Good Eye

Another mom and I are talking together as he trots over into position. I subtly lean over to get a better look, nodding in conversation; my mind more on him, than her. She completely understands. You get better at this as the years go by; but only in perspective. There is something about your son coming to the plate that requires a mother's watchful eye and encouragement, as though he were braving the high dive or peddling without training wheels for the first time ever. He knows this too, in some primal way, even at 13, having swung the bat about a jillion times, (not counting the wobbly ones she lobbed in the backyard when Dad couldn't be there to do it.) He has to do this alone, without help from you or anyone else; at the mercy of another 13 year old wielding a baseball shaped rock with all the power he can muster. And he knows it's really tougher on mom than she would ever dare to admit.

There are stacks upon stacks of pictures recording his first swing at T ball until now; every year of his life, save the year he decided not to play, and then regretted it. It should clearly tell the story, this library of ours. But it doesn't, not really. You just never capture on film the really good stuff; the things that stop time for a minute, and hop off, leaving time to start again. Like the blizzard of 93. My oldest son and I braved that one together. For days, alone, no power, no heat; no real way to get out for food. Of course, I had known it was coming, and had prepared, I had thought. I remember the extreme cold; worrying about my husband; my other family members. Worrying my son would get sick or something and I couldn't get him to the hospital. We have spoken about this experience many times since then, J.P. and I. He never mentions the cold much, or being held captive with no way in or out. He doesn't remember any of it that way. "Hey, Mom...Remember when you cooked the soup over the fireplace and we roasted hot dogs like a camp out? That was cool..." He remembers me like a super hero.

About a month ago after showing up for practice early, I had taken it into my head to let Ryan "pitch" some balls to me so that I could see what all the fuss was about. After just one "I can't pitch it any lighter" Mom pitches, I wanted to run screaming into the night, terrified. I not only did not hit the ball, I had no desire to do anything with it, except to escape my precarious position at the plate, leaving us both doubled over in hysteria. It was my turn to think of my son as the super hero. I filed that one away in the time standing still moments of life; definitely one of our favorite "at bats." Priceless.

I confess I haven't learned much about the game itself, but I think you could write a sermon on the lingo. Keep your head down....don't go for the junk...make it be your pitch...Way to look...Good eye...Don't watch strike three...It's a lesson in life, encouraging your child at the plate. Whatever he chooses, I want him to choose it wisely; never reaching for what is not worth reaching for. I pray he will always turn to God for the wisdom to know what is, and then have the courage to swing with all of his might in whatever he's called to do. Because its almost always the hardest hits that count, whether they sail over the outstretched glove of the Center fielder, or land square in the small of your back after a wild pitch. Either way, you get on base, if you run hard enough, or really want it badly enough to fight through the pain.

And so he steps up to the box and assumes the position. I can see, already, what's in his head, almost exactly what he's telling himself. The way he stares it down; tunes everything out, but what he needs to think about in the moment. I can tell if he wants it; where his mind is. And I know, instinctively, whether he will slam it, or whiff it, just by the way he's standing. The pitcher, staring back, sizes him up. Pause, turn, release. It rockets through the air towards my son, who must decide its worth. Let it go, or swing with all that's in him.

I watch him there alone, knowing he will do this again many more times in his life. "Good eye!" I tell him, as the ball sails wide. Make it be your pitch. Don't go for the junk. And swing for the stars.

To Everything

My trowel works the rich pungent soil, turning, sowing. The sun ever watchful; a higher vantage point now; warmer, heavier as it ascends. I have been here since it was a light casting shadows....Since before it had turned my skin a copper brown like the earth under my knees, as in prayer.
I wait for the rain and the One Who brings it.
In due season, I will reap.

"To everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven." ~ Ecclesiastes 3:1

My Beautiful Walk

I have been in only one Beauty Walk in my life and I didn’t even make the top 20. How well I remember the curtain dropping in front of those of us whose names weren’t called; separating and discarding us like chaff from wheat;  the beautiful ones disappearing as it fell.  Appaluse, thundering and unmuffled by the velvet wall, was for them, and not us.  Losers all, we made our way out the back of the stage, dresses ruffling and heels clacking, our final walk of shame.  I consoled myself at the time that there were over 120 girls in it.  That makes at least 100 girls as ugly as me.  

But now I know, after all these years, the whole thing was my mother’s fault.

Good mothers, who truly love and want the best for their daughters, see to it that they are exposed to the one and only thing that will not only give them their self worth,  but will measure it for them, too.  Pageants.  Any pageant. Often and early.  You’re a veteran at age 2, and it may be too late, even then.  The best mothers have already paraded their diapered beauties across the stage weeks after birth; assuring they are properly judged and scrutinized by those who know what real poise and beauty should be at  8 weeks.  I was 15 when my homeroom chose me and my friend Yolande to represent them.  Tragically far past my prime.  It was far too late for me.

My mother never waxed my eyebrows, teased my hair, put make up on my face, or glued lashes to my eyes.  She never lovingly pointed a tanning gun at me and fired it, or hired anyone else to do it, either.  I never had a glamour shot made, and I never got to choose which part of me needed to be re-touched, fixed, or completely removed so that my image might pass for acceptable. I was never given an appliance to wear in my mouth after losing a baby tooth in an unattractive and untimely manner.  I was never taught to strut.  I received no instruction in “shake it baby.”  I did not know how to “work it, girl”  And my mother never allowed me to wear things which showed my belly, hiked up my leg, or passed for underwear unless I was in my own room at home getting dressed, with the door, and my modesty, shut and locked in tight.  

And so I blame my mother for this empty tiara closet. Instead of prancing behind the judges table as I performed, she was on her knees, my entire life, in prayer for me.  I have had to look outside myself for my value; and I have had to find beauty in the world beyond my own face and body, beyond what I think or believe myself to be. Beyond what others judge me to be.  I have had to face the mirror on my ugliest days, without retouching my picture or altering it with paint.  I’ve had to search myself, and then lay it at the feet of the One Who truly sees. 

He says I’m beautiful. Sometimes I even believe it myself.

       You go girl....

“ ...The Lord does not look at the things man looks at.  Man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.” ~ 1 Samuel 16:7

Radiant One

The Light of the World comes as morning... Praises rising, like the Son; coming on the clouds... His mercies new each morning, compassions never failing. Let everything that has breath; all that is in me awake, and sing.

"...The Lord rises upon You and His glory appears over you..." ~ Isaiah 60: 2

Between The Uprights

I have started this post countless times in the last month, and I have walked away from it every single time. Other times I have thought of just banging it out, as usual, and hitting "Publish." Relief. I've said it. 

But this post is way too dangerous for my impulsive hand. I wonder why I, of all people, am feeling so strongly lead to write it. (I'm the last one who should, and the very worst of the worst when it comes to this topic. 

But as I've said, cross my heart and hope to survive this...I cry "uncle." It's time to speak my heart and mind. I am praying as I write this.

Sometime during last football season I posted something silly about Walmart needing to stock up on toilet paper for the latest Auburn win. Pretty innocuous, I thought. Maybe a little funny. But I didn't mean any harm, I told myself. Most of my Auburn friends good naturedly "liked" this post; possibly not realizing it was a "dig," or, more likely, seeing it for what it was, and forgiving me for it. Tit for tat, as they say. Because it called for forgiveness. The ugly truth is, I meant it as a dig. "Look on my Wall!" I told my sister laughing, over the phone. "I can't believe I said that!!" And on and on it went. A big laugh. Until the comments began. And then it wasn't funny anymore.

I no more need to tell you that I'm an Alabama fan than an alcoholic really needs to stand up in the meetings and proclaim that he's an addict. My entire life is a bill board advertising this fact, as though it's something to be proud of; a personal accomplishment. Vanity plate, car stickers...ring tone. All of this and more screaming that I support this great team, therefore I am great; a winner. Or I am a loser. I choked. My personal worth rises or falls depending on the score board, whichever way it reads. Looking back, when I was at my very worst, I realize that I have actually felt that way at times, heaven help me.

I am not a "good" Alabama fan, or "one of the best" or any of those honorable things my Auburn friends have called and believe me to be. I am, (or praise God WAS)-- a fraud in the biggest sense of the word. Because until this past year, when I felt God speaking to my heart...that still, small Voice...I loved Alabama football more than a whole lot of things that should come before it. Even God, sometimes, I imagine. I once thought I was doing a great thing when I resisted the urge to actually stay home, rather than enter into His house on Sunday morning after a loss.

Pray for me, if you just read that one twice. It was unspeakably difficult to write.

2009 was a banner year for Alabama football, and I was tuned in. Every play, every game, my signature shriek echoing off the basement room walls. I watched our players turn from boys into men, rising up from near defeat at times to total domination at others. Champions. I cried when Mark Ingram held the crystal prize above his head to a back drop of confetti and fireworks, and I remember telling my son who was 12 at the time that he was watching history take place. I had hoped that he would always remember that moment and I still hope that he will. But in a very different way than I had thought at the time.

Watching the games on our basement TV was really my only connection to the season. We had made the trip to Atlanta, and my sister and I had gone together to the Auburn game courtesy of my generous husband, who was very glad to let me go. Without getting ahead of myself I will tell you that he is the real "good" Bama fan in this house. Other than Face Book, or texting back and forth with Bama friends and family, I couldn't completely share this win with anyone, or even enjoy it. James, being the type fan he is, only tolerated my fanaticism. He did not share it. We don't have season tickets as it would not be feasible to expect that with our schedules, (which literally change with the weather), that we could attend more than a handful of games per year. And so, I would wave my crimson and white shakers from my 50 yard line seat on the basement couch, or sometimes the floor, believing I was actually helping to push the ball through the white line on 3rd down and goal.

I have no memory of James when he was not on the radio, or the television. For a time, he was even part owner of two radio stations in Marengo County. After 30 years, I understand it a little. It's a business. It isn't particularly glamorous. You have to love it. And you have to be pretty tough to take it. Words, judgments, when they are harsh and so unfair, shake me to my very core. Words can heal, encourage, even save. I love words. They matter. I love the sound of poetry, or the way the lyrics fit so beautifully with the music in a hymn. And I love talk radio. Most of the time. I like to hear what people think, and how they say it. Even the Paul Finebaum show still holds some fascination for me, although I will never feel the same way about it again, if indeed, I ever really had more than a passing interest in it that one season. I wanted to hear what people--anyone--was saying about my beloved Crimson Tide. It had been way too long since we had been in the winner's circle. It was thrilling.

I remember turning it on as usual, half listening, half busying myself with some mundane chore in my kitchen, when I began to realize just what, or, more specifically, who, the conversation was about that day. Like a 5 car pile up on the interstate, or the bloody lead story on the 6:00 news...you don't want to look; you don't want to hear. But something draws you to listen, anyway, when you would like to turn and run. Venom, hatred, character assassination. The things that one would say about the worst in our society. The kinds of things only the worst people in our society would say. But these weren't the worst people in society. They were just ordinary football loving Alabama fans. And they weren't talking about a criminal or a felon. They were talking about my husband.

I wanted to scream into the radio that they were wrong. Yes, there was a threat of severe weather during the National Championship game. No, he was not going to interrupt programming (even to save their lives, if necessary.) The TV station was buying time on another channel. They were wrong about this. They were just. Wrong. But of course, this wasn't about James. It was about fear. This God they worshipped was being threatened.

I remember standing in a circle of my friends and crying to them about this. They tried to understand; to comfort. To remind me of what I knew. These people were not worthy of my tears. (Paul Finebaum, their leader, and most vocal, certainly was not.) God bless my friends for trying to understand. I hope that they will forgive me for not believing that they did. My friends and I can share childbirth stories, cancer stories, the saddest days of our life stories. But not one of them can relate to their husband being publicly and unfairly persecuted in front of thousands of people. Yes, I continued to turn the radio on that week. I wanted to hear all about the goings on in California, preparing for the National Championship. I wanted to be a part of all the excitement. But like a bull who continues to run itself into an electric fence, I was hit every time and knocked reeling. It never stopped. Lord, Your Word says to rejoice in this. It was so very hard. But I tried.

The truth, of course, is that my husband is not on an "ego trip", or enjoys seeing himself of TV, or any of those things, and more, that he has been accused of. Next to being a godly husband and father, he aspires to be, more than anything, all that God has called him to be. Sharing his faith. His life a witness. Giving his best--100% every single day to this wonderful job and gift that God has given him. Regardless of what it takes. Matthew 6:33 is and has always been his favorite verse and the one he quotes most often. "But seek first His kingdom and righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well." Or in James' words, " You do what I've called You to do, and I've got your back. I'll take care of your problems." James is doing what God has called him to do. And God has blessed us in the good times, and carried us through the bad times, without fail.

It was a sad, and rather bizarre twist the very next year (after Alabama's championship) as Auburn ran the table to take the title, a very sick Mike Raita wanted to quit his sportscasting job because of the constant abuse he received. He had merely reported the news about Cam Newton, and this made him fodder for ridicule and unbelievably cruel hate mail. He has been in this business for many years, and nothing came close to the abuse he received. He was just trying to fight the cancer, he had told James, and didn't know how much more he could take. Mike Raita is one of the kindest and best people we know. It broke our hearts.

I have seen friendships that have lasted for years end over this. Christians--in church--acting like complete idiots and provoking each other into angry words and hurt feelings. I have seen postings on Facebook (like mine) start an all out war of name calling and insults. People I knew and respected--highly educated and accomplished-- acting as though they didn't have the sense the good Lord gave a goat. I have had my heart broken into ten million tiny pieces when someone very close to me thought me hippocritical for congratulating Auburn and pulling for them in their SEC game and beyond. It took me longer than it should have to realize that this hurt was not that she would think these things, but more because I had been so awful--such a rabid Alabama fan for as long as she could remember, that she simply couldn't imagine my being anything else. It was a little like ice water in the face, but helped to put some clarity to the situation. I am thankful for that.

Maybe there really is a little bit of good that came of the tornadoes, just as His word tells us. I do see His hand in this; working even this horrible tragedy for good. I see amazing people work until the sweat pours and their backs ache, in the most horrible of conditions... just to help the town of their greatest rival. I have seen perfect strangers offering a bottle of water or a shoulder to cry on. Or both. I have felt the power of God move in ways I have never witnessed before in my life. I have seen selflessness. The type of love that means something; is stronger than the love or devotion to any team or side. It's the kind that lasts, and the only kind that really matters. Your kind, Lord.

All of this, and for years leading up to it, has changed me. I see it differently now. You can't separate the Auburn and Alabama thing from the loving your neighbor thing. It's as simple as that.

I have never understood why Auburn fans hang toilet paper on trees and call it celebration. I don't understand why Alabama fans can sing "Rammer Jammer" when we not only did not beat the H--- out of someone, we barely squeaked by with a win at all. But I know that I can laugh at all of that, and enjoy it, as it was meant to be. And I can say Roll Tide AND War Eagle, and truly mean it. Because His Word tells us to bear each other's burdens. And to rejoice with those who rejoice. In Alabama, winning or losing will mean one or the other. We do take our football seriously down here, to be sure.

It isn't just a game to us. It's a whole lot more.