Happy New Year From Heaven!

Happy New Year from Heaven! I wanted to take a minute to stop by and say Hi! Things are great here – and how couldn’t they be?! You just can’t imagine how beautiful a place it is. I remember before taking my trip into eternity, I used to think about what Heaven would be like. And although I figured it was pretty amazing, I really had no idea! The awesome wonder of this place is more than I can put words too. I can’t wait for you to see for yourself the glorious splendor. That reminds me … If you don’t know the Way to get here, please get someone to introduce you to Jesus! Jesus said “I am the Way”! You can’t get here without Him. If you seek Him you will find Him. Read John 14 in your Bible. It’s almost like a map. Jesus is the Way. It’s true! I’ve seen Him for myself. And I can’t wait to see your faces when you see His face in person!

Speaking of Jesus, Heaven pales, simply pales in comparison to the shining Glory of my precious Lord, Jesus Christ! I know that you were sad when I left the earth but the day I met my sweet Jesus face to face can only be described as uncontainable elation. A euphoric joy unobtainable in our earthly state! I ran to Him as he called me into His presence and I threw myself face down on His feet. He was glowing and so beautiful, I felt too unworthy to even look at him. I hid my face. But He lifted me up into his robe-draped arms, turned my face to His and whispered, “Well done, thy good and faithful servant.” The angels shouted Hosannas in the highest! There was music and dancing and unending worship and praise. My cancer-ravaged body was gone and I was refreshed and renewed, dressed in fine linens and welcomed by bands of angels everywhere! What a glorious day it was! I hated to leave you all behind – but I promise when you get here you’ll understand! I sent you a rainbow to let you know I arrived ok. Did you see it?

One of the angels took me by the hand and led me into a room filled with treasures beyond your mind’s comprehension. In the middle of the room there was a table draped in purple silk and covered in crowns. They dazzled in the light of the Precious Lamb, finely crafted in casts of platinum, gold and covered in diamonds, rubies, emeralds and every kind of precious stone. They were more than priceless, I’m sure! I’m not bragging but they were all for me! I remembered hearing something about these crowns – sort of rewards for doing Jesus’ work on Earth. It was a nice gesture, it really was! But even those crowns and their astounding richness were mere trinkets compared to the Glory of the Most High God! I took those crowns and threw them at Jesus’ feet! I haven’t had that much fun in years! He laughed and He was pleased with me while I danced and shouted praises to His Name. The crowns crashed onto the floor, broke into pieces, sending shards of diamonds, precious stones and sparkling slivers of gold bouncing all around his Holy Feet. It was a priceless dust trail, dragged all the way to the throne by the hem of His robe. I’d never imagined such a sight, such a precious sight!

When I turned to leave His presence I was suddenly staring into the face of my beloved son Devan! How I had longed to hold my baby again! I fell into his embrace, kissed his face all over and held onto him for what felt like forever. My baby – so healthy and well in his restored body! And of course as handsome as he ever was. He was so very happy to see me too. He said they’d all been expecting me and had set a place at the table. They had fixed a heavenly meal for my arrival! I couldn’t wait to see everyone! Johnny walked up and took me by my hands. “It’s about time you got here!” He said! “Did you get lost on the way?!” You know Johnny, always the kidder! It was so great to be in the arms of my family again! We walked down the streets of gold together, holding hands and catching up with each other. They walked me home. Everyone was there! I was with my mom and dad, grandparents, sisters, friends and so much family!! All of these beautiful people that I had grieved so hard over were here and had come together just to welcome me! What a celebration!! Just so you know … I’ll be here for you when you make your own journey. It’s just how we do things here!

I know that my leaving has been very hard on some of you. Believe me, I miss you too. I’m not sad at all because we don’t hurt up here but I’m very much looking forward to seeing you as soon as you can get here! To my sweet grandchildren and great-grandchildren, please know that even though I’m not there in the physical world, I’m very much there in your hearts! I know when you talk to me and I’m watching you grow into the fine young men and women that you all have become! I’m still very much a doting grandmother and not a day goes by that I don’t nudge someone, point down to the earth where you are and say, “That’s my grandkid!” Laicee and Carl – what amazing parents you both are and raising precious, precious babies! Now if Heidi and Jason will just bring a few kids into the world it would make my heart proud! Your father says the same thing! He also thinks that one of you should name a baby “Great Dev-eny”? He sends his love, by the way and wants you to know that he’s fine and will see you when you get here.

Sweet Matthew, Nana loves you very much – please don’t cry for me anymore. I saw you when you were baptized. I want you to know that the angels sang when you came up from the water! Don’t you worry yourself about this anymore. Jesus knows your heart and he’s written your name in the Book of Life. Please believe that I’ll see you again – just not one minute before it’s time. Be a good boy for your mom and help her. I know how she’s struggled.

My darling daughter Jonna … I love you Toot. And I’m sorry that I had to leave you when I did. My body couldn’t take another breath. If you saw where I was you wouldn’t cry another teardrop for me. I’m in beautiful Heaven with all the family! You always cared about my happiness – and I’m so happy now. I love you so much! I’ve seen the way you’ve grieved for me, longed for me and cried yourself to sleep some nights. I promise you will see me again – you can believe it because you know the Way. So dry your eyes my precious baby girl and start living a good and purpose-filled life again! Serve others with a joyful heart and make sure that everything you do you do it for the Glory of the Lord. Now that I’m here I have seen the plans that He has for you. It’s more than you could ever dream of! There’s a reason you’re the last one. I can’t tell you now but it’ll all make sense one day, I promise. Raise your son to love God, be a good servant for Jesus and a light in the World. He’s going to be something grand someday – and he needs YOU there to guide him along the way. Just put every ounce of your faith and trust in Jesus and everything will be fine. I’m not there to help you anymore – but Jesus is. Don’t worry. And please, stop crying for me. Back in the Hospice House I heard you tell me it was ok for me to go. And now I’m telling you that it’s ok to stay! We’ll set a place for you at the table when it’s your time but until then enjoy your life on earth and make sure you tell people about Jesus!

It’s time for me to go now. Everyone sends their love. Have a safe and happy new year my Facebook friends and family! Treat people with kindness and mercy. Forgive people because you’ve been forgiven and love each other as yourself. You don’t have much time there on earth so make the best of it. And no matter what – always remember that Jesus loves you! Make sure you tell any lost soul that He loves them too!
Until we meet again,
Becky

PS – Toot, your daddy sends his love and says to look for the flowers we’ll be sending to you in the spring. He also wanted me to tell you that you and he were right! Elvis Presley did make it up here!

Grief Sucks

I was wrenched awake at 4 this morning by an incredibly vivid dream. I found myself in London, England about to fly back to the States. But right before I boarded the plane I realized that I would have to leave my car there. I couldn't figure out a way to get it home without someone to help me. I didn't have a plan but to just leave it there. I was running from place to place trying to ask strangers what I should do but no one responded. It was like they didn't care, or even hear me as I franticly searched for anyone to help me come up with a solution. I finally ran out of time and had to head for the plane. When I got back inside the airport suddenly my mom was there and I was so relieved. She didn't say anything at all but because she was there I knew that everything was going to be ok. I was happy and peaceful, I wasn't in a frenzy anymore and I felt calm. I climbed the stairs to my plane and made my way down the aisle. I thought mom was behind me but when I sat down in my seat she wasn't there. From the window I saw her leaving the airport. I ran for her, calling her, "Mom! Mom!" I shouted. "Mom?" It went dark and I couldn't see her anymore. She was gone and I was overcome with grief. And I woke up in tears and trying to catch my breath.

My dreams have become some cruel figments of my imagination lately. So real they seem, as they taunt me with vivid images of my mom or my family. I've heard my mother calling my name so clearly that I've jumped completely out of the bed, stood upright on the floor and actually searched for her down the hallway before I realized what I heard wasn't even real. Sometimes waking up is so disappointing, shoved back into a world that my mom is no longer in. Sometimes I just want to sleep, go back to dreamland where I can visit her, see her, hear her voice. The grief counselor says this is 'normal'.

So it was 4 in the morning and I was awake. I ached all over and just rolling over onto my other side was painful. Despite taking Advil and Excedrin Migrane medicine before bed my back was in knots. I had fallen asleep watching the Olympics with a cold washcloth on my forehead. Seems like I've been nursing a 'sick headache' since sometime last week. Just a dull, aching headache that won't go away. It makes my eyes see 'sparkles' and sometimes it makes my stomach roll so much I think I might throw up. I put my cold, damp washcloth back on my head, stiffly rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. I was miserable - but no more miserable than any other night.

I woke up a few hours later feeling like I had been in an accident. Sitting up in the bed sent a shock of pain down my spine, my neck was stiff and my head was throbbing again. Oh yes, another fresh day to face. Another 24 hours to get through. I was grateful to wake up but really not down for another day filled with all this grief, worry, sickness and pain. I made my way out of bed and tripped over a laundry basket that's been sitting right there for weeks. I knew it was there, I just didn't pick my foot up enough to get around it. I nearly fell down with that stupid move. The day was getting worse by the minute.

I don't look in the mirror much anymore but made the mistake this morning. I looked exhausted. There were bags under my eyes, the lines on my forehead have deepened, my cheeks were puffy and bloated and I was pale. I looked like absolute hell this morning. I've aged, my mouth is downturned and my eyes aren't sporting the 'laugh-lines' that I used to be proud of. No, the mirror is not my friend - in fact I hate it. I don't recognize that girl. Oh grief. You've robbed me of my laugh lines.

Next up was the daily gastro-intestinal problems. Despite the doctor presribing medication for these stress-induced GI problems that have plagued me over the last few months, my stomach stays torn up and the acid burns my throat. Breakfast was Tums and coffee that didn't satisfy. I figured if I couldn't find a little happiness in coffee then this day wasn't looking any better than any other day I've had lately. I climbed in the shower and prayed. I do a lot of praying in the shower, it's quite and comfortable in there. I used to sing 'church songs' and really get my worship going first thing in the morning and I loved it. But now I pray things like "help me get through the day", "thank you for the air I breathe", "please mend my broken heart" and "tell my family I said hi."

By the time I got Matthew up and off to his camp I was already exhausted. I had to get myself together enough to get to work and get my job done. By no means is my job at all physical. The most physical thing I do is stand on my feet. Today I noticed after about an hour of standing I hurt like I'd been beat up. My back ached, my ribs hurt, I felt like I had a knot the size of a softball between my shoulder blades and my head was aching again. Even my ankle was hurting where I had tripped over the laundry basket earlier. More Advil, more coffee, whatever it takes to make it to the end of the work day and back home again. Once I got home I got Matthew fed and cleaned up, I hit the couch and that was the end of it for me today. Except for writing this blog. I should probably get up and do some laundry or wash a few dishes but even the thought is overwhelming.

According to the 'grief experts', these physical problems that I've been having lately are all part of 'stage-two' of the grieving process and all perfectly normal. Changes in sleep patterns, exhaustion, GI problems, aches and pains and headaches are just par for the course. And so are things like loss of interest in things that used to be enjoyable, isolation, avoiding people and those sorts of things. If you 'google' grief symptoms - it turns out that I have a text-book case of it. My head swirls, my thoughts race and I'm bombarded with memories. Everything I see, do, smell, think of makes me think of mom, miss her, miss my family. I even grieve for my home, my old bedroom, mama's kitchen, daddy's little building. It's all gone. Somedays I just sit at dad's piano - now in my living room - and run my fingers over the keys or pull out the drawer of mom's hutch so it'll make that familiar squeak. The rest of my family home is crammed into a 10x15 storage building and my worry over what to do with it all or how to pay for the storage fee nearly induces an anxiety attack. I can't keep it all - but I can't bear the thoughts of parting with it. I don't know what to do or how to be. And I cry. A lot.

I see little old ladies and it upsets me that my mother didn't get to be one. I see children with their grandparents and I'm so disappointed that Matthew won't get to grow up with my parents. I'm envious of people spending 'family time' together and enjoying the company of loved ones. I miss having any family or someone who loves me like a mom loves her daughter. Everything feels monumental, I can't concentrate, I'm not functioning at 100% and sometimes I feel like I'm choking. I've forgotten to do things like pay the rent, I've missed turns on my usual routes, I lose track of time or forget what day it is. I'm desperately lonely and so incredibly sad. I'm worried that eventually the people around me will not want to be around me anymore because I always talk about it or I can't "snap out of it". I worry that my Christian brothers and sisters will doubt my faith because I've been unable to "cast my worries on Him". I feel guilty, mad and frustrated. Sometimes I think I'm losing it completely. And all perfectly normal according to the grief counselor. When I say things like "I can't wait to get back to normal", this is not what I meant.

I'm so thankful for my salvation, God's love for me and His promise to never leave me or forsake me. I believe that not because I see it but because I have felt it. It has coursed through my veins and it's the foundation of my whole life, my purpose and how I try to raise my son. I know that God has a plan for me and none of this has taken Him by surprise. I'm being refined in this season of grief and I'm certain I'll come out on the other side of this process as a stronger person and hopefully a testament to just how good God really is. In no way do I ever want to minimize the importance of God in my life. (I don't even want to say the word "but" here)... But. I'm grieving. As much as I believe that He's "got this" and I need to trust that, turn my eyes upon Jesus and carry on, I am physically struggling to put one foot in front of the other. I'm glad in that I don't "grieve like those who have no hope", according to the Apostle Paul in the Book of 1 Thessalonians. If I didn't at least have that, I don't think I would have made it out of bed this morning. I know I'll see my mom again - my whole sweet family who are all there together. And until then I'll be here... waking up on this side of the grass and trying to adjust to my new "normal".

I'm compelled to apologize to the people in my life. I'm sorry if I've dropped the ball or lost interest in stuff. I apologize for looking like hell, spending the last 3 months on my couch, avoiding everything, slumping my shoulders when I walk or crying at lunch. Bear with me as I muddle through this 'process' - according to the experts I have one more stage to go.

Broken Seashells

You might not know this - but Matthew and I go places for fun. It's just what we do. I started taking him on these little road trips since before he could walk. I believe I've taken a million pictures! Maybe more. We've been everywhere from the mountains to the sea, collecting little things and making memories. And filling up photo albums. Lots and lots of photo albums.

The first time we took Matthew to the beach he had just turned 3. He was so excited to play in the sand. Dressed in a red bathing suit, sweet little sandals and a plastic back pack filled with sand toys. He paused at the bottom step, unsure of the sand and if he should step on it. He finally jumped down - both feet firmly in the hot, soft sand and carefully tip-toed his way down to the water. It was cute - and of course I was there to take the picture...

As long as I've been taking pictures of Matthew on the beach, I've had in mind an arts-and-crafts project. I've wanted to collect seashells, glue them onto some kind of picture frame and then frame the best 'beach-picture' of Matthew I could take. Maybe I would then give the whole thing to mom or someone as a gift. Maybe if I ever did a beach-themed room in my house it would be the perfect, personalized decor. I got the idea from a very crafty ex-sister-in-law of mine who framed my niece's baby picture in this pink satin with pearly-looking beads and pink flowers she glued all around the edges. So that was my plan. And I wanted it to be perfect! (That ex-sister-in-law wasn't the only crafty one in the family!)

A day or two into our first beach trip, we grabbed Matthew's little sand pail and set off down the shore line in search of the perfect seashell. In my mind they had to be just the right size, smallish and thin, in order to properly stick to the picture frame. I wanted them to be that iconic shaped, scallop shell and preferrably sand-colored with the right grooves and edges. I didn't want any cracked shells, no chips and none with that little hole in the back of it. It was going to be a beautiful frame! I figured I'd break out my glue gun as soon as we got home. We just had to find the perfect shells.

We walked along combing the beach for the different seashells. I inspected each one I picked up for color, size, damage, perfection. Only the best of the best would go into the bucket. Matthew, on the other hand, would pick up dirty, broken shells, shells with holes in them or covered in barnacles. And his favorite ones seemed to be the ugly step-sisters of the shell world, the oyster shells. "Matthew, that one is an oyster shell, honey. Let's find some like these", I said as I showed him the sweet little shells that I had collected.

But he liked the oyster shells and the holey shells, chipped and broken and ugly shells. He continued to put them in the bucket while I secretly removed them. When he caught me tossing out his shells he got mad. Ultimately we came home from our first beach trip with a sack full of mixed shells. Ugly oyster shells and perfect, sweet scallop shells. Not enough of either kind to make a respectable beach-themed frame. My arts-and-crafts project would have to wait for another time...

From that time till the very last beach trip we took it's been the same thing. I set out to find the perfect seashells and Matthew invades my bucket with busted up, ugly shells. My project is still undone. I could have done the whole thing on my own but really I've always wanted him to help. I wanted him to search for the perfect shells with me and he and I could glue the shells to the frame together. Each year as he grew older I hoped that he was finally able to understand the importance of finding the flawless shells, so my - our - picture frame would be beautiful. Nope. Nothing but barnicle encrusted, broke down oyster shells.

A few weekends ago Matthew and I took a little trip down to Atlantic Beach. I had been there before and remembered the amounts of shells on the shoreline. The sand was covered with thousands of them, all different kinds of shells, sand dollars and sea rocks. You didn't have to look long before finding the perfect, little scallop shells in just the right size, shape and color. Maybe this time Matthew and I would collect a bucket-full of the little shells to finally finish the project.

So early that morning we picked up the sand bucket and headed down the beach on a seashell hunt. And then, just like I hoped he wouldn't, Matthew bent down and grabbed up the first broken shell he came to. "I knew you would pick that one, Matthew", I said smiling. "Why do you always pick up the broken shells?"

"They're still shells, even though some of them are broken. And I think this one is pretty", he answered, putting the damaged find into the bucket. He walked along, picking up one imperfect shell after another. He never overly-inspected a single one, he didn't scrutinize the seafood housing for a sratch or dent, didn't judge its color or size or shape. He just picked them up, liked them and kept them. And then I realized that what he was doing was one of the things I love most about him. He sees the best in people, why wouldn't he see the best in the shells as well? He doesn't judge, he doesn't discriminate, he doesn't pick and choose. He has a heart for the picked-on kids with no friends, homeless people and folks down on their luck. He loves people for the simple fact that we're called to love - even imperfect people ... and evidently he does the same with seashells. And because he's done this as long as he's been going to the beach - I know that's how his heart works. Not because he's supposed to, but because he can't help it! It's an overflow of God's love for him!

Tumbling along the sea bottom for miles and miles at the mercy of the tide until finally landing on the sand being washed ashore by a wave, it's a wonder any shells at all end up on the coastline whole. Then the shells are picked clean by seagulls, trampled over by the beach combers, picked up and discarded by people looking for just the right shape, size, color, perfection. It would be very hard to make the entire journey from once being the housing for some sea-creature to possibly becoming one in someone's collection of beach-trinkets without getting broken, discolored or growing barnicles. If I were a shell, I would be left behind.

Lucky for the actual seashells there are people like Matthew. Because Matthew overlooks flaws and imperfections, the broken shells and ugly oyster shells get a chance to go home in a sand pail and be apart of a kid's collection. And lucky for me there's Jesus. Jesus picked me out of a pile of broken and imperfect people and loved me despite my flaws. He picked me up, dusted the sand off of me and put me in his bucket - to take me home with Him to be a part of his collection! How lucky a shell I am! Despite my barnicles and brokeness, no matter what kind of rough, damaging seas I rode in on, He loved me anyway. And He saved me from being trampled and completely destroyed by the sunbathers and seagulls!

After that, I found myself looking for the "perfect broken shell", even taking pictures of the best of them. I don't guess I'll ever finish my beachy picture frame - and that's going to be ok. I learned a lesson that day while looking for the perfect seashells. No one's perfect - and Jesus loves us anyway. So I shouldn't expect to find perfection in others (shells included) and overlook what is not. Maybe I'll make that picture frame afterall. But I'll make it with broken, ugly oyster shells! Sounds perfect!

The Sand Pail and Malaria Adventure

Last weekend Matthew and I were down at Atlantic Beach, the southern-most part of North Carolina's Outer Banks in a place they call the Crystal Coast. Working within our budget, I booked us some pretty "old school", oceanfront accomodations with cinder block walls in the rooms and concrete patio furniture. The "Tropical Breakfast" was Fruit Loops and bananas - but it was by the ocean, and really more than we usually eat for breakfast so it was fine! Some 'resorts' have state-of-the-art gyms, water parks and gamerooms. Ours had shuffleboard and tetherball, half of a basketball court and some swings. The pool was nice and the lifeguards carried our chairs for us down to the beach. There was nothing at all modern about the place - it was a throw-back to a different time, simple, friendly and truly family-oriented. Exactly the kind of thing I look for when we head out to somewhere!

Actually, I found the whole town to have that same sort of flavor - not overly commercialized, it seemed under-developed and older. It wasn't crowded or loud with drunks. Being a little on the nostalgic side - I just loved the feel of the whole place. And what wasn't built up with retro-structures or diner-like restaurants was still wild with wind-blown trees, sea oats and grasses, marshes and narrow waterways. Everywhere you looked was interesting and different. I'm used to Myrtle Beach and all that goes with it - but I could really get used to Atlantic Beach and its quiet-ness! Matthew, on the other hand, appreciates something a little less 'quiet'. He wasn't exactly bored but I could tell he was getting in the mood for something a little more adventurous!

Absent from this beach-side town were any arcades, waterslides or go-carts. No amusement rides, henna tattoo shops or anything with "Ripley's" in the name. We were going to have to look a little harder for something to do other than hanging out in the surf. I jumped on the internet to find our next adventure. I wasn't long into my search before I realized we were very close to an island inhabited by herds of wild horses! Legend has it that these ponies are the descendants of ponies coming to America on Spanish ships as early as the 1500's. The ships wrecked off the coast and the horses swam for the shores. They made their way to this little Shackleford Island - and have been living there ever since! Looks like I found our adventure!



We drove down to Beaufort, NC to the Outer Banks Ferry Company. I didn't really know what to expect but I felt prepared. I had a bottled water, the sunscreen, my camera and some extra batteries - everything we should need for our sight-seeing island expedition! Matthew was dressed in his bathing suit and I was in a pink, flowery tank top, shorts and flip-flops. When I think "island" it's the attire that comes to mind. But while standing on the dock I started to feel a little underdressed and grossly unprepared. The other people waiting on the ferry looked more like they were about to hike the Appalachian Trail with their hiker-ish shoes, long sleeve shirts and fully-loaded backpacks. Oh well, we were the only ones with a sand pail for collecing shells. So who was going to be the sorry one, really?

The captain of our ferry lead us down the dock to our boat and directed us to our seats. He seemed like the real deal, this captain, with his leathery, sun-darkened skin, weathered-looking appearance and dressed in dockside casual. I imagine he spent much of the night before at some bar listening to Buffett songs on a jukebox, drinking rum and smoking too much. But here we were about to be taxied across the Atlantic Intercoastal Waterway by this unfriendly, possibly hungover guy. I just hoped he had enough time to sleep off his party. We slowly made our way through the "No Wake Zone" and then he hit the gas, speeding along the waves, bumping our butts on the seats with every white cap we jumped over. Water was coming up over the sides of our smallish boat, ocean spray showering us with every crash over a wave. Trying to not be scared, I was hoping he would slow down a little and tell us what we were looking at as we zoomed past sights on either side of us - you know, like a tour guide. No luck. He quietly stayed the course and none of us dared to ask.

And just when I was starting to second guess my breakfast, mercifully Captain NoNonsense slowed down the boat. Our island was just to the right of us! We made it! He navigated the boat along the shoreline. I assumed he was going around to the back side of the island towards the dock. I looked and looked but I couldn't see a dock at all; there was no dock. But that didn't stop the captain. He was heading straight for the land mass. And the next thing you know he drove the boat straight onto the sand. Our forward momentum was abruptly halted and we all lurched forward. No one seemed panicked about this so I figured this was part of the plan. It was almost like in the movies when the boat comes up to the shore. The passenger grabs his bag and easily jumps off the side, lightly landing in ankle-deep water and splashes up to the beach. Almost, but not quite. The gruff captain never left his perch. We lined up without his help and made our way off the boat one by one. I was the last to exit. I grabbed my pink backpack, stepped to the edge, jumped off the boat and onto the hard, compacted sand. I didn't splash, frolic or any other way of happily arriving. I hit the sand with a thud and it hurt. But anyway, we made it and I was ready to go find the famed Shackleford Ponies!





The two other parties that shared the ferry ride with us both set off in their own directions, the boat captain pulled away and left the island as quickly as he arrived and just like that Matthew and I were standing on the point of a deserted island alone. It was weird. Creepy even. Creepy, weird and HOT. With no shade to be found and the sun already starting to beat down on us, I slathered us up in the sunscreen. A hat would have been nice, I thought. Or an umbrella. Maybe the other explorers were on to something with their giant bags of gear. Didn't matter, we were on our island adventure and we were going to have fun! Matthew started picking up broken seashells right away. And I found some perfectly whole shells, enormous shells, all different shapes and sizes! It was a good thing I brought our bucket! We walked along the shore for a good while, never seeing another person. We just picked up shells and took in the view. It was peaceful and beautiful.



We found crabs, broken sand dollars and conch shells. Seaweed, sea rocks and sharks teeth. Then as we started to climb up over the dunes I noticed some fresh hoof-prints in the sand! This meant to me that we were about to find the ponies! I turned on my camera and peered in every direction. Nothing. We tip-toed along the trail of prints expecting to run right into a herd of horses at any moment. Still, nothing. The prints led inland towards the high grasses and trees. Along the trail we started to notice fresh piles of poop - the horse's "calling cards", inviting us to follow along. We felt for sure if we stayed on the path we were going to see the horses. The sand was getting farther and farther behind us. We walked along, deeper and deeper into the brush on the crushed grasses, watching our step as not to stumble into the poo-piles. We really were in the wild - and it was exciting!

And then I heard buzzing in my ear. I shooed the bug away from my head. And then I felt a sting on my arm and I brushed my arm. I heard more buzzing and I felt more stinging and I brushed my other arm. I looked down and both of my arms were covered in large, I mean GIANT mosquitoes! Mosquitoes as large as my head were diving into me, I could feel them landing on my neck, back, legs. They were everywhere! "I'm covered in mosquitoes!" I yelled to Matthew. "They're on me too!" he yelled back, frantically waving them away from himself as well. We were being attacked by a swarm of blood-sucking devils! Thousands of them relentlessly biting us from head to toe. And it didn't help that we both smelled like sweat and freshly applied 30 SPF Pina Colada Sunscreen. "RUN FOR IT!" I screamed to Matthew and he took off back the way we came. I ran along behind him as fast as my bedazzled flip flops could carry me shooing, swatting and fanning and dodging piles of poop all along our densely covered trail. We must've looked crazy tap-dancing around the dung and trying to ward off the hellish invaders of our personal space! Luckily there was no one around to see!

We burst out of the grassy trail and back onto the sand. My whole body shook and jerked and jumped, making sure I had rid myself from the nasty insects. I shook out my hair, slapped myself all over. My skin crawled at the thoughts! Matthew was dancing around too asking me to check him. I tossled his hair and dusted off his neck and looked him over as we quickly made our way to the sand dune. It was my plan to run straight from there and into the water to wash the buggers away! We rounded the corner and ran straight into a group of campers. It nearly scared me to death as they were the only humans we had seen since our boat left the island. Matthew, who isn't shy at all, loudly exclaimed to the group "We were eaten alive in there!!" With that the campers were also caught off guard.

"Are you ok?" one of them asked? "Fine", I said laughingly, trying not to sound stupid and be embarrassed. "He's talking about mosquitoes". The camper, dressed in a long sleeve shirt, a wide-brimmed straw hat, thick socks and hiking boots, told me all about the mosquitoes and how bad they were here on the island and how we shouldn't be in the grasses without bug spray, or dressed in tank tops and flip flops. That was nice to know. It would have been nicer coming from the people who sold me our tickets to get out to that God-forsaken island.

One of the campers reached into his 40 pound backpack and grabbed a bottle of bug spray. "We have extra. Take this", he said as he handed me the bottle. It was a little after the fact but I started spraying Matthew down with the spray. And then I sprayed myself. Another valuable lesson I learned that day is that spraying bug spray on sunburn burns. A lot. My good-feelings were quickly going away. Wild horses or no wild horses, I was ready to get off the island.

The boat came every hour on the hour but we weren't scheduled to leave for another hour and 10 minutes. I didn't care - we were going to run to the other side of the island and beg the mean captain to take us with him!! I could see the boat coming and we took off in a sprint. The boat landed in the sand and that gang of campers we had met earlier were piling their stuff onto the deck. Waving frantically I caught the attention of the captain. He threw up his hand - barely - at least acknowleging me. We made it to the sandbar just as the last of the campers were climbing aboard. Breathlessly I asked if we could squeeze in. I didn't care what his answer was - we were getting in that boat. I was hot, sun-burned, itching all over and swelling up from insect bites, dehydrated and dare I say possibly anemic. Matthew was already finding a seat on the ferry by the time the captain gave us permission to come aboard!

Happily speeding back to civilization we decided that despite nearly contracting Malaria we had fun! It wasn't an arcade, had no go-carts or interactive museum exhibits but it really was an adventure - at least unforgettable! We didn't get any pictures of the Shackleford Ponies but we did come away with a little more experience and a bucket full of broken seashells! (More on broken seashells in the next blogpost...)

In The Garden

I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses. And the voice I hear falling on my ear the Son of God discloses. And He walks with me, and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own; and the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known. ~ Charles A. Miles, 1913

I've probably heard that song a hundred times - maybe more. An old-fashioned little hymn, much like the rest of the songs in the Baptist Hymnal, it fits with the 'style' of my church, linking the old with the new. As a child I heard my dad play it on his piano - and he played it because his dad did. I've even heard it from Elvis Presley in his Gospel Collection CD's. I've heard that song, I easily recognize it. But I've never paid attention to it, really 'listened' to the words until very recently.....

When I moved into this house four years ago, Mom took one look at the back yard and said "This would be a great place for a garden!" Mom was still grieving from the loss of her son two years earlier and it was rare for her to get excited about much. So right away I said "Well let's do it!" That was in February - and by March half the back yard was plowed up and the vegetable garden was in the ground. She was just as pleased as she could be. She liked digging in the soil and she said she loved getting her hands dirty. She said it reminded her of her mom. I didn't get the dirt part and really tending to the garden, I thought, was just too hard on the back. But she loved it - and it made her happy. I think that garden helped her with her grief.

I was out of work for a couple months that Spring recovering from surgery, so she and I used that time to talk all things Gardening, Canning, Miracle Grow, Weeding, etc. She wanted me to know how to do all that stuff. And I halfway paid attention. What I was mostly glad about was all the time that mom and I had to spend together. She spent lots of nights here, getting up early in the morning, making coffee and heading out in the yard. She would sit under the carport and "watch my garden grow", she said. She let Matthew help her and she made sure to pay extra attention to anything he planted. She made such a fuss over him when his veggies started to grow! She just loved that little garden. She's had one out in my back yard every year since. And now, after all these years and thanks to finally paying close attention to the words of Charles A. Miles precious little song "In The Garden", I think I know why she loved it so much.

He speaks, and the sound of His voice is so sweet the birds hush their singing, and the melody that He gave to me within my heart is ringing. And He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own; And the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known.

I imagine now that mom was out in her garden talking to God. It was where she felt the most comfortable. It was quiet and she could hear Him as she weeded, watered, fussed over her little patch of ground. She probably thought fondly of her sisters and her mom cooking their own vegetables and canning food to feed our families. She probably remembered the gardens of her past. She was in His presence there, she felt Him as they "tarried there" together in her little garden.

One of the last conversations mom and I had before we went to the hospital was about her garden. Springtime came early this year - it was early March and it was already hot outside. That kind of weather, even in her sickness, would wake her inner gardner. She had been sick for awhile, no energy to do anything. She was resting in Matthew's bed one afternoon and said, "The thing I'm most upset about is that I can't get out in my garden. I just don't think I can do it this year".

"Oh Mom", I said. "Don't you worry about it. I'll get Joe over to plow and I'll plant the garden. I'll have it in the ground before Good Friday", I continued. "And when you get to feeling better it'll be there for you to tend to".

Now, if there's a person in the world who knows me, it's my mom. Just the thoughts of me getting a whole garden actually up and running was silly. She didn't laugh out loud at my offer but I'm sure she "yea, right-ed" quietly! But I meant what I said. I didn't know how but I figured I could at least get it started. And I would always have her to ask.

Mom got sicker still and a few days later we landed at the hospital. About 24 hours into our two-week stay I started hearing things like "Cancer", "Nothing we can do", "Not much longer". Mom was so sick by then that she wasn't able to really talk with me anymore. But I knew our time together was growing shorter by the day so I talked to her about everything I knew she loved. We talked a lot about her garden. I reminded her that I was going to get it going and when she got better I was going to need her help. I asked her about different kinds of tomatoes, should we plant okra and what did she think about no Zucchini this year. I talked about canning, snapping green beans and how to pickle beets. She responded with faint sounds, answering my questions as best she could. We spent several long nights together reminiscing - I talked, mom listened. I talked about our big garden up in Lincolnton and how they worked us kids to death out in the sweltering sun during the time before sun-screen. We talked about Maw turning potatoes out of the ground and Myrtle's white pickles and eating biscuits and butter off of old metal pie tins and drinking water from the spigot on the side of the well. Miles of green beans, shucking corn on the back of daddy's 54 Chevy Pick-Up and that old, family recipe soup mix. That time the pressure canner blew up at Lynn's house and there were green beans on the ceiling. Planting "under the signs" and dad wondering if a Pepsi sign would do.

The more I talked the more I started to realize that some of my mom's most favorite things, her most fond memories revolved around a garden. Suddenly her garden in my back yard became my mission. I didn't know how I would do it but I knew that her garden would have to become a reality this spring. I knew that she wasn't going to get better and I would be digging in the dirt on my own but I just had to do it. I started to think I could hold on to a little of her if I could just get her garden to grow. She would somehow still be with me if I could get her Zinnias to come back, grow some tomatoes, pick some squash. It was important to her, that garden, so it was urgently important to me. I even prayed about it, "Lord, help me be the kind of gardener my mom would be proud of, help me grow something and not kill it - and help me know how much water to put on the tomatoes..."

I had been at the hospital with mom for the last 14 days of her life. During that time I was blessed to have such a wonderful church family, taking care of my 'stuff' while I was gone. My mail, my cats, my grass, etc. I wasn't worried about a thing. Someone came over and planted my empty flower pots (exactly what mom would have done!) with Petunias! And someone even weeded the bed in front of my house - over grown with shaggy bushes and random things growing out of control. Church family means way more than casseroles!

I’d stay in the garden with Him, though the night around me be falling, But He bids me go; through the voice of woe His voice to me is calling.

Mom died last Saturday afternoon. It was late when I finally got home that night. It was dark but I could see the Wave Petunias in my planter as I walked up the front steps. I noticed a little concrete statue of hands with a Bible Verse chiseled on the base. There was a beautiful Geranium spilling over the side of a new pot that someone left on my porch. It was a nice climb up my steps as I made my way into the house. My church family was so thoughtful. I was getting ready for bed when out the bathroom window something caught my eye. Something was in mom's garden. I ran out the back door, down the stairs and into the backyard. The garden was there! It was plowed, there were plants in it, tomato stakes and a sprinkler. Mother's garden was planted and growing - and I stood in the middle of it and cried. I sat in a chair in my backyard in the middle of that night and "watched my garden grow". And I thought fondly of my mom and our gardens of the past and I talked to God.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own; And the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known.

Hope.

My mom passed away 5 days ago. And it's been the hardest thing I've ever been through. It's still very early in the process, I'm still doing things like paying for funeral stuff or eating Casseroles and Fried Chicken brought over by friends and church people. I haven't had a chance to have a good cry, grieve any sort of way or even believe that she's gone. I can only describe myself as feeling quite raw. I'm right there on the edge of going to bed and never coming out of my room again. I call a lot on Jesus. I 'pull it together' for Matthew's sake and I pray for that peace which surpasses all understanding - just so I can stay upright while at the courthouse in the probate office.

After seeing Heaven, mom would never want to come back here. And it would be very selfish of me to ask. But I'd nearly give anything to talk to her again, see her face, hear her voice, touch her sweet hands, kiss her face, hug her, smell her, tell her I love her and hear her tell me she loves me. Yes, I have all the cliches going in my mind... "You can still talk to her", "you can still tell her you love her", "She knows", "She's looking down on you", etc. But you know what I mean. A girl needs her mom. I need my mom, here, in the flesh. I don't think I'll ever get used to this. I've called her every single day, several times a day, just to check on her for the last 6 years. I've helped her write out bills, I've picked up her groceries, I've run errands for her, I've fixed her TV remote and all kinds of little things. Since my brother died I took 'sole ownership' of our sweet mother and whatever she needed, I tried to do. If I couldn't get it done we made sure we had friends on board to pick up anywhere I left off. If I could help her I would. But please don't get me wrong. Up until recently, Mom did fine on her own - and she and I made a great team. She's helped me and been there for me in more ways than I could even fully explain. She's been my partner in raising my son, she's kept my lights on in hard times, listened to me complain about something, been my go-to person for everything. She was my friend, Matthew's biggest fan, my Bishop family. She would come over to visit and end up doing our laundry and making dinner. She'd go to the grocery store and pick up something to make my favorite meals. She didn't care a thing about eating a big dinner anymore but she did it for us. Because that's just what mothers do. She would fix Thanksgiving dinners and have my ex-husband and his girlfriend over - just so Matthew could feel surrounded by lots of his family. She was my Emergency Contact Person in case I fell down some stairs somewhere. For the last 5 days I've been nearly sick with worry that I haven't "called to check on her today". The urge to call her to check in is like a pitchfork gouging out my insides. I think the longing to hear her voice is trying to kill me.

While you're hanging around the hospital waiting on the enevitable to come, time is a real weird thing. One minute could feel like forever and days on end feels like the blink of an eye. Mom was in pain, not really with me anymore while we were there - waiting, waiting, waiting. But at least she was alive and I could help her by raising the bed or giving her sips of water, pushing that stupid nurse button. Now that that part is over I've never felt so final. So "now what" in my life.

I certainly didn't mean for this blog post to be what it's become. I just feel so damn bad. So bad. I feel bad for my son and I feel bad for me. I feel bad for my mom who was the victim of damn cancer. I feel like Florence in that episode of Good Times when James died and she held up so well until finally she dropped a stack of dishes and screamed Damn, Damn, Damn. That's how I feel. I want to drop dishes and scream bad words. I want to see the bottom of liquor bottles, I want to find Dr. Feelgood, I want to be numb, mad, I want to scream, I want to demand to know WHY?! I want to kick stupid cancer between the legs with a steel toe boot as hard as I can, then stomp it and stomp it until its crying in a heap on the ground.

We went to the hospital for an infection. Dehydration and an infection. And we never came home again until I came home without her. Now "home" as I know it will be boxed up, divided, handled by the state, sold, gone. And suddenly there's no roots even holding us in this state. There's nowhere to go home to. I feel like an orphan, the last Bishop standing, alone. Desperately alone. I could be surrounded by people - and have been since this started but I've never felt more alone in my life. I want to go somewhere - I feel like if I could just get somewhere away from this pain that I would be ok. But I could run forever and not get away from it. So instead I literally walk around in circles inside my own house, fretting over what will become of my mother's memory. What will happen when I can't remember her voice or what her hands looked like. Oh God, I think my heart will break apart into a million pieces and never, ever get back together. I don't know how to handle this, I don't know how to be, I don't know how tomorrow could ever be ok.

And then I think about Jesus. And I'm relieved that I know Him personally and so did mom. At least I have hope in that - and I don't grieve the way the lost do. Because as hard as this is and as hurt and sad as I am, at least my mom isn't. She's in Heaven, beautiful Heaven with our Holy Father and I'll see her again someday. Compared to eternity, our reunion will be in the time it takes to blink your eyes. I can hang on for that long, at least.

It's What Jesus Looks Like

My grandmother had a big, framed picture of Jesus. You may have seen a copy of it, as it's a pretty popular print. Jesus is in the Garden of Gethsemane. He's kneeling on a rock, hands together and looking up to the dark sky. He's dressed in a blue, flowing robe. His head is circled in a glowing halo as a beam of light breaks through the omnious clouds and shines upon his chiseled, handsome face. He has light brown, long wavy hair, fair skin and a beard.

The backgrounds may all be different but that version of Jesus is pretty iconic. Most people can see a picture of the face of Jesus and identify Him right away. Yep. That's a picture of Jesus. I'd recognize that face anywhere. All fair-haired, fair-skinned, green or blue-eyed Jesus. I'm not so sure where that depiction of Jesus first came from. Let's face it, there were no cameras snapping candid pictures of him or artist renditions of the Savior 2000 years ago. There's no physical description of Jesus as the Son of Man in the Bible. He was a Jewish Carpenter from the middle east. I don't mean to be all stereo-typical but when I think of Middle-eastern Jew, flowing, light brown hair and green eyes rarely comes to mind. Truth is, no one really knows. But I think over these last couple of weeks that I've been walking alongside my mom on her journey to life-everlasting I've seen him! So let me finally set the record straight... I know what Jesus looks like!

Jesus looks like a little Nurse's Assistant named Jackie. A tiny little black lady, older and sweet who shuffled when she walked. Dressed in a green nurse dress, white stockings and orthopedic shoes, Nurse Jackie did her job on the overnight shift quietly and respectful of my mother who was trying to sleep. Nurse Jackie preached the gospel without saying a word. She thanked me when she walked out the door and I never saw her again.

Jesus looks a little like a silver, miniature Schnauzer named Molly. Molly was a physical therapy dog, perfectly behaved and as sweet as could be. Molly was happy to be there, pranced around the bed and over to my chair. She sat at my feet and looked up at me with eager eyes, leaned against my leg and comforted me.

I learned that Jesus smells a lot like Secret Deodorant and a bag full of girly products brought over by a sweet friend. I never knew how much your armpits smelling like flowers could make a difference in one's perspective. He's in the form of socks, snacks and vending machine money. I found Him in a pink gift bag.

Jesus feels like a hug and some warm hands in my prayer circle. I heard His sweet words as His precious children prayed for my mother's health and for my well-being. He soothed me through their actions, loved me with His Truth. He hugged me with their arms. He enveloped me in a shroud of his protection when the prayer circle enclosed me in love.


"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you" ~ Matthew 7:7

We had a bad night. That night was so bad that I got on my knees at the foot of her bed and begged Jesus to take my mama home. Either lead her to the place of no more sickness and pain or send us some relief here on earth. And then, Jesus showed up.

He looked like a young lady with shoulder-length, brown hair and little, square glasses. Her name was Tatum and she was the nurse for that days' shift. She listened to me and she cared for my mother. She said she was there to help us and she did. She gently cared for my mother, bringing her some much needed relief and she soothed my worried soul. She oozed compassion and she was the vessel used to pour out His mercy on us.

Jesus looks a lot like a sprawling, one level building out in Huntersville. There are rock columns holding up the porte cochere, brick and stucco walls and large glass and oak framed windows. The streets are lined with blooming Bradford Pear Trees and the grounds are carpeted in the lushest green grass. There are flowers, gardens, sitting areas, beautiful plants, bird feeders and porch swings. And the doorway is flanked by massive Rosemerry Bushes. The smell is unforgettable. He's the Hospice House in Huntersville and He invited us in. He's filled with wonderful staff and volunteers working for nothing but to bring comfort and rest to people coming to the end of their lives journeys. The people do their jobs with a God-inspired mission in mind, loving their patients with Jesus' heart and in the spirit of love. By day the halls are filled with beautiful music and sweet and caring voices and by night the lighting is soft and it's purposefully quiet. They want to make sure their guests can rest. The touches are gentle, the care is kind. I haven't seen it yet but I imagine once my mother runs into the arms of her savior the aftercare will be full of respect and dignity.

Jesus looks a lot like a prayer shawl. He's multi-colored strands of yarn knitted together in love by a sweet group of church ladies. They prayed over the small blanket and delivered it to Hospice House to lay over the feet of my mom. He's soft and warm and he blanketed me in peace the first night we were here.

Jesus tastes a lot like a chicken salad from Panera Bread brought to my family from the ladies at my work. He's a card signed by everyone who cares about us. He's a vase full of Tulips. He's our friends and family who have been here from day one and He's my beloved church family who has taken care of everything and anything we may have needed. He's a kind soul who planted flowers in my empty flower pots, He's a stranger that cleaned the outside of my house, He's my cousin who cleaned the inside of my house. He's my neighbors who have taken care of my son or cut my grass. He's the kids who came in to feed my cats. He's come in phone calls and emails and letters. He's been here from the beginning and He'll be here at the end. He's everywhere you look, every corner, every crevice. You can't miss Him.

And finally, Jesus looks a lot like a preacher with a faux hawk in his hair and Chuck Taylor Shoes. He's prayed for us, visited us and encouraged us with the Words God would have us hear. Even more than that, I heard Him on the phone with my son explaining to him about Heaven and more importantly how to get there. I saw Him sitting on the floor today with my sweet son, playing card tricks and loving on him, telling him that either way his Nana was going to be ok. It turns out Jesus looks nothing like His pictures.

My mom has been asleep most of this last two weeks and didn't get to see Jesus the way I did. I'm happy for her that she will soon be laying her eyes on His glorious face! Until then, let me thank you all from the bottom of our hearts for "Being Jesus", just as you were called to do. We love you and because of you we are ok. May God bless you this day and everyday and I hope that at some time you'll be able to see a little Jesus in me.