Month: February 2011

I love my husband. I know that’s not news to anyone, and it’s quite normal for a wife to love her husband, but Philip is so incredibly special, there’s no work involved in loving him, living with him, sharing my life with him. So every year when his birthday roles around, I try to think of something special I can do to celebrate. The problem in the past few years has been that time rushes on me so quickly, I’ve got the two babies I’m trying to take care of, and this time of the year always seems inordinately busy, and this year has been no exception. I tried to plan an overnight trip last week, but due to extenuating circumstances, that didn’t happen. I tried to find time to get down the mountain to buy his birthday present, but due to scheduling conflicts and bad weather, that also hasn’t happened. So, irritated with myself at this point that I fear once again I won’t do his birthday justice, I decide to at least make sure we can go out to eat on his birthday. So I find a babysitter who’s willing to watch a one year old and a two year old (thanks Rhonda!), plan where we’re going, plan what to wear, and I have everything set for dinner tonight. Only one problem.

Today is not Philip’s birthday. My bad. I thought today was February 11. It’s not. It’s February 10. How could this happen, you ask? Actually, you would only ask that if you didn’t know me. If you do know me, you know exactly how this happened. Even with my excellent planner that I daily put into use, I still am off. At least I’m only off by a day, right?

Oh well. At least we’ll have a nice time tonight. The night before his birthday. Maybe I’ll make this a tradition. 🙂

You know the saying, “You can take the girl out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the girl”? I’m finding it to be so very true. It’s interesting how, when you’re in a certain culture, things seem so normal that in other cultures aren’t. So here is my list of things that make me still a Southern girl. Or maybe make me part of a huge, loving and crazy family. Either way, there’s no escaping it:

1. I put make-up on to go to the grocery store. I can’t help it. It’s in my blood.

2. I want my hair blonde. Not the natural kind that is so popular out here, I want the kind that is perfectly obvious it’s not my natural color.

3. I love having parties, and keep trying to come up with reasons to have people over to my house.

4. When I hear country music, I get all soft and mushy. Even though I don’t listen to country music.

5. When I hear the National Anthem, I get all soft and mushy too.

6. Few things are more important than making people feel completely comfortable in my home. Those few things will never include making people take their shoes off, or keeping kids out of any room because they might mess up the furniture. I’m not saying this is a good thing, or that you shouldn’t take care of your possessions. This is just my own thing, coming I think more from my family than my geography.

7. I’m still sold on the idea that most things can be solved over a cup of tea, hot or cold. But if it’s iced tea, it must be sweet. And if it’s sweet, it must have been made sweet from the beginning.

8. My one-year-old is running around like a madman, but still not wearing shoes. And my response? Oh well.

9. Yes sir, no sir, thank you, please, you’re welcome. All incredibly important words in my vocabulary, and therefore, in the vocabulary of my kids.

10. Church occurs three times a week: Sunday mornings, Sunday evenings, and Wednesday evenings. And Sunday school is not optional.

These are just a few, I’m sure there are many more. I’m also certain that a lot of these things are held dear in other places besides the south, but since I’m southern born and bred, it’s all I really know.

Am I missing any, my Southern girls that are also transplants?

Recently I’ve been thinking a lot about memories. I know that seems like a weird thing to say, but in the last few weeks many things from my past have re-introduced themselves to me. I was thinking that my memories are like all the boxes of pictures I have stored, hundreds and hundreds of pictures, in boxes, crates, and picture albums. A person has to decide which pictures to put out for others to see, where they would fit most appropriately in our lives, and even who we want to see them. And then, when we do show people our pictures, there’s no way for the person to actually be in that moment, seeing what I saw when I took the picture.

I’ve admitted to being a horrible journalist, and that I fear, I know, someday all of my memories will be lost. A friend of mine called me a few days ago to share some wonderful news. This was a friend that I went to high-school with, went to England with, and even lived with for awhile. In that brief conversation (brief, because I was trying to chase Callie Grace down to put some clothes on her, while she was shouting “naked baby! naked baby), so many memories came flooding back to me, and memories for me have tastes, smells, textures. I remembered traveling England with her in a train eating bread, cheese, and pickled onions, because we were so poor! I remembered the smell of the dorm we lived in in England, the laughter and love there that healed me after a devastating few months previously.

And then there are the horrible memories, the sad memories. What does one do with those? To ignore them, lock them away, would be foolish, if not even dangerous. To dwell on them would be a waste of the time we are given, and would most likely drive you into depression. To dwell on them would build resentment and even hate for the people involved, locking yourself in your own jail cell.

As I sat and pondered these thoughts in the quiet moments (okay, fine, in Starbucks) I realized that a person has to come to terms with all of their memories. Each memory, beautiful or exquisitely painful, is like a single thread, weaving a tapestry through our lives. If a person believes in a sovereign God, which I do, this is easier to do, I think. And in the moments that we are actually living in, again beautiful or so painful you want to curl up and die, it’s only the comfort of knowing that God is, indeed, sovereign, that can keep us going, keep us praising, keep us thankful.