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Courage, Family, Gifts, Lessons

The Gift Closet

Everyone is gifted.  But most people never open their package.

With three sets of grandparents, I hit the lottery with all of them.  One couple were sweetly named Tootie and Pippi, a gift from our oldest cousin.  We learned not to get tongue tied while calling for them, their names weren’t near as endearing when spoken wrong.

I spent only a few Christmas and family gatherings with my biological dad’s family, for several reasons that are neither here or there.  When I was twelve, he died suddenly from a massive heart attack, taking any and all of our future time along with him.  My poor grandparents were devastated, and grieved until they joined him.  After his funeral, we all converged back to the family home in Claude, Texas.  Because love requires we gather.  When we arrived at the pink brick house, my cousins were persistent in requesting that our grandmother show me “my closet”.

My cousin Monica and I, Christmas 1978

My precious grandmother and cousins lead me to the hall closet.  Inside, on the side wall, were stacks of wrapped presents with my name written on them.  Presents for every birthday and Christmas I didn’t join the family.  The feeling of being remembered still overwhelms me.  While the rest of the family consoled each other, I sat in the living room floor and opened presents.

Socks and underwear for every year of growth, nightgowns with past-favorite cartoon characters on them, stacks of bracelets in every color, stuffed animals, strawberry shortcake dolls, care bears, a cabbage patch doll, and various other gifts.  Presents that I never knew existed.  Presents that would have remained unopened had I not shown up.

The Pritchett side of the family is a large one, filled with lots of cousins, aunts, and uncles.  I never figured that I was missed at the family gatherings, as the house was always maxed out with people. Truthfully, most of those years, I was too young to even realize I was missing out.  My life was full of beloved family members from the other sides as well.  Yet, my grandparents felt the void, and prepared my gifts alongside the other cousins, in hopes that I would be there. Year after year.

I never thought about how my grandmother must have felt after Christmas until now.  I wonder if she waited until the decorations were being put up to add my presents to the others in the closet.  I wonder if our Creator feels the same way about the growing stack of unopened gifts we haven’t tapped into.


I can’t help but imagine that God has a closet of goodness for us, just waiting for us to show up for.  Answered prayers and gifts that require time spent in His presence to open and develop.  Gifts tied with gorgeous bows, waiting for our arms and hearts.  How many unopened and untapped gifts are waiting with your name on it?

Perhaps we purposely or unconsciously avoid the gift closet, due to fear of the responsibility of a gift.  How many times have we been given grace that we continually refuse to accept or believe deep down that we haven’t earned yet?  How frustrating for the Gift Giver.  How sad for the Gift Giver to open the closet, and add yet another, unopened box to the stack.

As a parent myself, I delight in watching my boys open gifts chosen just for them.  Some they have asked for, and some are specifically chosen.  Nothing random. I can only imagine the divine joy our Creator has when sitting back, watching us open and then use our perfectly chosen gifts.

My friend Casey is blessed with long, slender legs. She jokes that when torsos were being handed out, she missed the class, along with future make-up days for all torsos.  I think torsos are overrated when you can have legs.  We don’t choose the vessel we’ve been given, but we choose what we pour out and what we keep inside.  We can replenish and sharpen our talents and gifts on each visit to the gift closet.  We can show up and sit in the presence of the Gift Giver, hands out and hearts open.

Get ready to receive my friend.  There are piles of goodness with your name written on the tag.

 

 

August 24, 2017 by
Authenticity, Courage, Courage, Family, Grace, Lessons, Parenting

Hearing…with our own ears

God always meant for you to hear Him with your personality.

It took me a long time to grasp that thought. I used to think that in order to be spiritually mature, I needed to be more serious.  To be pleasing to my Creator, I was going to have to push down this ridiculous sense of humor, straighten my act up, and have the funny-bone of sarcasm surgically removed from my head.

When I became a mom at the age of 21, no one was more shocked than myself. I was making pennies as a legal assistant in Dallas.  On a lunch break, I went to the doctor to see about the stabbing pain in my low abdomen.  After listening to all my symptoms for about thirty minutes, we went in for an exam.  Then came the ultrasound.  The doctor pointed to a black dot on the screen and said, “Do you see this spot?”  I raised up on my elbows, squinted and gasp, “Is it a tumor?!” He unsuccessfully hid a smile and replied, “No, it’s a baby.”  (Turns out it’s painful for your uterus to stretch…who knew?)

I don’t remember driving home. I just ended up there, completely forgetting about the last half of my work day.  I grabbed a white dress, and we planned a wedding.   A few months later in my pregnancy, I went to change my last name at the doctor’s office. The nurse smiled and said, “Most first pregnancies only take about six months instead of the normal nine.”  Please. I see what you did there, and I’m pretty sure we didn’t fool anyone.

As shocked as I was to arrive early into Motherhood, I adored it.  I jumped in with both feet.  I read the books, followed the rules, and even ironed that baby boy’s onesies, no lie.  I adored my new roles.  When I wasn’t ironing baby clothes, I tried to find my footing on exactly who I was and where I needed to be.  I didn’t fully know, as I went from teenager to a mom in one hot second. This precious baby needed a godly mother that was stoic and treated life serious.  And I was the gal who loved God and found humor in most everything.

The turtleneck phase….through many seasons.

The summer after he was born, I displayed modesty by owning every color of sleeveless, mock-turtleneck shirts.  Seriously.  There is only ONE picture in that time frame that I am not wearing a turtleneck.  How I didn’t get tackled and thrown on a make over show is beyond me.  I’m still disappointed in my friends. Friends don’t let friends wear turtlenecks in the heat of a Texas summer.  The winter came and brought sleeves to my turtlenecks.  I was trying to hide my body, because a big chest didn’t seem like it would be godly.  Right? Even though I had zero input on how my body was naturally shaped.

Mason, with a look of shock….wondering why my neck is showing.

I started attending church again. When a bible study was offered, I signed up.  At one point, I was in three different bible studies at the same time. I was ironing and studying so much that I didn’t leave time to apply.  There wasn’t fruit being produced because I wasn’t watering the tree that I was, instead I was planting faux trees with leaves of wax.  I believed this baby boy deserved for his Momma to be a better tree.

Straight and narrow.  Because I snuck into this role the backway. I didn’t follow the correct steps, so by gosh, I wasn’t going to mess up now that I’m here.  At my core, I believed that I wasn’t enough.  I believed that I needed to push down everything that I was, in order to be what others expected.  Push myself down and perform.

As you can imagine, this only works for so long before the cracks start to show. At one point in Mason’s elementary years, he went through a sassy stage with a really bad attitude.  I was exasperated with this spicy child.  A friend pulled down a message from heaven and gently told me that perhaps I was chosen to be Mason’s mom because I could handle it.  Not the representative that I was performing as, but me.  My authentic self was given the specific skills and tools to navigate and nurture this child. I was only fooling myself, my first born had caught on to me.

There are few things more painful than living a life that is not in alignment with who you are.

What I have found throughout the 17.9 years of raising that baby and his brothers is that our Creator never meant for me to hear him outside of who I am.  He uses our own language to speak to us.  And thankfully, God is into simplicity.  I think it must grieve Him to watch us contort into something different than He constructed.  We were made in an image to fulfill a specific destiny on this earth.  Be you, because you are more than enough my friend.

When the boys were little, we had a birthday tradition of me tucking them in bed and telling them the story of the day they were born.  They loved hearing it, year after year.  McCray liked hearing how alert he was, his big blue eyes wide open, scanning my face.  They liked being reminded of who they are, where it all began.  The song lyrics to “Remind me who I am”, makes me feel like I’ve climbed into the lap of the One who designed me, listening to the story of the day I was pieced together.  Asking Him to tell it, again and again.

“When I lose my way, and I forget my name, Remind me who I am.

In the mirror all I see, is who I don’t wanna be, Remind me who I am.

In the loneliest places, when I can’t remember what grace is.

Tell me, once again, who I am to you, who I am to you.

Tell me, lest I forget, who I am to you, that I belong to you.”

Ah grace.  Grace covers like a salve when we realize we need to course correct and get back to the original.

You are enough.  You were created with a specific purpose.  You were knit together with the most brilliant and beautiful colors. The formula mixed and poured into you was measured with careful precision. You’ve been planted, and watered with love and light.  Who you are is so, so lovable.  Sister, cut off the turtleneck, throw off the chains that are keeping you from being the authentic version.  You are an original, a custom-made one and only.

Climb up in that lap to be reminded how your ears were perfectly and wonderfully made to hear Him, exactly where you are.

 

*The whole thought of this blog post came from Christa Black Gifford, at some point while reading her amazing book, “Heart made Whole”.  I cannot take credit for getting there without her words of encouragement.

 

 

 

August 17, 2017 by
Family, Organization, Parenting

Organization for the School-Work Keepables

With the new school year rounding the corner, I’m sure you have created a space for all the paperwork coming home.  Right?  The seasoned parents all know it’s coming…prepared with ink in hand, ready to sign your life away.  I start the year loving it; the organization, preparation, involvement.  Until about the third week of school, then I am done with the paperwork and ready for a shot of calgon mixed with whiskey.

Throughout the school year, there are things I keep and things I wholeheartedly toss.  A friend asked me to share my system for the keep-worthy items.  I found it on Pinterest years ago, and wish I could find the original gal who created it to give her a cupcake and the credit she deserves.  This has made our life so much easier.  A place for everything meaningful that we wished to keep; school photos, team photos, essays, art drawings, awards, ribbons, letters and birthday cards received, all-things-sentimental.  The boys love pulling out a book and flipping through the pages from time to time.  And I love hearing, “Hey, I remember this!”

Before this system, each darling of mine just had a box with everything just thrown into it.  It was unorganized and overwhelming.  I implemented this 5 years ago, and have continued to not only love it, but more importantly USE it.

Start this system by diving in and separating by school year, beginning with Mother’s Day Out through Senior year.  You’ll need: Three-ring-binder(s), dividers for grade levels, clear pocket folders for each grade level, and sheet protectors.

Each grade level starts with a divider – labeled with the appropriate grade level, a clear pocket folder, and a set of sheet protectors.

* Dividers for grade levels

The clear, pocket folders hold the small things; ribbons, medals, bday cards…. Basically anything that doesn’t fit snug in a sheet protector.

Everything else goes inside a sheet protector.

There you have it!

You. Are. Organized.

Plus, you have another reason to use that handy-dandy label maker. 😉

 

**Disclaimer – The number of binders does not equal a favorite child.

 

 

 

 

July 31, 2017 by
Family, Lessons, Parenting

Parenting pirates with bumpers…

A few weeks ago, we were preparing to host out of town friends for the weekend.   I get giddy in preparing for friends and love all the things that entails; the planning, the visit, hanging on the back porch late into the night, being cheesy and making them sign our guest book before they leave.

I also delight in the clean house that happens before guest arrive.  A lot. Sometimes I wonder if I subconsciously invite friends to stay so I will make myself clean out a closet or two in preparation of their arrival.  Probably not, but I still wonder.

My eldest child also loves to host last minute, summer-night, swim parties.  It’s never an organized, planned party, more of a, “Hey mom, we are headed to the house to swim, that ok?” gathering.  On this night, I reminded him that I had just cleaned the house and wanted it to stay that way due to company arriving the next day.  He assured me they were just hanging outside.  No biggie, just a chill night, swimming with friends and listening to music.

Just a few of the crew members…

I should pause here to add that I love Mason’s friends.  Adore them.  Some of them have been friends since they were in kindergarten, and I loved them as sweet, five year olds.  Now that they are headed into their senior year of high school, there really isn’t a time I say “No” to them being here.  We are soaking in the moments, socking away memories like gold coins.  Gold coins that we can look back on and count when our nest is empty.

The kiddos came and swam, a fun time was had, and several stayed over for the evening, crashed out in odd shapes of blankets in the game room.  The next morning, I walked into the living area and was horrified.  Clearly, a gang of pirates invaded our home in the night and destroyed my clean floors.  The dark wood looked like the mateys had ran a 5K on a caliche road before entering in the back door, and dropped crumbs to find their way back out to the pool.  Rosie the Roomba was no match for this job.

I walked into the kitchen to discover that Jack Sparrow himself had decided to cook chicken and rice for his whole gang.  The rascal was gracious enough to leave the dishes for his mother.  I can’t fully explain how random this meal was, or exactly where the ingredients came from.  Just a few hours before the teenage buccaneers arrived, I had determined there was nothing in our cupboards or freezers to fix for dinner, and ordered in.  In the morning sun, spare grains of rice lay burnt under the stove top grate, pots and pans filled up the sink, wet beach towels hung on the bar stools, three trashcans overflowed with the remnants of their bounty.  All I could see in my mind’s eye was salmonella dripping off of every surface.

Shiver.  Me.  Timbers.

Sometimes luck has a method of paving the way for you, and Mason has a knack for seeking out luck’s paved roads.  While standing there in the aftermath of the raided kitchen, it dawned on me that my son is a lot like his Momma. As much as these teens seek to create their own path, the pendulum swings back.  He too, strives to be a good host.   We both want our guest to feel at home, to leave refreshed, restored, and full.  Neither of us ever wish for our people to be famished, which is why I stock massive snack drawers for the kiddos and a wine cabinet for my girlfriends.  I made a mental note to start stocking more meat in the freezer, since Mason’s culinary skills and appetite had blossomed.

With three teenagers in the house, we are facing more situations where I realize it’s time to lower the bumpers on the parenting lane.  Some things need to be discovered on their own, like cleaning up our own messes.  Some still need guidance and discipline.  As their mom, I walk a tight rope of my boys calling me Leigh Anne Tuohy,  “The Blindside Mom” and the cheesy mom who still applies sunscreen to their teenage-sensitive faces and organizes their sock drawers when they aren’t looking.

Confession – I’ve always secretly rolled my eyes at the mom that makes her healthy, normal sized 12-year-old ride in a booster seat.  And, also the mom who throws keg parties and collects keys.  I’m looking for a happy medium, a half-way point; a place for a reasonable, loving, sometimes dorky mom to hang out.  Maybe not fully wrapping them in bubble wrap, but just from the chest up?

For now, it’s just the bumpers, it’s not time for him to find his own lane just yet, we are still family bowling here buddy.  Go wake up your pirates and find some mops.

July 12, 2017 by
Courage, Family, Fear, Lessons

Heights, Fear, and Altitude Tourettes

Heights terrify me.

Just the vision of someone standing on the balcony of a high rise will make my knees go numb.

One of our family’s favorite vacations to take is our annual ski trip.  I am a skier that adores the gentleness of a green, can endure the challenge of a blue, but typically aim to stay away from double black diamonds. Like always.

When we had just barely been a blended family for a few months, we headed to the mountains together with some friends.  After a few days of teaching two of our boys to ski and reminding the third, we were feeling good about ourselves.  “Look at us, what an athletic family.”   Pride always before the fall.

(The photo my friend texted to me on our drive to the ski resort, she was in the car behind us as we were exiting the Eisenhower Tunnel. She knows me well.)

My husband who is a natural at everything, had made several runs from the extreme tip of the mountain on his own.  He kept commenting on how beautiful it was up there, and suggested our entire group of eleven head up the lift, to the highest point of the mountain range.  Never mind the fact we had five kids with us who had only been skiing for two days.  In their life.  When I mentioned this, it was answered with, “There is a green all the way down, it doubles as the road in the summer months.”

Upward our optimistic gang went.  Not fully understanding that there were zero signs pointing out the easiest way down from this height.  People who ski in the clouds don’t look for the path of least resistance.

It started on the ski lift headed up the mountain, I could feel the wave of fear headed for me.  I shared this with my husband, however, I don’t think he fully understood the monster that was about to take over his wife’s body.  A common newlywed mistake.  Upon exiting the ski lift, I’m fairly certain we could see Mexico from that height. Terror took over my entire body, common sense completely left my brain, and everything I had ever learned about anything went fuzzy.  I knew with certainty that one of us was going to fall off this mountain, it was up to me to keep that from happening.  Panicked, I started shouting instructions, “Amy, you help the older kids!  Mason, watch out for your brothers!  Kyle, take care of the Littles!  Chad, do NOT leave my side!  No one fall off the mountain!”  I’ve been accused of sometimes being a little spicy, but there was zero sass in my instructions.  It was pure survival mode.

Back home, when the kids were in kindergarten, there is a rule for walking down the hallway in a line. The cuties are to keep their hands behind their back, holding their “leopard tail”. That’s what my friend Amy says we looked like skiing down the “green”, dodging the moguls and double blacks.  A kindergarten class getting off the ski lift with their psychotic teacher screaming, “Do not fall off the mountain!”  Every time Amy looked back to check on me with her saucer-sized, blue eyes, she was expressing genuine concern for my fear.  Only behind that, I could see the laughter that was building, waiting to happen once I was in a place to join her.

My husband is an extremely patient man, but somewhere on our slow descent, the well of patience went temporarily dry.  Poor fella, he kept wondering where his cool wife went and I was like, “Look dude, she’s gone, but Crazy-Eyed McPhearson is here to make sure no one plummets to the ground, got it?  Now, hold my leopard tail and SLOW DOWN.  Everyone put your skis in a pizza wedge!”

He claims it took us three hours to get the mountain, which is a total exaggeration.  It took us two and a half.  When we got to the point that the trees were blocking the view of Texas, my knees thawed and I skied normally.  My fear was gone because the view was different.  Sometimes we need to change our scenery to dilute our fear.

When we shift our surroundings a bit we can then realize that fear is such a liar.

Or as the Hubs would say, “Get out of your own way and POINT YOUR SKIES DOWNHILL!”

By the time we got to the bottom, our group had mostly separated, Hubs and I were mad at each other, Amy and I were crying with uncontrollable laughter, and we all suffered from PTSD. I faced the fear and skied through it.  Frozen.  Slow.  But still moving.

Our group that almost didn’t make it in 2015

 Our trips to the mountains have since been gloriously perfect, even with the sore muscles. The boys race each other down, with their Sherpa app on.  I ski behind them, aiming to keep them in sight.  I push past my fear of heights and speed simply because I want to be with them.  I want to have fun experiences with them.   Most of the time this means I must ski faster than I wish but, it is worth it.  These memories are some of my favorites.

One of the greatest inventions is the ski mask.  Not to just keep heat in, but to keep others from hearing the language coming out of my mouth as I “self talk” my way down the slope.  Without the ski mask on, my fellow skiers would suspect that I had Tourettes syndrome.  And they would be right.  Altitude touretts.  It’s a real thing for me.  Only oxygen at the base of the mountain will cure it.   As my friend Bambi says, “Sometimes cussing is effective”.  I have to agree.  I ski better when I can safely express my fear and frustrations in a self-environment.

Those little darlings of mine are always waiting for me at the bottom, a sight that always makes me smile beneath my ski mask. They never need to know what has been said underneath it, they only need to know their Momma will do whatever it takes to spend time with them.

Even through moments of panic, altitude tourettes, exhaustion, and sore muscles.

2016

2017

June 12, 2017 by