, and wondered if I would find happiness. Never in the wildest of my hopes and dreams did I imagine the depths of the love and peace and joy that were waiting for me. God truly did bless the broken road that led me to my new life.

Decades of Devotion

Today is my mom and dad’s anniversary. They’ve been married for 46 years. On this day, over four decades ago, two teenagers pledged their love for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness or in health, till death parted them.

They were young, and they were poor. Not poor like people are poor today. They had $3.00 to their name when they got married. No job, no place to live, and no reliable transportation. That kind of poor. But they were teen-agers, and they were in love, so $3 and love was all they needed.

We hear about the statistics from young marriages. They say they are doomed to fail. No money, sub-standard housing, low paying jobs, kids come along too fast and then there is even less money.

My parents could have fit some of those statistics. They certainly didn’t have a lot of money, and they didn’t have good paying jobs at first. Their first real home was a camper-sized trailer in my grandparents yard. My sister was born there, and a home not big enough for two got even smaller.

The first home I remember living in was the basement of the church my dad was pastoring in Harrisburg. The church couldn’t afford a parsonage, so the small basement was the parsonage. It had a little kitchen, a small living area, and a place for my sister and I to sleep and a place for my mom and dad to sleep. It would definitely be considered sub-standard housing. It was close to work though–all you had to was climb the stairs to go to church.

I don’t remember not being happy in that cramped basement. In fact, I don’t remember a time when I ever knew that my parents were anything but thrilled with where we were and what we were doing.

As an adult, I now know there were times of stress and turmoil and financial difficulties, because they have shared the stories of those times with me. But growing up, I never knew. I only knew the laughter, happiness and peace that reigned in my home.

We moved around, because at that time pastors in our denomination were moved every two to four years, if not more often, whether or not you wanted to. My sister and I didn’t always want to go, but it was part of the life my parents had been called to, and we understood the calling even if we disagreed with the method.

We understood something else early on, also. We understood that our home wasn’t the wood or bricks that surrounded us. Our home was the people living inside. We lived in a lot of different places. Some houses we liked, some towns we liked. Some we very much didn’t. But it wasn’t the structure that made up our home. It was us.

Our parents helped us understand that no matter where we were sent, we would be home because home was where our family was.

Over the decades, my parents have been devoted to each other and to us, their children. Now they have grandchildren that they are devoted to. They have been devoted to the members of each church they have pastored.

Today, they celebrate those decades of devotion. Today, I celebrate having parents that showed me what having a covenant marriage is all about; that showed me how to celebrate family; that showed me how to laugh even through the tough times; and that showed me the value of home. Not the place, but the people inside the place.

House Hunters

I like to watch a show on HGTV called "House Hunters." The show follows someone who is looking for a new home as they look at three potential homes, then make their choice.

My mom and I often watch the show together, or call each other after the show goes off to discuss the choices made. We make a game of guessing which house will be chosen.

I’m particularly interested in the show lately, because they could be following me around. We are hunting for a house also. There is nothing wrong with where we live now. In fact, I love just about everything about my house. It’s big, it’s in a great neighborhood, and it has a lot of features that I like.

The one thing that it doesn’t have is land; and that is the one thing my husband desires. After 15 years of living in the city because his city girl wife was raised that way; my country boy husband would like to live out in the country.

I figure after 15 years, it’s time to let him have his way for once. So, we are selling our house (hopefully) and looking for a new home to buy.

It’s been an adventure. We’ve seen little houses and big houses, cluttered houses and clean houses, and a few houses that make you wonder what the homeowner was thinking. We just about needed sunglasses in one house because the walls were all such bright colors. Then again, after someone walks through my house, they may wonder the same thing.

I never knew roosters were so popular. I can’t believe how many kitchens have roosters for their decor. My mom thinks it is because we are looking at homes in the country, and roosters go along with being out in the country. I don’t necessarily dislike roosters, but I’m not sure I like them either. I’ve never given all that much thought to roosters, but apparently someone has, because those little critters are everywhere.

I had forgotten how many people have carpet throughout their home. We don’t. Because my son has asthma, we have hardwood floors in most of our home. I’m so used to it that it surprises me every time I go into a home that is completely carpeted.

One of the first things we are looking at in the houses we see is how much flooring we will need to re-do. We’ve ripped out carpet every place we have lived for 13 years now, so we are getting to be experts at it.

It is a bittersweet time. I get attached to any place I live, because it is my home, where my family has made memories and shared love and laughter. But it is an exciting time too, because we are looking forward to this next step in our lives, to moving on and finding our next home.

It’s going to be interesting to watch this city girl out in the country. I have a feeling it will take some getting used to, because I have a lot to learn. If I run across any of those roosters, I guess I will have to see if they have laid any eggs for me. Maybe I need to ask my mom, a country girl, about that.