10 Things I Learned Today

1. I don't really have much of a case against the officer discussed in this post.

2. To file a lawsuit against an officer, I must either be physically assaulted or witness some kind of criminal behavior.

3. My case is a case of ethics and morals, not law.

4. Sterlington is more corrupt than I thought. There are many dirty cops on the squad and they do questionable, amoral and unethical things all the time. There is no accountability for their behavior.

5. The officer would have had every right under law to haul me off to jail if I had in fact had been carelessly operating the vehicle. Tickets are apparently niceties. Any officer can put any driver who commits a moving traffic violation in jail. The ticket is a favor. Most officers don't view tickets in this manner, but the Sterlington police know what they are allowed to do by law, and have no qualms with unethical behavior. I was lucky. And frankly, I think he is, too. Many people would have been very upset had I been put in jail for a violation I did not commit.

6. My lawyer is awesome. He is honest, honorable, blunt, well-connected, well-educated, motivated, smart and has an IPhone that he knows how to operate. What more could I ask of him?

7. Time and money saved are not reason enough for me to drive through Sterlington anymore.

8. The first course of action is to get my ticket toned down or to disappear. The second course of action is to seek to put this incidence on the officer's already long list of bad reports.

9. My attorney (and/or I) will go through the following channels in the following order: town prosecutor, presiding judge (a fair man who does not live in Sterlington, but drives there from Grant parish), D.A., Attorney General. I hope the prosecutor takes care of it. (My lawyer is asking her to reduce the ticket to a seat belt violation.) If not, I will go as far as the D.A., and probably stop there. I don't want to pay my ticket three times over in legal fees.

10. This world is truly an awful, corrupt place. It is ruled by sin, and my outlook would be very bleak indeed if I did not trust that my God is a righteous God, the Judge of all and the Defender of the weak. As I reflected on the rather disappointing news I received this morning, I thought about what a great opportunity this is for some character modification. I am required to be patient. I am required to believe that justice will be served whether I see it served or not. I am required to trust that God is everything He says He is. I am required to follow this thing through even though I may not get the outcome for which I hope. I am required to love this man in spite of what he did to me. To pray for him. To hope for him. Honestly, my pride is a little wounded when I see my condition in the harsh light of the truth. I have no power to help or defend myself. But there is a greater Power that will supply me with the strength I need for all that is required of me. So, I'm a little heartsick (Proverbs 13:12), but never has my pride received a blow from which I have not benefited. Number ten is really this--No matter what happens, I'm going to be okay. I rest in the palm of a Mighty God.

Good cop. Bad cop.

I was raised in a home in which I was taught to respect police officers and consider them my friends and protectors. I have always viewed our men in uniform in this way, but last night I had an encounter that has shaken my good opinion of policemen to the core.

I left my home last night at 8:25pm to pick up my friend, Madonna Gil, in Monroe, and bring her back for an overnight visit. I arrived at her home at 9:00, and I immediately began driving home, heading north on Hwy. 165. As always, I was minding my speed, my distance between vehicles, traffic lights and traffic signals. I am an excellent driver with a clean record for almost 10 years. As I approached the intersection where you turn off to go to Sterlington High School, I slowed to the appropriate speed, but I noticed some cars preparing to turn right into Frenchman's Bend. I ventured into the left lane to pass them. Because my left turn onto Hwy. 2 was quickly approaching and because I was still traveling faster than the traffic in the right hand lane (my speed was approximately 63 mph), I remained in the left lane. My reasons to be in the left lane are completely legal.

Between the high school and the Mer Rouge Warehouse on the right side of the highway, I noticed a large vehicle quickly approaching. I was unable to get out of his way at the moment, but he continued to gain on my vehicle. He came so close that his headlights were bearing down on me, reflecting in my rear view mirror, and impeding my vision. This startled me, and I became more startled when I could no longer see his headlights due to his close proximity to my vehicle. I was able to recall my Driver’s Education course from several years ago. I remembered that if a vehicle is following too close, the proper course of action is to tap the brakes or slow down to let them pass. I was unable to move, he was unable to pass, so I chose to tap my brakes. At that moment, he turned on his police lights, signaling me to pull over. Before this instance, I was given no indication that was he was a policeman, that I was in his way or impeding police business. Had he signaled me, I would have pulled over into the median out of respect for him and his work.

After allowing traffic to pass, I pulled over onto the right lane shoulder, and waited for the officer to approach my car. I noticed that when he approached my window that his body language was very angry and agitated. At this point, I was unaware that I had done anything wrong or offensive, so I was baffled.

“Do you know why I pulled you over, miss?” he asked briskly.

“No, sir,” I answered respectfully.

“Do you want to know?”

“Sure,” I replied.

“You were driving in the left hand lane, which is illegal, but when you hit your brakes like that,” he raised his voice at the last part, and failed to complete his sentence.

I said, “I was in the left hand lane in order to pass.”

He replied, “You were passing way back.” This was actually not the case, and Madonna told me later that she remembered that I could not get over into the right hand lane.
I began to say something else, but out of respect, I kept my mouth closed.

In anticipation, he pointed at me and said, “That’s right. You better just stop talking!” I thought that strange as I did not say anything.

He took my license and registration, and was gone for a couple of minutes. I thought he would momentarily return with my ticket, but I was wrong.

“Mrs. Keaster, please step out of the vehicle,” I heard from behind.

At this point, I was frightened. I was a woman, pulled over by an angry policeman at night on a dark highway. I had complied with everything, and could not see a reason for me to get out of my car. But out of respect, I did what he asked. I was unprepared for what he said next.

“Have you ever been to jail, Mrs. Keaster?” he huffed.

“No, sir,” I replied, a warning buzzing in my head.

“Do you want to go to jail?”

I thought that was a ridiculous question, but out of respect, I answered it. “No.”
“Do you know what a bullet is capable of?” he asked.

At this point, I became truly frightened. Rape had already crossed my mind more than once. I was truly afraid that this man made crazy by irrational and misplaced anger would indeed take me to jail for driving safely (even though he was the one to make the traffic violation). But now, I began to wonder if he would try to harm me. He certainly seemed angry enough to do it.

I couldn’t answer.

“You car is like an 1100 pound bullet. Do you know how much a bullet weighs?” he asked.

“No,” I answered again.

“Do you want to see one?” he asked, gesturing to his firearm.

I felt threatened at this point, frightened beyond any fear I had ever felt for myself.

“No,” I answered. “Why are we having this conversation?” I thought my question was reasonable. I had never encountered a policeman that behaved anything like this before.

“Because I am trying to decide whether to take you to jail or not,” he answered.
I couldn’t imagine what reason he would have to produce to do so, but I believed he would do it. He was very angry.

“Can you please just write my ticket, let me get in my car, call my husband and go home?” I asked.

He actually stomped. “Fine. Get back in the car,” he answered.

I was so relieved, I couldn’t even begin to feel angry yet.

I got back in the car, and cried to Madonna, “He’s threatening to take me to jail. Call Brandon.”

She couldn’t figure out how to use my phone, so I tried, but I was shaking so severely that it was physically impossible to dial. She called him on her phone, and relayed what was going on. I spoke to him briefly.

The officer came back to my window, and went through protocol. He explained the ticket, citing me for driving in the left hand lane and careless operation of the vehicle. He showed me my court date, the phone number to call if I had questions and asked me to sign.

Then, he said, “If you had just listened back there, I wouldn’t have written the ticket.”

I felt angry then. Why was I called to back of the vehicle if I wasn’t going to be written a ticket? Why did he intentionally frighten me with jail threats if he hadn’t even truly intended to write a ticket? Was it to get a better look at my body? Was it to just have a little fun with a scared woman late at night? Was it because he had a bad day and was taking it out on me? I felt that I had been bullied because of my sex, and I lost my respect for him with that statement.

I said to him, “Well, you were scaring me.”

“I scared you, huh?” he asked with an amused smirk, apparently very satisfied with himself.

“And I think you did it on purpose,” I finished.

At that point, he handed me my ticket, and walked back to his vehicle. I rolled up my window, got back on the road, and cried all the way home.

Allergies, Sensitivities, and Auto-Immune Diseases, Oh My! Part Two

I've recently had a few scary, accidental run-ins with wheat and nuts. I'm finding more and more that eating out or at social gatherings is hazardous. Thus, I'm finding myself more and more in the kitchen. I am really not that great of a cook, but I can proudly say that I have graduated from the George Foreman burgers, grilled chicken strips, frozen dinners and cinnamon toast stage, where I began almost 6 years ago after marrying Brandon.

All that to say, I have some new recipes I'd like to post. These are extremely user friendly as I think "normal" people could enjoy them, too. They are also healthy, balanced and inexpensive to make.

Red Lentil Soup (the soup for which Esau is said to have sold his birthright)

1 bag red lentils (green will work, but the soup will look more like . . . poop)
1 small onion
2 T. butter
1 small can tomato paste
2 cups+ water
salt and pepper to taste

Saute onions in butter. Add tomato paste, lentils and water. Simmer 20-30 minutes. Add water as needed.
Season to taste. Blend and serve.

Pizza Soup

2 t. olive oil
2 garlic cloves, minced
3 cups chicken broth (i make my own)
1/2 t. salt
3 (14.5oz) cans diced tomatoes
fresh or dried basil, or italian seasoning

Heat oil and add garlic. Cook 30 seconds. Add broth, salt and tomatoes, bring to a boil. Reduce heat and simmer 20 minutes. Blend.

Optional:
While soup simmers, saute 1/4 onion in butter. Add frozen or fresh (I use frozen b/c you get more bang for your buck) spinach. Cook until thawed and wilted. Add shredded cheese (I use goat cheese, and I shred it myself).

Serve spinach on top of soup alone or with pepperoni.


Spinach quiche

1 T. olive oil
1 frozen package of spinach, thawed and drained
6 eggs
2 cups shredded mont. jack cheese (if I'm making it for Micah or myself, I use goat cheese)
1/4 t. salt
1/8 t. pepper

Preheat oven 350 degrees. Spray 9 in. pie pan with Pam. Cook onion in large skillet. When soft, stir in spinach and continue to cook until excess moisture has evaporated. In large bowl, combine eggs, cheese, salt and pepper. Add spinach mixture and mix well. Scoop into pie pan. Bake about 30 minutes or until eggs have set. Cool 10 minutes and serve.

Glazed Butternut Squash

Peel and dice squash (or buy frozen). Place foil over cookie sheet and spray foil with Pam. Lay out squash evenly. Mix 1/4 c. melted butter and 2 T. brown sugar. Pour over squash. Sprinkle pepper over squash. Put in 350 degree oven for 30 minutes.



Also, I've learned how to sneak broccoli into Micah's diet. It requires an extra couple of steps, but it's worth it.

Chicken Casserole:

I begin by making my homemade gluten-free cream of mushroom soup, found here.

Then, I chop up a bag of frozen broccoli, thawed. (True, I could buy it pre-chopped, but I can't find it organic, and I'm into that kind of thing.) I throw the broccoli into the soup and let it warm.

I then spray a casserole dish with Pam, and place 1 c. of brown rice and 2 c. water into the dish. I stir in the soup. I take chicken breast strips and season them however I wish, and place them on top. I put the casserole into a 350 degree oven for about an hour.


I've also been enjoying lettuce burgers and homemade fries.

I divide ground meat into fist sized balls, and press flat. I season them with Montreal steak seasoning alone. They can been popped into a skillet on medium heat with butter or on a grill if you want something more figure friendly.

I now make my own french fries, too. I (and by I, I really mean Brandon) cuts potatoes up into small, very thin slices. He also cuts an onion up into strips. He throws the potatoes and the onions a little at a time into a fryer full of hot oil until the potatoes become a golden color. He pulls them out, places them on paper towels to drain, and we season them with Tony's.

I eat my burger wrapped in lettuce. He eats his on a bun. We're both happy. And so is Micah who really enjoys meat and potatoes (along with some veggie or fruit I force upon him).

I hope my gluten-free friends find this helpful!

Something Else

I was about to give up and that's no lie
cardinal landed outside my window
threw his head back and sang a song
so beautiful it made me cry
took me back to a childhood tree
full of birds and dreams
from this one place I can't see very far
in this one moment I'm square in the dark
these are the things I will trust in my heart
you can see something else
something else
I don't know what's making me so afraid
tiny cloud over my head
heavy and grey with a hint of dread
I don't like to feel this way
take me back to a window seat
with clouds beneath my feet
from this one place I can't see very far
in this one moment I'm square in the dark
these are the things I will trust in my heart
you can see something else
something else
--Sara Groves, "From This One Place"

I am an artist. This should imply more than that I simply do artistic things. It should imply realities about my character, my friendships, my lifestyle, my worldview, my habits, my behaviors and the way I process stimuli. However, I find that artists are largely misunderstood by at least half of the world. To most non-artists, the whole lot of us are weirdos. To help you guys out, I've provided a little insight. Artists are driven by their art and their almost basic need to create. Our highs are very high, our lows are very low and all the in-betweens are few and short-lived. Balance is a difficulty, almost unattainable. Many artists are able to think and process thought logically and rationally, but at our core, we are reactive. We respond to the world mostly through a sieve of emotion, whether we want to admit it or not. And I don't want to admit it. I would love to think of myself as a rational, logical individual that is above filtering the world in its entirety through the way I feel. And sometimes, I would love my feelings to be a little sedated because I rarely view anything passively. I am an artist; therefore, I am passionate.

On a scale from high to low, I've been at a low recently. I can attribute my blues to several reasons, including: seasonal depression, the move, the crazy pace of the last couple of months, the vandalism, allergies, no exercise, too many sweets, missing my mommy and the most important two--learning hard "abundant" life lessons and little time and energy for my art.

My novel continues to burn in my heart. It will be written, but maybe not in the time frame I originally planned. Every time I have a free moment, I am so utterly exhausted that the only output of my brain is white noise, which is worse than useless when you want to write. To make matters worse, the little I do write is congested with so many grammatical, logical and spelling errors that I feel like I've lost my edge. Where is the former English major that rarely made these kinds of mistakes?

Words don't come to me anymore. It's like at age 25, I have the brain of 60 year old. (I'm fairly certain that Micah is eating my brain cells.) An artist is in a bad place when she feels disdain for her skills and abilities. I burn, yet I cannot make fire. The sticks are wet and the flint is dull.

Writing isn't my only art. I'm also a singer--a singer that is simply too busy to schedule a lesson or practice. And a singer that isn't singing is a singer that is miserable. A singer always has a song to sing. The only relief we get is in the act of singing. And I'm not singing. I sing lullabies, and hum along to Sara Groves, but I'm not singing. Mozart, Puccini, Verdi, Debussy and Handel are singing. I'm not singing. And so, this artist is sad.

On to my comment about "abundant" life lessons . . .

Over the past 13 months, the Lord has restored to me the joy of His salvation. He has accomplished this in stages. The process began with Micah's birth, continued with a conference, and flourished as I found a mentor and a prayer partner with whom I gladly share this journey. They have been teaching me about the core of the Christian faith. When Jesus came to this earth, He came to give us life. Not an average, mundane existence that ends in vanity, but a meaningful, abundant life. A life worth living. And I would just like to say transparently and honestly that abundant life isn't always comfortable or pleasing. Sometimes it is very unwelcome. To live abundantly, we must become like Christ, and we do so through the continual, unrelenting work of the Holy Spirit, a work that only begins after we have believed upon the person and godship of Jesus Christ, and have submitted ourselves to Him. Let me repeat myself--this process is often unwelcome. It is unwelcome because we can't beat the human out of us, and that human absolutely loves to rise up against the Holy Spirit and do what it wants to do--sin. Allowing the Spirit to work love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness and self-control into our character is painful. There is no step 1-2-3 formula. There is no habit we can make that will magically bring us to any of these. It is submission. And submission is often the antithesis of passion. And I am passionate.

My prayer partner and I have been focusing on the whole point of Christianity, which is to become like Jesus. This is the goal of Christianity, not heaven. A wise pastor once said, "We are not being prepared for a place, but for a Person. The person of Jesus Christ." Becoming like Him, means that first and foremost we must be humbled. And humility doesn't come naturally to an artist, or a scientist, or a mathematician, or a mechanic or a toilet scrubber. It doesn't come naturally to any person, really. I take pride in my art. I take pride in my intelligence. I take pride in my ability to win any argument I wish to win. I take pride in most things. And I should not. Pride is the opposite of Jesus Christ. Being the prideful little twit I am, God saw fit to humble me under His wise and humorous, good hand.

As I mentioned above, we recently moved into a new, slightly larger home. Brandon has been hard at work remodeling the place, bringing it as up to date as possible on a budget. I haven't been able to help much due to my general helplessness and lack of know-how in reference to all things handy and mechanical. I felt that my contribution to our home would be my decorating vision for the house--eclectic and awesome. But I had forgotten something that my husband remembered. Years ago, before moving from our tiny first home was a thought in our minds, I told Brandon that when we moved into a larger house, he could have a room to hang his deer heads and other various stuffed and mounted carcasses that he deemed necessary for man room. Well, he thought this slightly larger home was the larger home I was referring to. It wasn't, but oh well. So, what room does he choose for his three deer heads, two turkey fans, duck pictures, eagle figurines and fishing paraphernalia? The living room. The most central room to our home. The room through which all souls must pass to get to the bathroom, studio or kitchen. I consented to the deer heads, encouraged him to limit himself to three themes and demanded veto power. About 3 weeks ago, Brandon began to give me ultimatums about decor in other parts of the house--I couldn't get new dining table chairs, we were keeping the ugly record/8 track player and he was keeping the gosh-awful, random picture of a man carrying a dead duck through the snow to a barn for some unknown reason, framed in the ugliest, bulkiest most disgustingly masculine frame you can gather from the very worst of your worst nightmares. By the way, I don't like ultimatums. Or ugly pictures.

It was the picture that sent me over the edge. The night he told me he was keeping it, no matter what, was a Friday night. All week, I had been running after my son and helping my sister with her twins. I was too tired to want to fight about it. I said nothing that night and went to sleep. The next morning, I was folding clothes after breakfast, and I said something a little short to him. His response? "You're just mad 'cuz I'm keeping the picture."

Have you ever felt anger in your toenails? I did. In that moment. I felt anger in my toenails, in my blood, in my bones, in my organs, and everywhere in between. The anger did not come from the picture alone. The picture had help. There were a lot of undisclosed behaviors and comments that I let slide without saying a word. But the picture was the proverbial straw. You know. The one that broke the camel's back. A better analogy in this case would be the last seismic shift before the eruption of Mt. St. Helen's.

The fit I threw was impressive. We refer to it now as the "grand mal hissy fit." And that is what it was. "NO!" I shouted with fervor and tears! "Just NOOO!! You will NOT keep that $@*% picture. It is god-awful and I HAATE it!" I threw folded laundry, I kicked the laundry basket, I pounded my fist on the table. I'm not sure what else I said. The anger had me. I do remember storming off to another room, slamming the door and silently daring him to come in. I think he waited until my breath returned to normal before approaching me. I told him through livid tears, that I was not sorry. That I felt better. And what is so terrible is that something that should have made me feel guilty, made me feel good. When it was over, we joked about it a bit, then he said, "So I guess now isn't a good time to tell you that I'm giving the picture to my dad." I would have been mad all over again had I not expounded all of my energy upon my tantrum. Instead, I scavenged for a little humor in the situation, and comforted myself with the fact that I had indeed, won again. Or so I thought.

God began dealing with me over the fit. I began to feel a little guilty that I had behaved like an adolescent, but I still wasn't willing to do the thing I knew in the cobwebby part of soul that I knew I must. I met with my prayer partner, Ellie, the following Wednesday as always, and against everything my mind was screaming at me, I confessed the full ordeal to her. As I confessed, the Lord made evident to me that He wanted me to do something I had never done before in an argument I cared anything about--lose.

In my 5 years of marriage, 7 years of loving Brandon, I had never lost a fight that I cared about. As the testament of the worst parts of myself spilled from my lips, I felt conviction, I felt the challenge and then I felt the anger. After meeting with Ellie and praying with her, I should have been right as rain, correct? Well, I wasn't. I then turned my anger from Brandon and the picture to the Lord. I neglected Him on purpose. Refused to submit my will to His. How dare He ask me to LOSE?
Those days of purposeful neglect were the darkest, most miserable days of my existence. I think this is because I had so recently tasted the sweetness of friendship with Him. I missed Him like crazy, but I wouldn't release my will. I hit a new low, and all of my insecurities prowled around for the kill. I realized in it all that I had recently prided myself on my faithfulness to God. Where was it now? He teaches me something that I don't want to learn, and I pout at Him like a toddler.

Fortunately, God never quits on us. If we are His, nothing can pluck us from His hand. Nor can we simply walk out. We are there forever.

The following Sunday night, we had prayer and communion at church. Rather than praying in groups, our pastors led us in a time of individual confession. The verses from Psalm 51 resonated through my spirit like a bell. "Restore to me the joy of your salvation" . . . "create in me a clean heart" . . . "sustain me with a willing spirit." Willing. A willing spirit. In that moment, in that word, my soul found peace. I found peace because I chose to lose. Not because I wanted furry necks and heads to dust for the rest of my life, or because I wanted 3 sets of eyes to follow me around wherever I go or an ugly picture hanging in my living room, but because I wanted to do what God wanted me to do, because I loved Brandon more than I hated deer heads or ugly pictures, and because choosing to lose makes me more like Jesus.

"Then Jesus said to His disciples, 'If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me. For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it."--Matthew 16:24-25

Of all possible applications, whoever imagined home decor?
(Before big things, we must be faithful in the small.)

So, the Lord and I have been enjoying one another again for a week. It's nice to have my Friend back. It's so silly that I was the one who pushed Him away. I've told Him about all of my anxieties about my "arts." He knows. He understands. He cares. And so He gave me a cardinal that would sing a glorious song to me (see Sara Groves lyrics above). He gave me the gift of this verse--
John 1:42--"Now when Jesus looked at Peter, He said, You are Simon the son of Jonah. You shall be called Cephas" (which is translated, a Stone.)"

You are now all confused. Let me explain.

Peter's destiny was to become a foundation, a cornerstone of the Church of Jesus Christ. So, when Jesus looked at him, though He knew all of his failures, He only saw who Peter was as God had created him to be in combination with who he would become through the work of the Holy Spirit. Peter would sink when he stepped out on the water, he would fall asleep when Jesus needed him to pray the most, he would cut off a guard's ear, he would deny Jesus three times the night before His death, and he would fail to recognize his Friend and Savior after He rose again. But Jesus saw a rock. Jesus saw his destiny.

And He sees mine. He sees me not as a rock, for that was someone else's destiny; but as a perfected artist, a perfected me, not the epic fail I am today.
He can see something else. And that is a very, very good thing.


Maybe if I look hard enough, I can see something else in this picture.

Happy Birthday, Micah!

Dear one,

I want you to know that not all birthdays are as bad as this one has been for you. I am so sorry that your mommy was grumpy from lack of sleep and too many emotions this morning. I am so sorry that she thought you were just being a fussy butt when you didn't want to eat your lunch. I am so sorry that you woke up from your afternoon nap running a fever of over 100. I am so sorry that it kept going up after I gave you Tylenol. I'm sorry that we had to go to the after hours clinic, that you got your finger stuck, your throat swabbed, your finger smashed in between those chairs and that you got a mean old shot that hurt your leg (and hurt your mommy and Grandma's feelings so bad that they cried over it). I'm sorry that I didn't have a present for you today. I'm sorry that you have to wait until tomorrow to get your cake.

I am NOT sorry that you are in my life. I am NOT sorry you changed my world so much that my idea of fun on a Friday night is to give you a bath and a bottle and cuddle with you until bedtime. I am NOT sorry that I can't leave town without missing you like crazy and worrying about you every minute. I am NOT sorry that the idea of something bad happening to you sends me into a panic (because then I have another excuse to talk to Jesus), and that I would take any pain sent your way 10 times over if it meant you could escape it. I am NOT sorry that every day you wake me up earlier than I want to be awake, before I get my coffee and greet me with that gorgeous grin of yours. I am NOT sorry that your presence in my life has made me realize the urgency with which I should always pray against the terrors of Satan. I am NOT sorry that a large chunk of my prayer time is now devoted to your salvation and future walk with the Lord. I am NOT sorry that my main job is take care of you every day. I am NOT sorry that you are no longer a tiny newborn , but now a badly balanced toddler who loves to laugh, sneak Daisy your food and tell your mommy, "NOOOOO!!!!" as often as you can. And I am NOT sorry that I have to stay up tonight and bake your birthday cupcakes when I'm actually so tired I could fall out right here. Because I am truly, madly, deeply in love with a little red-headed boy's boy with two teeth and a pot belly.

Happy birthday, and here's too many more . . . HAPPIER birthdays.

Love,
Mommy

Moving On

We will live here at 150 Sunflower Drive, Farmerville, Lousiana for three more days, and I never expected to feel so sad about it. I am really surprised by the nostalgia that seems to physically attack me as I pack all our belongings in prescription medicine and milk boxes. (My husband is a pharmacist at a grocery store.)


The truth is that I was afraid of this house when I first saw it. I remember the creepy feeling in my gut when we walked in and saw that the master bedroom had a deadbolt on it that could lock someone in the room. I remember how much I disliked the old man who sold us the house. I remember my extreme feelings of irritation at the outrageous amount of awful wallpaper the previous owners had put up and at the fact that they had stained the light-colored carpet with orange wood polish in many places. I also remember the hideous bathroom with it's black linoleum countertop and floor, brown oak cabinets, and cream, maroon and silver wallpaper. And when we finally decided that it was all we could possibly afford as we had no down payment and Brandon would be the sole breadwinner while I attended college, I still wasn't happy about it.

It became ours the day before I forever changed my name, and our family moved us in while we were off on our honeymoon. When we returned home, my husband scooped me up, and carried me over the threshold. Then began the task of making the house a home. We began with removing the gosh-awful wallpaper, and creating lots of passionate memories--passionate love and passionate fights, in cycles. We bought new furniture and borrowed some old. We unpacked and found places for all of those wedding gifts, some useful, some bizarre. A year later, we brought home a rat terrier puppy who pissed all over that light colored carpet, adding to the stains. And a year after that, we ripped up that stained carpet and laid down laminate flooring with our ridiculous tax refund, and from that point on, there never was a question of where Daisy was in the house. You can hear her loudly clicking her toenails from any spot within the prescribed 1,000 square feet.

This place saw old friends move away and the beginning of new, lasting friendships. It saw plenty of card games, plenty of chicken and hamburger dinners cooked on the George Foreman (I didn't know how to cook back then), dinner parties established right in front of the door (we have no official dining area), slumber parties (my guests would happily sleep on our living room furniture or air mattress), the beginning and expansion of a piano/voice studio, several strange diet attempts (the most radical being the elimination of gluten when I discovered my wheat allergy), and multiple Christmas parties. These walls witnessed three major heartbreaks, a university transfer, and a church change. They witnessed alternating periods of mania and depression from my end and a strong, steadfast love and growth from Brandon's end. They witnessed lots of laughter and soul-wrenching sobs and the pain and joy found in finding comfort in one another's arms. They witnessed lots of self-discovery--Brandon and I not only loved each other, we liked each other, too; I didn't want to be an English professor. I wanted to stay home with my future children, give lots of children the gift of music, and write a bit on the side; Brandon found that he was not only cautious, but adventurous, too and embarked on an spec-house adventure; I discovered that I loved the stage; Brandon discovered that major changes aren't always bad.

And then Micah was born. Here was a soul alive for the first time, and as a result, my soul found life again. My heart for the Lord had grown cold during the years of my college education, and when Micah came into the world, I experienced Him afresh. Over the past year (Micah turns 1 year old on Friday), this home has been more full with laughter and life than I would have thought possible when we bought this creepy thing five and a half years ago. Micah has grown from a tiny, squinty-eyed infant who could do nothing but eat, sleep and poop into a little boy who can say 8 words, light up the world with his belly laugh and captivate everyone in a room by his red-headed, fireball presence. And I was almost a dead soul that was about as unhappy as a person can be because I had tasted the joy of the Lord and had lost it. Then, by God's grace and infinite mercies, I slowly found my way back to the heart of the Lord and am once again experiencing the life He intends for all people--abundant life.

And this place saw it all . . .

And because of that, it will never be forgotten.

Praise be to the God who saw potential in this home when I did not. You are better to me than I deserve.

All Right Here

My blog is named after this song. I love this singer/songwriter. She is so real, and I relate to her music so seamlessly. If I had been gifted with the ability to write songs, hers are the kind of songs I would write.

It's every loss and every love.
It's every blessing from above.
Here I am all added up.
Oh, it's all right here..
It's what I know and what I'm guessin'.
It's half-truths and full confessions.
It's why I choose to learn my lesson.
Oh it's all right here..
And I'm not God I'm a girl I confess that I don't have sea of forgetfulness.
No, it's all right here.
It makes me stronger and makes me wince.
It makes me think twice when I pick my friends.
Oh, it's all right here it's all right here..
It's caution and curiosity.
And it's all the things I never see.
Welling up inside of me.
Oh, it's all right here.
It's what is best and what is worse.
It's how I see the universe.
It's in every line and every verse.
Oh, it's all right here..
And I'm not God I'm a girl I confess that I don't have sea of forgetfulness.
No, it's all right here.
It makes me stronger and makes me wince.
It makes me think twice when I pick my friends.
Oh, it's all right here it's all right here..
Every heart has so much history.
It's my favorite place to start.
Sit down awhile and share your narrative with me.
I'm not afraid of who you are..
I'm all here and you're all there.
Some of this is unique and some of it we share.
Let's add it up and start from there.
Oh, it's all right here..
Oh, I'm not God I'm a girl I confess that I don't have sea of forgetfulness.
No, it's all right here.
It makes me stronger and makes me wince.
It makes me think twice when I pick my friends.
Oh, it's all right here.
It's caution and curiosity.
And it's all the things I never see.
Oh, it's all right here.
It's what is best and what is worse.
And it's how I see the universe.
Oh, it's all right here.
It's all right here.
Oh, it's all right here.
I'm all right here.
Oh, I'm all right here.
I'm all right here, alright..

--Sara Groves, from the album All Right Here (2002)