Once Upon a Time, I was a Runner ~ February 2025

 Once upon a time, I was a runner. Well, to be specific, I was fast. I could sprint and win. There's a difference between runners and sprinters, I know that now. But I was young in sports, and it was before there was such pressure on kids to find their passion and excel. 

My best friend, Holly, and I were cheerleaders for a while, then we decided we'd run instead. I remember running down her road, out in the country in February. In Ohio. It's cold in February in Ohio, but we were going to be serious athletes. So we ran in good and bad weather, the off fake-spring and in the blizzard like snow. We ran. 

I really hadn't put it together, but it's likely I could have gone far, metaphorically speaking, running my way through college. It surely wouldn't have been an academic scholarship, but I could have found a way to participate at school. Cecil, my near like sister, had run at both U of F and at WKU, where I later attended school. I had a role model and plenty of influence from both my cousin Greg and Curt. 

But a car accident slowed me down for a season. I was briefly unbuckled, putting on extra socks to go skating and we slid on ice. It was a painful accident, kept me hobbling for a while. I'm sure it worried my parents, but slowly my gait improved and I began to show that things would be normal again. I never officially ran again. I participated, but had moved to another school and high school athletics has rules in place. I wouldn't have time to officially compete to create reason for schools to look at me. 

Fast forward. What do you do with a life experience like this. What thoughts can I build around it that do not waste this life experience in regret. How can I picture this to grow and thrive from it.  For a while, it's been put away. Literally tucked away next to my summer camp first place blue ribbon. But today I pulled that out to. There's a reason to keep scraps of the past. There's a reason to look at it and look at the potential of confidence that could have been. What if.. What if I had gone all the way, and what if my life had been entirely different, driven by athletics and scholarships. What would I have studied, who would I be today. 

Like many young people, I did and would have struggled with 'my passion,' and therefore, perhaps my commitment would have sustained that same level of uncertainty. But today, I'm scooping up that unlocked potential. Metaphorically, I'm gathering up the shoelaces on my spikes and declaring there's more race to be run. 

Andrew Kern of Circe Institute and long time influence in the lives of many Classical Education Enthusiast, recently shared this thought on Substacks. 

I  don’t care what you are passionate about. I want to know what you are committed to. The passion will support your commitment, but only if it passes the test. Passions without commitment come and go like waves and winds. Passions transformed into commitments undergo and overcome like waves that transform rocks to sand. So I take it back: I care what you are passionate about, but only if you are so passionate about it that, when the energy of the passion subsides, the power of the commitment sustains it and, when the power of the commitment subsides, the energy of the passion renews it.

 Be Your Future Self Now by Dr. Benjamin Hardy offers brilliant direction and guidance on how to harness this combination. Capturing that energy, even of what ifs of actual experiences gone wrong, can be exponentially powerful. What if I had taken another path, and didn't default into a career that was just within reach, easy. That's a lot of what-ifs. But what I take away is that imagining what can or could have happened can empower the vision right in front of you-- in the NOW.

For now, I'm using the passion and fueling the days with habit and commitment, when the fire isn't burning as brightly. Set a course. Stick with it. Run the race. It's not sexy. It's just following a plan until it begins to fuel the future. It creates confidence-- the memory of success. It's possible. And today, I'm here for it. 

 

Science and The Pieta ~ July 2021

'Science is real,' say the signs on the roadside  these days. And the longer I live, the more I believe it is so. Sitting with a table of Ladies' Homesteaders in Athens the other night, my friend Debbie and I expressed our fear of teaching Chemistry to a Master Gardner before her guest presentation. After she had begun,  I realized how ridiculous we must have sounded, as she schooled us in  biomes, nitrogen, ph levels, microbes and nematodes. My Google button was worn out after that evening of true enlightenment. I 'm much more comfortable in the verbal nuances of a literature book or art appreciation. There are reasons I never completed some of the more applicable career possibilities of my degree- Interior Design, Pattern and Dressmaking - numbers on a ruler stump me. Yet they, like the composition of the soil I so regularly dig up and often ineffectively utilize, are the most beautiful and profound witness to the Master Gardner who designed it all from the very beginning. 

It is written - and I believe - that Christ was full participant of the Creation. 

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation.

For by Him all things were created that are in heaven and that are on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or powers. All things were created through Him and for Him.

And He is before all things, and in Him all things consist. 

Colossians 1:15-17

 A glimpse. We are given glimpses of the magnificence of the Creation. Our portion may be full of joy, exhilaration or it may be full of seemingly insurmountable trials, one right after the other. Most people experience seasons of both, layered with drought and deluge. But for some, the drought seems endless, filled with moments of disbelief.  How, and why, and please, Lord, no more. 

I was gifted this 'Pieta,' statuette. The original stands in St. Peter's Basillica, in Rome. Like others, I can't get past the profundity of loss in this glimpse of history. The original now stands behind bulletproof glass. So many historic and ancient artifacts and artistic endeavors represent the soul of man, the deepest longings and challenge the one who would destroy it. But unlike the temporal nature of the statue, the cosmic nature of the Moment this particular piece represents cannot be destroyed. But it is up to the individual to remember and embrace what is really going on. 

I've never 'born' a child from my body, but I am a mother. Of course I identify with Mary, who 'held these things in her heart.' Her holding all the hope and promise of the world in her arms, having no way to fully understand her small part in a larger plan, in THE Greater Plan. 

It is said, 'We plant trees, in whose shade we will never sit.'  Reflecting on Mary, and upon champions of faith through struggle,  I am  instructed how little I understand and must endeavor like they, to finish well. For even in this moment of loss, the Creator of the Universe  understood loss.  Shamed and despised. Misunderstood. Loved by a young mother, the simplest of participants in this cosmic moment of grief. 

Surely He has borne our griefs
And carried our sorrows;
Yet we esteemed Him stricken,
Smitten by God, and afflicted.

Isaiah 53:4

As this young mother grieved what she could not understand fully, I look at her along side those I watch struggle with loss and grief of losing a child. The daily magnitude of grief in cacophony with the design and  resilience of the uniquely female body and soul is testimony to the fall.   The demonstration of God's gift of his only begotten  Son is testimony to His understanding the need for the remedy.  I believe He gave us Mary to personify just this moment, whether in our own lives the child was lost at birth, later in life, or who still walks among the living. It is for us to see the grittiness of His birth, His humanity, His breaking away from His mother to fulfill His destiny. And for her part,  ladened with the physical and emotional weight that only a mother can feel. 

In this modern world of Science turned on its ear, I reverently and unashamedly embrace this moment in history. This divine moment where the intimate nature  and essence of woman is presented fully exposed. The fragile yet indomitable woman, in her most broken and vulnerable state, holding her Child, flesh of her flesh,  the Cosmic Christ, created yet Creator. For this image, I am thankful. I am thankful to the One who has carried our griefs and holds all the hopes of tomorrow and the unseen fruition of the broken mother's heart. 

Who Taught You to Be a Boy-Mom? April 2021

When life was passing out kids, I never saw boys in my future. I never had any idea what that future would look like beyond baby -hood. Naive. Oh, I'd  read every book, I'd even taught boys, exclusively, at all boys schools. But somehow I made it out of those experiences with NO CLUE.  The intensity and apathy, the fierce nature and the emotional capacity of a boy. The maleness of the persons in my house. 

My Dad was exceptional in many ways, but most will remember that his vast (seriously vast) wisdom came from the miles he' d spent reading. Reading every book, all the books, and then some more books. He had a favorite home-town sports team, yet the major sporting events on television were usually eclipsed by the PBS adaptation of a popular classic book. Quiet. Calm, even in adversity, stillness and patience are my memories of Dad's parenting style. 

Enter Drake. Drake's objective was to break my mom's will by 10:00 in the morning. He dressed like Daniel Boone expecting even his teachers to call him 'Daniel' in the classroom. I was every character who enhanced Daniel's profile when we played in our backyard on Buckeye Road. It was my playhouse Dad had built that was sabotaged with B'Lou's fireworks and then rescued by Daniel. 

We watched him jump like Evil Kinevel in the  '70's and watched him stomp through the grass  down to the creek passing cotton mouth snakes to play 'lookout' or just dig in the bank.  While I set up house in the abandoned chicken coop, Drake was creating adventures fortified with every conceivable challenge available in our wildish places. 

Sara Owen's Bridal Luncheon, Memphis, TN 2021
Daughters on Back row, 'Steele Magnolia's' on Front -Just missing Gwen

Last week, I sat at a table of celebration  with other 'boymoms' - those who face the brave frontier of parenting in the post-modern world. The measures of safety and fearful things out there are only complicated by our unique children. I mention these ladies because they all knew Drake and I when we were young, when we were those wild kids, when they were those wild kids. We are all facing the new world, this challenging often times, soul-less time in parenting. There was alot of  'sharing' that usually happens in later hours of the night, but we knew our time was short. We told of successes, we told of sorrows, we told of things we never dreamed we'd be offering our kids as bribes, and that we'd actually tried to bribe them to do and be what we wanted or hoped. Some were holding back. The story is still too hard to tell- yet. 

But, we gazed sideways and looked at our mother's, - the YaYa's, the 'Deaconess's,' -the 'Steele Magnolia's' of our lives, and savored a moment that may never come again. We were reminded of the mothers who taught us to dig in, hunker down, and be the best parent you could be through un-numbered and often unimaginable circumstances. It was my mom who sewed the stripes on Evil's pants when he made those death defying jumps, and it was my mom who sewed a real squirrels tail on the back of Daniel's coon skin hat. It was my mom who prayed as he ventured away towards the cotton mouth covered creek and didn't beg him to stay close to home. 

Leaving Sacramento  Photo taken in Neal and Nancy Sullivan's home

Drake was not a 'prodigal,' but the lessons found in that story from Scripture are, at times, a part of any parents arsenal.  Once not too long ago, I googled,  how to love a prodigal son. The first thing to come up was from 'Focus on the Family,' a Biblically based organization, that I would consider for sound, solid advice. The first answer -- 'let him go.' 

'let him go'

There comes a point in parenting where the roots must do the work of tethering to the early guidance given. The guidance we may give after that point will only be a roaring in their ears, repelling them away. 

So what can I do? What should I do? One foundational thing is shoring up my own life, and catching up on my personal growth and maintenance that's fallen by the wayside. 

Secondly, be available when the kids show back up- be available to talk, be confident in who I am, WHOSE I am. There's a part of both the  prodigal and the older brother in all children, in every person. That 'letting them go' doesn't mean they don't come back, or that they don't watch the other leave.  Strength in the Eternal Power that sustains our faith when they are little, will feed the next season of parenting, and in an altogether stronger way. For we'll be looking back to the roots and wings that sustained us too. I'm so thankful when I look back, I see the  Steel Magnolia's - 'The Sisters.' Between them, they've raised Real Estate Leaders, Corporate Leaders, Photographers, Airplane Pilots, Obstetricians, Teachers,  Research Scientists, Architects, Dentists, Chefs,  Bronze Star Recipients, Track Coaches, Historians, Entrepreneurs, Mothers and Fathers, both- parents of every type of child, with every type of struggle or interest.  Their collective history is beautifully intertwined  elements of sorrow and success, but they've always, always been there for each other, and on their own, persevered in ways beyond comprehension. Like the other daughters, I've been watching and remembering, my mother didn't bow to every changing wind, but moved to meet the challenges of family, confidence in the Lord, and relying on her friends and community to be strong enough for that day's challenges. 

Thirdly-- Today is Dad's birthday. While we would celebrate him, he would turn the camera lens to Mom, and say how proud he is of her. Drake and I both knew and continue to know how Dad prioritized his relationship with Mom, and she visa-versa. While their affection for each other was never up for question, they are not super human. They had their share of lack of agreement over many, many things. But their marriage to each other was first in the family. I remember the vows he would request of many a bride and groom during the wedding ceremony he might conduct. There was always a point made that there would come a day when the deceiver would present a stumbling block. But I remember most the idea of laying down one's life, daily, not in a grand gesture, but with each thought for the other. 

 1966, Mom and Drake  in Sierra Nevada's - Dad's taking the Photo

Drake and Mom, Memphis January 2021

It would seem that the best things in life, do not happen over night. There is no magic wand for the 'boy-mom,' or for any childhood. The good, the best things are a slow progression of attention to details, acted out over a lifetime. Occasionally, we see a glimpse into the outcome, celebrating a moment in our collective history,  a triumph. I celebrate the beauty of these friendships, and their gumption. I hope for another birthday lunch for these fun souls, and strength anew each day, while we live out this mortal thing called life. Celebrate, redeem the time, live. Repeat.  

I'll take it. 

Teacher Man ~ Hillbilly Elegy ~ Bookshelf No. 10 ~ January 2021

It has been a particularly cold start to 2021. Yesterday, Debbie reminded me about the heroine of  The Nightingale and her perseverance against the elements in a particular harrowing part of the story. She asked if it were based upon a true story. I believe it is a compilation but very plausable. While staying in from the cold myself, I watched  again the movie, which is based upon the book of the same title, 'Angela's Ashes.' It is not an easy story. It is not a feel-good movie, even though the main character and author survives his childhood and upbringing, There is no way to paint the picture beautiful. But he tells it anyway and goes on to write two more books - Tis' and Teacher Man. I keep a copy of the latter on my shelf, although I've only listened to it. The author narrates it, and I wouldn't doubt if he also narrates in the movie 'Angela's Ashes.' His Irish accent with its lilt of resignation at the end of every sentence completes the story in an exceptionally profound way. I did not know about the books beyond Angela's Ashes, until Mom and Dad left their audio copy with me, with the disclaimer to 'not listen with the boys in the car.' My parents have notoriously listened to recorded books in the car on all of their outings. They would, and mom still does, take an extra lap on the way home from church just to finish a chapter. They also told me to skip a few chapters where Frank finds love in America. They are not one's to offer something without the full warning. 

Stories can remind us and can give us the metaphor we need to cope. Resilience in McCord’s books is an understatement- the narrator in the movie shares this about Frank McCourt's early life: "When I look back on my childhood, I wonder how m y brothers and I managed to survive at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood. The happy childhood is hardly worth telling. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood. And worse still is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.' 

When I read and watch stories such as Frank McCourt's, I think of his mother Angela, standing out of necessity in the greviously humiliating line for charity at the Society of Saint Vincent de Paul. Bitterness grew in her and escape from the culture was almost impossible, especially for a married woman. But this same situation caused his mother to take him to the school his teachers suggested he go, as he showed ‘real promise.’ Stories may share the tragic circumstances of  a phoenix like heroine, but they may also ask us to consider the greater impact of a determined soul.

 I am almost finished reading Hillbilly Elegy. Yesterday, a passage seemed pertinent in my accidental comparison of these two men. After surviving his own most challenging childhood, J.D. Vance describes Usha, a classmate while at Yale, for whom he 'fell hard.' He writes, 'I had never met anyone like her. ... Usha occupied an entirely different emotional universe. ... She instinctively understood the questions  I didn't even know to ask. .... I didn't know how the world worked. ... Usha's presence made me feel at home.' For all their perceived differences, it seems to me that what he found was someone trustworthy who saw things differently than he did. Vance’s life had been rescued in many ways before he met Usha, but that relationship would never have been possible if he hadn’t had others who gave him the gumption to ask questions and not settle for what life had dealt him.  McCord calls this necessary element ‘doggedness.’ From Teacher Man,  “Doggedness,’ he says, is “not as glamorous as ambition or talent or intellect or charm, but still the one thing that got me through the days and nights.”

I see many connections between these two stories. Both had a desire to tell their stories and were careful to share the affection they had for even those who had caused the most harm in their lives. I see specifically two strong women, one strong grandfather, who stood in the gap where others had failed, and in places where they themselves had failed. Gap-standing is a thankless job. I believe the authors didn’t want this to happen to the people who had made their lives possible. For me and every other reader, the story doesn’t stop blessing  within those who meet them personally. Because J.D. and Frank wrote their stories, I can know it is possible to move past literal and figurative ashes into worlds that only the imagination can sustain. When the darkest days in a surreal January can challenge a soul, it is good to know even the broken story can be redeemed. 

Winter 2021

This December 2020 and January 2021, I have been writing about books on my Bookshelf. Someday someone will be cleaning out my shelves, or at some point one might wonder why a books was worth the investment of time to read. So, I'll keep writing and sharing my Bookshelf. These are not book reviews, but more thoughts that have occurred to me when reading and reflecting during this period of time. If ever these are published, I'll go back and document specific quotes and footnotes, but that is for another day. For now I'm just sharing as though we're having coffee and I can't wait to talk about a good book. Links are often found on Amazon. I am not presently an active affiliate, but if this is so, I would receive a very small percentage of the sale for sending you their way. I like most of all to send you to Goldberry Books, an online  bookseller with a special brick and mortar bookshop in North Carolina. Not an affiliate, just a fan. They have the list for the Close Reads Podcast, among many other wonderful suggestions for reading. 

Glimpses ~ June 2020

The color of the flowers at my wedding were a disappointment. In that many thought the event was miraculous in itself, this seems a trivial detail. It was a lovely occasion over all. One that we determined was appropriately elaborate for two 30 year old types who might have never matched up in another lifetime. After 23 years though, when I see the color I desired for that day, I take notice. I remember how my Mom asked the florist if there was anything he could do. She's faithful that way, as Dad was too. But there was little to change the color of that flower. Although that florist tried, and when my bouquet was returned to me, unanimously everyone agreed how much better they looked, worried the bride was going to snap. 
But I didn't and we proceeded into our life together, with no idea what delights and disappointments lay ahead. 
Yesterday the perfect flower appeared at Publix. People refer to these type of sightings as 'unicorns,' as do I. I also think of them as 'glimpses' into perfection. Too many at one time and a circus will inevitably occur, tickets must be sold, lights too bright must be illuminated. But these by the wayside 'glimpses' are a gift. 
It would have been ridiculously ungracious of me years ago to have truly complained about the roses, especially in light of the effort to which everyone had gone to in order to make the day so special. I look back on how my parents graciously endured many disappointments- their own, or theirs shared- throughout their lives. If you talked to them, and still talk to Mom now, there is always, always something for which to be thankful. Glimpses, I believe, are what kept them going. Glimpses of Eden and glimpses of Heaven. 
I find myself in the in-between, maybe even the shadowlands. Sorrow will cloud our ability to see the glimpses, especially if we only feed the sorrow. Again, I think about my parents. I am thankful for their persistent effort to press forward into everyday with a renewed spirit, to try to fix the little things, while handling the bigger things in life with patience and perseverance, sorrow or celebration. 
There are so many things I cannot fix right now-- in my home, in my community, in the world. But because tragedy seems to be everywhere does not mean all that was once good - wasn't good. Because unrest seems everywhere, doesn't mean we don't still need rest. We need 'glimpses', moments where the proverbial, yes, spiritual light shines bright. And in that light we may see a 'broken reed' upon which we've been leaning too long, and see behind the bush a ram the Lord intended the entire time, the 'glimpse', the provision, the gift. 

Forget-me-nots and Polka-dots ~ December 2019

Watching Miss Universe last night was noteworthy in many ways.  The pagentry of all of the costumes representing their countries and their unique cultures was amazing. Miss Ukraine (Eric's family heritage) was stunning, as was the winner, Miss South Africa. So beautiful, truly breathtaking were each of the women who had made it to the world stage to represent their country. What was even more amazing were the accomplishments of each of these women. Some were lawyers, some were spokespersons for profoundly important charitable organizations. In a moment though, they were quick to remind the watcher they were once thought to be unqualified by their ethnicity and dark skin. Dismissed. 

Miss South Africa mentioned specifically just this, while her grace and glamour inspired watching youth of color around the world. She inspired me, this white middled aged mom of Quaker, English decent. 
I knew my sister-in-law Catherene, would be watching. I found myself rooting for Miss Phillippines, knowing 'Cat' would be cheering too. On Thanksgiving, we all went to Jeff and Cat's house and savored her homemade Lo-mein and Spring Rolls, filled with pork and chicken. We had all the customary 'traditional' foods too, but the first to go is always the spring rolls. They were especially tasty as her mother, Conchita, visiting from the Phillipines, prepared them.  Every year brings change, including my nephew  Angelo, reminding me how important it is not to get stuck in the past, but to move forward, with bravery-- if required. We must accept change, and seek beauty where ever it shows up. We must train our eyes to see beauty and opportunity and life!  Our minds will look for safety and familiarity, *even if that familiarity is ladened with grief*, but think of what we'll miss, if we stick to our ruts and never venture out. If there is anything Cat has taught me, it is this-- to venture out. I can't imagine what we all would have missed if she hadn't. 

Jeff and Cat were married very soon after Dad passed from this life.  It would seem, that year, I was starting all over, hanging on more tightly to familiar things, thoughts, moments. Fearful.  Grief does that. I clung to broken ways, fearful methods. Time heals though. I now hear him  (Dad's voice in my mind) cheering every new goal met, every challenge embraced, and most importantly(haha), I hear him asking if there is any left-over Lo-mein. (The man loved tasty foods.) The laughter may rattle the sorrow out of its rut, but its so easy to teeter back into the cavern. 

In June of 2019, I listened to this TED Talk, as about 51 million others did.  

"We don't move on, we move forward."

For a special family occasion, I wrapped presents in polka dot paper, and Cat was so pleased, for in the Phillipines, polka-dots represent joy and happiness. I am reminded again how choosing to see joy in little places is really *our choice.* Attitude is everything, Being gracious to ourselves in our moments of challenge and weakness is vital, but being our own coach to train our thoughts to see beauty is essential. Holding our 'forget-me-nots' while moving forward is the key. 
*I add this today, in honor of Cat's father who just passed this week. There is a time to mourn. Mourning is a part of life. I pray that you feel God's comfort and heal with good memories. 

Crossroads and the Sweltering Heat - May 2019 into June 2019

Crossroads are not always unwelcome. And mine are not right now, but letting go of one thing to take hold of  another can be fretful. In some ways, our recent sweltering and oven-like heat has been metaphoric to me, reminding me, that I once enjoyed the overwhelming heat of summer. Now I'm just not able to tolerate it. Just unable to withstand the sun and how it drains you, leaves you worthless.
Admitting too much sun is disabling is in some ways- it's like letting go of childhood, the simple things that once characterized a carefree sense of summer. I don't think my mother was exempt from this feeling all the time either, but I believe even she would say, our lives were far more carefree, especially in summer.

Me hiding in the shade and avoiding the dinner hour. 

May went by with great haste and now we are midway through June. Seventy- five years ago, soldiers were several days into the Invasion of D-Day, and France was on it's way to liberation.
Recently reading, The Nightingale, by Kristin Hannah, it is fresh on my mind. My friend Elizabeth, who finished at the same marathon pace I did, shared how trivial her trials felt by comparison. The story is so real, and so layered. When you believe it can’t get worse, it does. Yet their perseverance is what drives you on, to finish the book without blinking. I found the aspect of the sister’s relationship interesting. The Close Readers are discussing Sense and Sensibility, and 'sister- teams' (#TeamMarianne or #TeamElinor) are dividing up. But after a good laugh, most admit relating to both sisters, and reflecting also on the sisters in Pride and Prejudice, it comes to the forefront that they are not enemies, but complimentary and an expression of their family's dynamic. Because as the reader, we are sometimes informed to subtle nuances unknown to the characters, we can contrive and create and even understand, what they may not see.  In our own lives, we can learn the same- perhaps with our own siblings, our own companions; we would do well to appreciate our complimentary characteristics and less of our differences, knowing there are so many things we just can't see or understand, including the other's perspective. In the ‘Nightingale’the family all are impacted by sudden intense dramatic moments, as well as incremental tragedy. The story beautifully weaves the family in and out of each other’s lives, and at the same time shares a greater story of hopeful redemption, not unlike that demonstrated by our Lord. As my friend Elizabeth said, don’t finish this book in a public place. Be prepared to mourn, but also be prepared to face anew the challenge you find in your own life. The story will linger in your memory and you will, I believe, be compelled to embrace challenge as it comes your way.

Childhood, C.S. Lewis and Books

"There were books in the study, books in the drawing room, books in the cloakroom, books (two deep) in the great bookcase on the landing, books in a bedroom, books piled as high a my shoulder in the cistern attic, books of all kinds reflecting every transient stage of my parents' interest, book readable and unreadable, books suitable for a child and books most emphatically not.

 Nothing was forbidden to me."

C.S. Lewis,

 Surprised by Joy, The Shape of My Early Life.

Recently my brother's position at Palmer Homes for Children led him to meet up with Ben Carson, presidential candidate and well known physician in pediatric surgery. 

Ben's mother has for many years been a she-ro of mine. She decided to turn off the t.v. 

I almost don't need to complete the story, because it has become so well known, but that's where the story for my kids seem to stop-- in pain. They know when mommy thinks about Ben Carson, t.v. goes off and the books come out. But truthfully, I don't think they care. Recently, my youngest, Henry 'Rabbit' as he's known at tennis class, has been reading aloud to me. He brought home the class read-aloud, The Tale of Despereaux, and read 2 chapters each night for several nights in a row. This may seem odd at bed-time, aren't I, the parent supposed to be doing the reading? Well, if he doesn't read, he falls asleep. He's exausted by the end of the day. He's a contender for the energizer bunny. 

But, like Isak Dinesen, I wonder, will he have a song of me? What will that song sound like? Sharp shrieks and snaps, or snuggles and love, and consistency. Will he remember me as the jailkeeper or the one he could count on? Even after last night where he thought he'd been left at church.... oh my, what comes around goes around,
 but for me the karma just needs to change(ironically, I was left many, many times at church, weddings...now I do it to my kids?) 

I really believe he knows ho much I care, about him, and that there is 
some reason we 'go to so much trouble' to manage and guide him. 

From the breakfast of lucky charms at school, or the overdose of t.v. in the afternoon, we try to curb, guide, teach, promote, whatever you want to call it- censure? Whatever... 

I was blessed with him, in God's providence and wisdom,

 to be his guide,

 his life's mother. 

I. am. the momma. 

So when I read, 'Nothing was forbidden to me,' I see a child in a well chosen library of an adult, but not selected for a child. Not one that has censored out all the books that have a love scene, or knights battling to the death, but one that has been purchased, collected, received from a variety of means. I look around mine and see the years of sifting through, sorting and de-accessing, filtered by my own choices, not for my children's delight.  I look back and realize my parents books were chosen from their spiritual bend, not to influence me, but because of who they were and what they would naturally choose. MY books as well as my life, may be a reflection of me later, and will most certainly, for better or for worse influence my children. But it will be his choice, just as it is mine, and just as it was C.S. Lewis' choice to decide which we might re-read again, take ownership of, and become the person we are meant to be. 

(Reading Rock-a-bye Farm for the millioneth time. Henry 3, Jack 6.Baton Rouge, LA 2009)