Dance With Me

I recently went to dinner with a dear friend on the one year anniversary of her fiance’s death. We went to his favorite restaurant, ordered his favorite appetizer, enjoyed his favorite entree and ate dessert in his memory. It was a special time, and I was honored to be included in her night as she experienced the weight of what this day meant–365 days without her person.

As I sat there with her that night, I could not help but think about what is looming ahead for me as well. In the coming weeks, it will be my turn. I will reach the day–365 days without my person.

In this journey I never asked for or wanted to walk, the one-year mark is like a destination that has constantly been on the horizon. With each passing day–the ordinary ones, the holidays, the special occasions–the destination has inched closer. It is a place that everyone who experiences a significant loss must reach. One year. When all of the firsts are finally behind you. 

I remember being completely overwhelmed on that day. I was in shock, encumbered in grief and pain. I was drowning in fear. How will I do this? How are my children going to handle this? How will I have the strength to carry on? What is my life going to look like? How will we celebrate birthdays and holidays without him? Am I going to survive? Will I ever be able to sleep again? Will I laugh again? Is it okay if I smile? 

The one year anniversary of Tensey’s death has felt like a place, a goal, a target that has held my focus. If I could just get there, I would tell myself. 

And now that there is so close, what does it mean to have arrived? What once seemed so far away, is finally within reach. I know now that grief will never be over. But the one-year mark does feel like something has come to an end. For me, it is the end of the unknown and all of those firsts. Many of the questions that swirled around me on that dreadful day almost one year ago have been answered. 

I survived. My children are thriving. My granddaughters are growing. I found the strength. I have slept. I have laughed and I have definitely smiled. 

As this one year date approaches, I have spent so much time thinking about Tensey and what I miss about him the most. I did not know how to articulate it exactly. And then I saw it on Instagram. A reel of this couple in Alaska. The camera on their front porch captured her as she was walking up the snowy steps carrying groceries. She slips and falls to the ground–groceries everywhere. She starts crying and screaming for her husband. He opens the door, music is playing from the house, and he looks at her and says, “Dance with me.” 

In the middle of the snow and cold, amidst strewn groceries and spilled milk, he danced with her. It wasn’t about the groceries all over the porch or the mess; it was just about her. Soon she was smiling and laughing. He made everything better. 

And I thought, that’s it. That is what I miss the most about Tensey. He made everything better. With all of my faults and failures in life. On all of my worst days and even on my best days, Tensey was always there saying, “Dance with me.” 

As life moves forward and my children and I carry on, and as that one-year mark arrives, I close my eyes and I can see Tensey reaching for me. I hear him.

Dance with me, Michelle.

And, I know I will again one day. 

Never Looking Away

Tensey and I were together from March 17, 1993 until he took his last breath on March 29, 2024. 

From beginning to end, it was 31 years, 1 week and 5 days. 11,327 days in all. 271,848 hours. 16,310,880 minutes. That is a lot of life. 

Today, November 23, 2024, would have been our 28th wedding anniversary. Since his passing, I have spent a lot of time thinking about those years and those days, and what made them so special. Like every marriage, we went through seasons–both good and bad. We were not immune to the ebb and flow of life and all that it brings. In good and bad times, we always kept going. And, I have come to realize that maybe we kept going not only because we loved each other, but also because we never lost sight of each other. We just kept looking at each other.

One of my favorite memories of Tensey is actually before we were a couple. As a recent college graduate with my first real job at a newspaper, I met a cute, popular sportswriter. At that time, Tensey was rough around the edges–smoked a pack a day, enjoyed going to the bar after work and had the eye of lots of young women. And, I was completely drawn to him. There was something about his untamed, but calm and steady demeanor that made me want to be around him. 

I remember when my friend and I went to a popular college bar one night after dinner. The bar was full, and yet, I got an overwhelming feeling that someone was looking at me. I looked around, and there he was. Sitting at the bar.  His eyes locked on me. Tensey was staring at me while taking drags on his cigarette. I thought he would look away when he realized I saw him–but he didn’t. I looked at him and smiled and then quickly looked away. I glanced beside me and behind me to make sure he was really looking at me. My eyes returned to him, and he was still staring. There we were, in the middle of this bar, gazing at each other. 

He never looked away. 

Even though we were surrounded by people, noise, and music, he looked at me like I was the only person in the room; like it was just the two of us. The look was so focused; I could actually feel it. And, all these years later, I still think about that moment. How I felt, and honestly, how that defined our life together: Tensey never looked away.

Over these past months, I have spent time pouring over pictures, and I have watched our wedding video several times. The video includes interviews with family and friends. Tensey is also interviewed about how we met and about our future together. In describing our relationship early on, he says, “She had just gotten out of college, looking for something to do. And, I was just looking at her.” What a treasure to hear his voice and to hear, even now, how well he captured the essence of who we were as a couple.

We kept our eyes on each other. Whether in a room full of people or just in the chaos of daily life, I always felt like I did that night when I saw him sitting at the bar all those years ago. Like I was the only other person in the room. Like it was just the two of us.

Thank you, TGP, for our life, for our children. I do not know what is in store for me in the next chapters of my life. But, I do know that in the full story of my life, the chapters of building a life and a family will always belong to you. 

And, I know that we will be able to look at each other again one day. Until then, Happy Anniversary. Look at us. We did it–until death do us part. 

Thank you for loving me so well.

And, for choosing me every day for all those years. 

And, for never looking away. 

Six Months

I have crossed the six-month mark. Six months since I have seen Tensey’s face. Heard his voice. Touched him. It seems like yesterday, and yet, it seems like another lifetime. My life will forever be divided into before and after.

A dear friend sent me this picture recently, and it took my breath away. I remember that moment. It was surreal. I see myself–heartbroken, devastated and terrified. I remember standing there in the front row of the funeral, in utter despair and completely overwhelmed.

So many people have told me that I kept saying in those early days, “I don’t know how I am going to do this.”

And, I truly didn’t know.

I look at this picture, and although I know it is me, that woman feels like someone far away, almost someone I don’t know. That woman is somewhere between the before and the after. Still floating somewhere in the in-between existing on adrenaline, medication, sheer will and prayer. She is wrestling with God and the why of it all. She is weary from grief and decision making.

Today, six months later, I am standing fully in the after. So, what would I tell that woman in the picture?

I would begin by saying there will continue to be things you don’t know and don’t understand. But, you will be able to put one foot in front of the other and just do the next thing.

I would tell her…

…you will grieve his loss forever, and you will have to be both a grieving wife and the mother of two grieving children. You will have to carry the pain and the weight of it all. And, it will be hard. You will have to come to terms with everything you’ve lost. Not only his presence in your life, but also your family unit. And, growing old together.

…you have no idea how much you will be loved, carried, prayed over and supported as your walk continues. Flowers and food deliveries will end, but your friendships won’t end. You will see, feel and know the hands and feet of Christ in your life. Your best friends, your family and your work family will continue to show up day in and day out.

…the Christ-like qualities you always saw in Tensey–goodness, kindness, humility, gentleness and his heart for service–will live on at The Dunham School through a named scholarship in his honor. You have no idea that one line in the obituary you write will lead to countless donations to honor Tensey’s life and to create a lasting legacy.

…you will come to understand in ways you could not imagine the impact that Tensey had on those he worked with and whose lives he touched through his career. You will be overwhelmed with pride, love and admiration when LWCC presents you with an amazing collection of photographs, stories and lessons learned from Tensey all bound in a beautifully designed book. And, it will bring you to tears each time you look at it.

…you will have many firsts. And, not just the first holidays or the first birthdays, but also the more insignificant firsts that people may not think about. The first time you’ll travel alone. Or, the first time you’ll go through a bad weather event. The first grocery store trip when you did not have to buy his Diet Dr. Pepper, the first time to have a flat tire, or the first time when you need to get something down from the attic. And, those firsts will each be an accomplishment.

…tears will continue to come. And, there will be hard days. But, there will also be joy and smiles. You will never move on, but you will be able to move forward.

…you can and will have a new life; a different life. Things will never be the same, and they really shouldn’t be. But, in this new life–in the after–you need to grab hold of the things that and the people who make you happy.

…the anger will subside and the wrestling will end. You will realize that as much as the Lord has a plan for your life and future, He had a plan for Tensey’s life, too. If you believe that God loves you, then you must accept that He loved Tensey, too. As time passes, you will begin to focus more on what Tensey has gained than what you have lost.

Today, I am standing, some days more steady than others, while balancing the joy and the pain. Holding them both, and looking ahead, reaching for what is to come at the same time I’m letting go of what was, and what was lost.

As I sat with my son recently, he reminded me again of the first days and weeks after Tensey passed how often I said out loud that I did not know how I was going to do this. And, my son said to me, “Mom, look at you–you are doing it.” Some days I do it better than others, but he’s right–I am doing it.

I read something recently that a widow posted. She wrote that she knew at some point in her grief she had to eventually return to the woman her husband fell in love with, and that resonated with me. Tensey would want that for me in this after chapter of my life.

And so, for Tensey, for our children and honestly, for me, I am doing just that.

The Power of Words

From an early age, I recognized the power in words; the weight they can carry. I also understood how they could come together to create a story that could connect and impact those who read them. I knew it as a reader, and I also knew that I had an overwhelming desire to be a part of that. To write.

To this day, I still have my backpack full of short stories and poems typed on a typewriter throughout my teenage years. Short stories, both typed and handwritten, stuffed into folders and old spiral notebooks. 

I have journals of phrases penned, quotes jotted down, letters written, and lists of writing ideas. 

Times have changed and spiral notebooks and typewriters have been replaced with Google Docs and the Notes section of my iPhone, but my desire to write things down, to create, has not changed. 

The past several years have been the most challenging of my life. There were times I found myself awake in the night, my mind racing with words and ideas. Other times I have been numb, and at a loss for words. And so, the urge to write was buried, maybe even seemingly lost.  

But, I still longed for a place to share my writings. A place where others could visit and maybe even connect in some way. So, I created my website–Foundations of Sapphires. 

It is through this site that I could share my story and in turn ask others to share theirs. Interestingly enough, during the most quiet and darkest time in my life, the connection through my site has been the loudest. 

In the past few months, I have heard from several people who found their way to my site by longing to learn more about sapphires. Whether the presence of sapphires in scripture or their healing powers, the search led them here and they have shared their stories with me. 

One woman wrote:

I'd love to tell you my story. But, this note isn't about me.

I was looking for a verse about the foundation of sapphire stones to share with a special friend who had never heard it.

I stumbled upon your blog. I've looked up verses so many times and this [is] truly the first time I came across a blog. So, I read it. Then I read more. You are a gifted writer. Your blogs stopped with the Queen.

I can't begin to know why. But, I do pray that you start writing again. This world, at this time needs your words of encouragement. Needs your transparency. It needs the 'real'.

We all go through heartache, agonizing grief and pain so unbearable you wonder if your breath will fail you.

If that is the cause of you no longer writing, then I encourage you to pick up your pen and write again. Tell your story again.

Wow–power in her words.

And, there were others. The woman who had been a victim of incest; struggling to feel beautiful and to accept the love from her husband. 

The woman who has become the caretaker of her mother suffering from dementia. Grieving her mother while she is still here.

The woman, estranged from her father for most of her life and whose mother was killed tragically in a car wreck by a drunk driver, who spiraled into depression and grief. 

She wrote, “I don’t even know your name. But I love your stories. I was just telling my story to my brother-in-law today. How God had promised me before my Mom died (unexpectedly) that he would give me foundations of sapphires.”

Through my darkness, these strangers have been a light and an inspiration to find my voice again. To find the words. And, to move forward with hope.

Details of my life and my story have been updated to reflect where I am now–today. Honestly, I don’t know about tomorrow, what it will bring, or when I will want to write something to post. But, I do know that I have this place, this website where I can share. And, so can others. 

My story continues.
The foundation remains.
The connection is real.
And the words carry on.

God Save the Queen

Accession Day. Today marks 70 years since Queen Elizabeth II ascended to the throne upon the death of her father King George VI.  She is the longest reigning monarch in history. 

For me and for many others, that is worth honoring and celebrating. 

Today, when I close my eyes, I am walking in the crisp British air through the streets of London, stopping to take a picture across the street from Westminster Abbey–the very place of the Queen’s coronation. And, reflecting on the many ways that country, its monarchy, history and its culture have shaped my life. 

England–and everything about it– has been a constant source of inspiration, comfort, joy and fascination for me.

As a child, I remember waking up in the early hours of the morning to watch the wedding of Charles and Diana. It was a real life fairy tale, and I was watching someone become a princess. She was beautiful in her white puffy gown walking down the aisle of St. Paul’s Cathedral into what appeared to be a magical life. Oh, how I loved her.

Over the years, there were more royal weddings and the arrival of children. Yes, I have celebrated each occasion. Getting up in the early hours to watch Prince Andrew and Sarah, Edward and Sophie, William and Kate, and Harry and Meghan. I have hosted watch parties, worn crowns and sipped tea. I have toasted and wished them all the best. I have “oohed and ahhed” at the dresses and pageantry. 

And, of course, the Queen was a constant. She was the Queen and yet, these ceremonies reminded us she was also a wife, a mother and a grandmother. 

For me, it is not only my love for the Royal Family that has impacted my life, but also the country itself. 

I have walked the streets of London, Stratford-upon-Avon, Bath and York. I have walked the halls of Hampton Court Palace, Windsor Castle and Kensington Palace. I have stood on the ground of the Tower of London, and climbed the steps to the White Tower. I have spent time in the Cotswolds and the Lake District and imagined a life in this beautiful country. I have worshipped in Westminster Abbey and wept at the martyrdom of Thomas a Becket. I have seen the changing of the guard. On one visit to England, I was actually at the gate of Buckingham Palace when the Queen and Prince Phillip were returning home. Her car passed directly in front of me, and I caught a glimpse of the Queen in her yellow dress with her pearls. It was extraordinary.

And then there are the words; the literature. 

With an English teacher for a mother, it seems I always knew about Shakesepare, Wordsworth and Chaucer.  I soaked in every word and detail as a student, and then as a teacher of British literature.  

My passion for what I was teaching served as the brush I used to paint pictures for my students, weaving history and literature into one beautiful mural. 

“We are our art,” I would say to them, as I was hoping the pictures I was creating were teaching them about the world and ourselves. 

And, always telling them about the Royal Family. “And, when you visit England, as one day you shall, I hope,” I would say, “you will love it like I do.”

As I have grown older and as we have all come to know more about the Royal Family, we have had to come to understand that living in a palace does not protect one from the pain of life. 

And, a fairytale wedding does not mean a fairytale life. 

There was drama. There was adultery. There was pain. And there was divorce–Princess Anne and Captain Mark Phillips. Prince Charles and Princess Diana. Prince Andrew and Sarah, Duchess of York. 

And, then there was death. 

I remember the moment it was announced that Princess Diana had died. An overwhelming blanket of sadness came over me and millions across the world. That time, I was waking up early to watch a funeral. The image of Prince Phillip, William, Harry and Prince Charles walking behind Diana’s casket through the streets of London was both beautiful and tragic.

And, there has also been disappointment as we have seen through the cracks in the palace walls and into their lives. 

Prince Andrew is part of a civil sex assault case and has been stripped of all military titles and charities. His title will most likely be next. It has been confirmed that Charles never really loved Diana. He loved Camilla–and as the Queen wishes, she will most likely become Queen. A lesson in forgiveness for us all. 

Harry resigned from all royal duties. His interview with Oprah. His betrayal. As the Queen, she has had to navigate the failings and unfortunate decisions of the members of the Royal Family.  She has done that well; and yet, she is also a mother and grandmother. One can only imagine the heartache and sadness she must feel. 

Watching people you love make poor decisions, even when they grew up in a palace, makes the Queen, in some ways, more human–more like one of us.

Speaker and author Tony Evans wrote, “We’re living in a time when it’s only about me. What I think. How I feel. What I want. And if I have to harm you with my words or my actions in order to get what I want—well, too bad.” 

How very true. And, how very sad. 

Perhaps that is why I and so many people love Queen Elizabeth II. She embodies the exact opposite of this new way of life. 

Upon the death of her dearest Prince Phillip, I wrote to her: 

Madam,

I wanted to express my sadness at the loss of your beloved husband Philip. His incredible life and his contributions to the Commonwealth will forever be remembered.

Your marriage is a true testament to what it means to lead a life of love, devotion, duty and respect.

May God’s love along with the love of your family and your subjects blanket you with peace during this difficult time.

You will be in my prayers, Your Majesty.

Her marriage, her life and her reign are a true testament to duty, respect, honor, dignity, devotion and love.  

So, on this historic Accession Day, I honor Queen Elizabeth II and her remarkable 70 years.

Happy and glorious,
Long to reign over us,
God save the Queen!

When There Are No Words

It has been awhile. Life has just held so much. A significant health issue with my husband, followed by surgery. COVID. Difficult relationships. My son graduating from high school. His move to college. Empty nesting.

It has been a lot. 

I searched for the words, but they never came. Throughout my life, I have always been able to turn to words–in my darkest days as well as on my best days.  And yet, for months the words did not come. They were replaced by worry. 

What if my husband did not get better? What if my husband, who loves running and exercise, could never do those again? What if I had lasting effects from COVID? What if my son went away and never came back? What if my empty nesting left me and my husband, well, empty?  What would I do to fill the nights and weekends that once revolved around my son’s schedule? What if the broken relationships in my life really could not be repaired?

The what ifs had taken my words. 

As a Christian, I knew the Bible verses. I knew the Truth about how much God loved me. How I needed to have faith. And yet, the what ifs continued to swirl because in the quiet moments, they were all-consuming.

I stumbled upon Tera’s Online Christian Journey. She wrote, “Bible verses aren’t band-aids...Out of God’s great mercy and compassion and understanding...God gives us one another…”

And, I realized God gave me words. They weren’t my words–they were hers. And, they were good.

I thought about how God had used others and their words in my life. 

• The people who came to our home and prayed with me and my husband. 

• The friends who fed us during his healing.

• The ones who called, prayed and encouraged me during COVID. 

• The friends who understood the anxiety of sending my son away and prayed with me. 

• The people who celebrated small steps and continue to walk with me “one day at a time” in difficult seasons.

• The friends who remain non-judgmental and love unconditionally.

• The visits over coffee as like-minded parents shared the struggles of raising children and what it meant to love like Jesus.

Words had left me. And, they will leave me again. 

But now I see that perhaps at times when I had no words, He filled the gap with those who did.

What if that is enough? 

The Secret of Motherhood

“Three boys. How wonderful to be the mom of three boys,” I said to her.

“Four boys,” she replied. “I am the mom of four boys. The oldest would be five years old now.”

Would be five. 

I knew what that meant. He would be, but he isn’t––he is gone. 

“Oh, I am so sorry,” I said.  I looked into her eyes.  

I read somewhere long ago that becoming a mother is like being initiated into a sorority of women that has existed since time began.  Not all are blessed with membership and some choose not to join.  But for those who do, we know the rituals. 

So, I looked at this mom of four boys, because we both knew the secret: the joy and pain of motherhood. 

On Mother’s Day, I found myself amidst a blur of flowers and brunch, thinking of her and all the moms who perhaps were not celebrating. The ones who are always thinking of their children who would be rather than the ones who are.

The mother of four boys. 
The three friends from high school walking through the tragic loss of their adult children. 
The mother of my precious friend who recently lost her eldest son.
The friend who suddenly lost her adult daughter months ago. 

The unimaginable. 

And then there are the mothers silently battling a different type of loss–not physical, but emotional. Their children may be present, but choose not to be in their presence. 

Perhaps there really are no words. 

But, there is the secret–the joy and the pain. The holding on and the letting go. And, the love. 

As mothers, we make mistakes. So do our children, but the love for our children extends beyond comprehension. We love the ones we can hold, and we honor and love the ones who would be but are no more. 

I have learned so much about this secret of motherhood. From my own mother.  From the amazing mothers who surround me. We see it in each other’s eyes–the secret. And at times, we must carry each other.

But, that is what mothers do. We carry. 

We carried our children in our wombs. We carried them in our arms and on our hips. Even on our backs. We’ve carried them in ways they may never know.  

We celebrate. We mourn. We cherish. We grieve. We give thanks for motherhood. We hug the ones who are with us.  We pray for the ones who are not.

And we carry on.

The Perfect Day

2020.  What a year.  So many numbers we hear about–the number of COVID-19 cases, political polls, days of civil unrest, days in quarantine, number of days businesses have been closed, hurricanes.  We are counting a lot this year. 

But for me, there is one number that will always stand out in 2020. 

50.  

I turned fifty.  Just typing the word seems unbelievable–like most of 2020.

After weeks of social distancing and quarantining–before a statewide mask mandate–I was thankfully able to celebrate this monumental number with one perfect day.

As the air turns cooler and we say hello to fall, I wanted to officially say goodbye to this special summer.  The summer I turned 50.  And the celebration with all of my favorite things: stunning details, delicious food, beautiful art, jazz music and (especially) my closest people.

There will be a time when we all look back on 2020 and reflect on all the unimaginable circumstances and events that defined this year.  

Though many things will come to mind, this day will stand out.  

Now, to scroll through the details and relive it over and over.

And over.

---

–THE TABLES–

“When a guest sits down there should be something beautiful and inspiring to look at.” –– Annie Falk

–THE FLORALS–

“A flower does not think of competing with the flower next to it. It just blooms.” –– Zen Shin

–THE ART–

“Art speaks where words are unable to explain.” –– Threadless Artist Mathiole

–THE DETAILS–

“Luxury is in each detail.” –– Hubert de Givenchy

–THE CAKE & BALLOONS–

"A party without cake is just a meeting." — Julia Child

---

–THE VENDOR LIST–

Event Coordinator: Angela Marie Events
Location: Houmas House and Gardens
Food & Beverages: Houmas House and Gardens
Photography: Sarah Ward
Cake: Sweet Stirrings
Live Painting: Nicole Callac
Invitation:  The Queen Bee
Artwork:  Rachael Roxanne
Soloist: Mallory Morgan
Jazz Band: The JGrayJazz Trio
Calligraphy: Ashley D’Aubin
Cookies: Sugar Kettle Cookie Company
Oyster Place Cards: IsadorasMarket on Etsy
Florals: Angela Marie Events
Balloon Wall: Baton Rouge Balloons
Dress: BCBG

I Want My 80s

The 80s. I loved them.

MTV played real music hosted by VJ’s.  Big hair.  Purple eyeshadow.  Esprit Clothes.  

So, of course my 40th birthday party was 80s themed–cake included. The Movie Party I hosted at the Manship Theatre was 80’s themed—costumes required.

American Girl recently announced their new Historical Character doll–Courtney from 1986. She comes with her own walkman, cassette tape, colored plastic bangles and flavored lip balm.

Like, wow. Really?

1986–what a year. Boom boxes and Walkmans. I would spend hours making mixtapes on cassettes–one for every mood.  That was also the year I turned 16, and my Fiero arrived in my driveway with a big pink bow on top of it.  It seems like yesterday I was driving around–mixtapes blaring.  Ahhhh, those were the days.  

How can it be that there is a historical figure from the 80s?  Just the sound of it makes me feel old.  As if turning 50 this year wasn’t enough.

In 1986, we danced along to Whitney Houston’s “How Will I Know.” 

Cameo taught us that “Word Up” was the code word and Robert Palmer had us convinced we were “Addicted to Love.”  

At times we were confused as we shouted “You Give Love a Bad Name” with Bon Jovi and then we would serenade with Peter Cetera about the “Glory of Love.” 

We started the week singing “Manic Monday” with the Bangles and ended on the weekends with Madonna’s “Papa Don’t Preach.” 

80s-themed Movie Party at the Manship Theatre in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

And, of course, there was Berlin’s “Take My Breath Away” from the soundtrack of Top Gun with Tom Cruise.  He told us, “I feel the need–the need for speed,” and we were along for the ride.  Maverick and Goose.  Those sunglasses.  Volleyball on the beach.  We all wanted to be Maverick’s wingman.  He really did take our breath away.

1986 was the year Ferris Bueller taught us that “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”  I watched from the front row of the packed movie theatre as one of my best friends stood and danced to “Twist and Shout” as Ferris sang and paraded down the street.  Ferris would have been so proud.  

We all wanted to be Molly Ringwald in a John Hughes movie. Together, they captured the awkwardness, struggles, heartbreak, joy and pain of teenagers navigating high school, friendships and parents on their way to finding their true selves.  

What would the 80s be without Samantha from Sixteen Candles, Claire from The Breakfast Club or Andie from Pretty in Pink? 

These movies defined our lives at that time. 

It was as if we all believed that our own Jake Ryan would be waiting for us in a red Porsche ready to give us the perfect sixteenth birthday.  In spite of the fact that we weren’t popular, deeply insecure and not really beautiful.

But, if it happened for Samantha, then maybe.

We sang “Don’t You Forget About Me” as we joined in the cry that we are more than how others see us–more than the labels assigned to us in high school.  “What we found out is that each of us is a brain, and an athlete, and a basketcase, and a princess and a criminal.”  We could all come together, and recognize who we really are, even if it was for just one day.

And of course, we all cheered when Andie walked out in her pretty pink prom dress and announced that her date would not be coming. There have been times in all of our lives where we have been left out, made fun of or felt like we don’t fit in.  So, when she said, “I just want them to know that they didn’t break me,” we understood.  Andie was one of us. 

Molly Ringwald gave us hope.

As I think about the 80s, I feel like Molly Ringwald running toward Duckie in Pretty in Pink as he says, “May I admire you again today?”

So, welcome, Courtney from 1986.  I celebrate you and that special time.  

You can find me wearing pink, jamming to some 80s music, and sipping on “oh you know, beer, scotch, juice box...whatever.”   I just might even roll my hair and put on some flavored lip gloss. 

How, like, totally awesome.

No One Planned for This

I received my crisp, freshly-bound Golden Coil planner in the mail recently.  It’s empty pages spanning from August to July, as my life revolves around the school year.  (There is nothing quite like getting a new planner.)

Plans–I love them. 

School events.  
Appointments.  
To-do lists.  
Date nights.  
Girls nights. 
Vacations.

I love the structure and the order of a good plan–a definite beginning and end. 

I love the joy of completing a task, of creating an experience. 

I love the sense of accomplishment of checking items off of my to-do list. (Sometimes, I even write things down I have already done just so I can check it off.)

And yet today, I look at my beautiful new planner–blank and inviting–and the excitement that typically comes with plans for a new school year fell flat.  

For the first time, there are no lists of school events.  No vacations planned.  No football schedule to write down.  No community event to get dressed up for.  

I look at my planner, afraid to write anything down in pen and hesitant to look past the week before me.

2020. No one planned for this.

Illness.  Death.  Financial hardship.  Civil and political unrest.
Quarantine.  Masks.  Social distancing.  Working from home.  

I feel anxious.  Sometimes sad.  Overwhelmed.  Ironically when we need hugs and smiles the most, they’re gone.

 I long for order, consistency, stability. 

And yet, as I contemplate my life and the years leading up to 2020, the unexpected has always managed to find its way in.  So, truth be told, there is a lot in my life I have not planned. Even in the midst of my planning, when I thought I was in control, I really wasn’t. 

As I look through the empty pages of my new planner, I think about the future.  

What do I know for sure? 

• I know that I am changed.  2020 and the few years leading up to it, have changed me.

• I have come to understand that life can be more than moving from one thing to the next. Between the beginning and the end, there can be joy too. 

• The unexpected will happen; and it can refine you. 

• An empty planner does not mean an empty life–it means stillness.  It means rest.  It means time.  It means one day at a time.  One week at a time.  Quiet.  In the silence, He is there.

For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

– Jeremiah 29:11

I know the plans, He says. He knows the plans.  And that is enough. 

So, I open my blank and beautiful planner.  The quote I chose to be printed in the beginning of my planner is staring back at me.

“What would be the point of living if we didn’t let life change us?” – Carson, Downton Abbey

Indeed, Carson–sounds like a plan.

Christ Provides

I saw her for the first time seated on a bench outside of Perkins Rowe.  

As I was picking up a book curbside, she was sitting there.  Mismatched clothes.  Backpack.  Bags at her feet.  I knew she had to be homeless, perhaps just passing through.

It was only a few days later when I spotted her again.  

She was walking on the sidewalk–not too far from where I had seen her the first time.  I could see her from a distance, carrying her backpack and those same few bags, probably holding all of her possessions.

I wondered where she was going, where she had been. 

Just days later, I saw her on that same bench.  

This time, my son was with me. I said, “Oh my, there she is. I keep seeing this woman around this area.  I think she is homeless. I can’t stop thinking about her. Maybe I should talk to her.”  

But, I didn’t stop.  I didn’t talk to her. I kept driving.

I could not stop thinking about her.

I have had many sleepless nights recently.  As I have lain awake at night, I have thought of her.  And of what her life must be like. 

Today, as I pulled into Sonic for my usual–large Diet Coke–there she was, ordering food at the window next to me.  With her backpack and bags. 

I was compelled to speak.

“Ma’am,” I said to her.  And she turned to me.

I explained that I had seen her several times–sitting on the bench, walking.  I told her I had been thinking about her.  She smiled and said nothing.

“Do you have a place to sleep?”

She smiled and said, “Christ provides.”

I nodded in agreement and asked her the question again.  She responded the same. 

“Christ provides.”

I tried a different question.  I could see she had ordered food.

“Are you able to pay for your food?”  She held up a gift card and said it again.

“Christ provides.”

I asked her if she was alone.

Again, “Christ provides.”

Perhaps she could see that I was wishing for more. She went on, “That will always be my answer. Christ provides.”  And she smiled.

“You have a beautiful smile,” I told her.

As the Sonic employee handed me my Diet Coke, I paid for my order and for hers.  

I put my car in reverse and as I began to pull away, I said to her, “I want you to know that I think of you.  That I am praying for you. I will think of your smile. And, I will remember that Christ provides.”  

She smiled and said, “I appreciate that.”  And I drove away.  

Even now, I am still thinking about her.  And her words. 

I can see her sitting peacefully on the bench.  Casually walking down the road.  And then standing next to me.  And how our paths led us both to Sonic on this random morning. 

I am hoping to see her again. I will certainly be looking for her.  The homeless woman with the big smile, all of her possessions at her feet, who reminded me of Christ’s love and provision.  

And really, that is all we need to know–the only answer to life’s questions that really matters. 

As she said, it should always be our answer. 

Christ provides.

He does indeed.  And that is enough.

For her.
For all of us.

That Place

Pictures.  I have always loved them.  Long before social media, I was a collector of photographs–moments of people I love captured forever.  

For years, back when we used to print pictures, I would organize them in photo albums.  Each album was numbered and each picture placed perfectly in chronological order. My albums go well into the double digits–I treasure them. 

I have found myself returning to these albums more and more as time passes.  

These albums, collectors of memories.  

Images of extraordinary moments like baby showers, births, first days of school and graduations.  

Images of ordinary moments like swinging in the backyard, Saturday morning cuddles, Halloween costumes and playdates with friends. 

The printed date in the corner tells me these were taken long ago, and yet, when I close my eyes, the moments just happened. 

I close my eyes, and I am in that place again.

In all of my picture-collecting and album-making, I always put the extra pictures in a cabinet, stuffed in there like the memory itself–put away for me to bring out when I needed.  

The pictures were in no particular order, unlike my albums.  Combing through them was like finding a gift you did not know you needed.  

“Oh, I remember that!”
“Look at this precious baby picture!”

I find myself wanting things in order, and with the extra time on my hands, I decided to organize my cabinet. 

And so I began.  Smiling as I went through each individual picture, and remembering.  And thinking how quickly it all went.

I came to the stacks of my children’s school pictures.  

And I thought about the frames–the ones with thirteen openings for pictures kindergarten through twelfth grade. 

This type of frame had not appealed to me before.  I had always thought it was trite, unsophisticated.  

But, I sat there with all of these school pictures and nothing to do with them, and I realized I wanted to see the little school pictures that had been stuffed in the cabinet. I felt the need to pull them out permanently– to honor moments, the memories, the places. 

After finding and ordering the perfect frames, I excitedly placed each picture in chronological order.  

And it took my breath away.

There they were–my children–their story in photographs.  

Each snapshot took me back to that year.  That moment. That place.  

Teachers.  Friends. Class Parties.  A few trips to the office.  Report Cards. Conferences.  
Field Trips.  Football games.  School Plays. Pep Rallies.  Basketball games. Awards Days. Homecoming Dates.  Disappointments. Celebrations. Sleepovers. Heartbreaks.  Ceremonies. 

And, the white spaces between each picture, the in-between.  The summers filled with cannonballs, vacations, friends, snow-cones, trips to camp, and time with family.

They were all there.  All the memories–in each school picture, in each white space.

I have stared at these frames over and over.  And, I see our lives.

The author Celeste Ng wrote in Little Fires Everywhere:

“To a parent, your child wasn’t just a person; your child was a place, a kind of Narnia, a vast eternal place where the present you were living and the past you remembered and the future you longed for existed at once.  You could see it every time you looked at her: layered in her face was the baby she’d been and the child she’d become and the adult she would grow up to be, and you saw them all simultaneously, like a 3-D image. It made your head spin.  It was a place you could take refuge, if you knew how to get in. And each time you left it, each time your child passed out of your sight, you feared you might never be able to return to that place again.”

Ah, yes that place. 

Motherhood–home. 

I am thankful for these little school pictures and how they give me my children’s lives all at once.

And how they allow me to return to That Place, that Narnia, that refuge, again and again.

Nothing But Time

Time.  

It seems like time is all any of us have right now.  The days just roll along, each one resembling the previous.  

Thinking about time always brings me back to them–the ones serving time.

Three prisoners from the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women.  I only met them once–years ago–but I think of them often. 

The first woman was in her fifties and had no teeth. In prison for murdering her husband.  I listened to her story about how an abusive relationship had changed the path of her life.  She talked of drugs and life choices; about regret and longing for courage; and about what life was like for her in prison.  It was the same every day–waking up, eating, work, and going to bed. Repeat.

The second woman was in her forties.  Also in prison for murdering her abusive husband–with a baseball bat.  She also talked of bad choices, emotional decisions, and of the courage she wished she had had to walk away.  

The third woman was young–in her twenties.  As a seventeen year old, she and a group of friends robbed someone.  Before she knew what was happening, there was an altercation. She fired a shot.  It wasn’t her gun–she had never even shot a gun. And there she was, guilty of an adult crime.  A life altered at just seventeen.  

The group I was with, we all felt the heaviness in the room as they spoke of a life they thought would never be for them.  And their message of making good choices filled the quiet.  

I was able to join the three women and the sheriffs for lunch.  We ate. We laughed. I remember how much they enjoyed the beverages with ice, as they remarked that they were not allowed to have ice in prison.  Ice. The heaviness was still there. 

We all sat together that day, but the circumstances of our lives and our own choices separated us.

They left that day to return to their life in prison; and I returned to my life.  

I have thought of them throughout the years, and the day we sat together.   

I have wondered what it feels like to be them.  To have nothing ahead of you but time. 

But life has a way of coming full circle, it only takes time.  

Recently, I found myself sitting across from an employee at the Louisiana Correctional Institute for Women.  We sat in my office talking about children and school until the conversation shifted to her work with the prison.  I shared with her my time with the three women.  

Imagine my surprise when she was able to share updates on the women that still cross my mind. The woman in her fifties was still in prison, but had new teeth. The young one had been released and was involved in a program for women released from prison. 

Time had been kind to some, and not so much to others.  But it was good to hear about them.

So now, as we all sit and wait during this time of so much uncertainty, I find myself thinking of the three women.  And about the day we all sat together. And about time.  

Seems like yesterday, and yet it wasn’t. 

The author Alice Walker said, “Time moves slowly but passes quickly.”  

How very true. 
For those women. 
For all of us.  

While our differences remain, we are all alike in some ways.  Maybe even in most ways.  

We all have nothing ahead of us but time. 

Hello, Old Friend

Hello, old friend.  It has been awhile. But there you are, waiting for me.  

Writing. 

It always welcomes me home.  There is something safe, something wonderful about words.  For me, putting words on paper is like walking into the embrace of an old friend who is ready to listen, ready to walk with me through any journey.

So, here we are.  It has been some time, and it was time I needed. To be quiet.  To rest. To feel. To think. To welcome. To let go.

For most of my life, I thought of the world and of people and situations as right or wrong, this way or that way; black or white–no gray.  And now, I have come to understand that although some situations are black and white, life and people are more complex.  

Lately, I have found myself in the gray.  Lingering there–in the gray–looking, listening, understanding.

Painted Smiles

Recently, my son came home from a friend’s house and told me he had just watched the best movie he’d ever seen.  I was surprised when he told me it was “Joker” with Joaquin Phoenix.  

After days of asking me, I watched it.  It was violent. It was sad. At times, it was hard to watch.  And yet, it was captivating.  

I asked my son why he loved the movie so much.  He explained to me that most movies have a good guy and a bad guy–like many superhero films.  He went on to say that typically, the good guy always wins, and that this movie showed the complexity of people, the messiness of life.  He said that he could see the Joker’s transformation, his sadness. He said there were times he felt sorry for him.  

My son saw beyond the painted smile on the Joker’s face; he saw him.  

I listened to my son, and I saw him.  There he was, standing in the gray; so much understanding at such a young age; so much wisdom.

In the quiet and the rest of the past few months, I have thought a lot about painted smiles.  And of the people I know behind the smiles.

The mom who called me sobbing to tell me that her husband had left her.
The family who had to hospitalize their son recently for depression.
The young girl who is suffering from overwhelming anxiety.
The friend whose husband was just diagnosed with ALS. 
The mom I prayed with whose son has autism. 
The friend who is going through a traumatic divorce.
The friend whose husband passed away suddenly.
The young girls I met who have been removed from their home by Child Protective Services.

And the list goes on and on and on.

I have never been more aware of painted smiles. Pain, heartbreak and tragedy have a way of revealing the truth about people. 

It is heavy.  
It is messy.  
It is gray.
So much gray.

Some turn their heads.  Some are in denial. But some–some will join you in the gray.  To see past the painted smile. To sit with others in their pain. To be there to listen and to pray.

And so I say hello, old friend.  Writing. Thank you for waiting for me in the gray.  

Her Name Was

I pulled into Sonic, my usual morning stop before work.  As I reached to push the button to place my order, I saw her. Standing in front of my car. 

With one hand, she was holding an old worn blanket around her shoulders.  With the other, she was holding her pants to keep them from falling. I could barely see her toes and her flip flops peeking beneath the bagginess of her jeans.  Her shirt, like her pants, hung on her. In a soft voice, she said, “Ma’am, can you buy me some food?”

I looked at her.  I looked in her eyes.  A few years ago, maybe I would have politely told her no and gone about my day.  Or, maybe I wouldn’t have even seen her.  But not now.  Life has a way of teaching us; humbling us; making us better.

“What would you like?”  I said. She seemed surprised by my response.  There was no smile. Just surprise.

I placed the order, and she turned away to sit down at the bistro table while we waited.  I saw a tattered pink duffle bag next to her. She sat quietly until our eyes met again.

As I leaned out to talk to her, she got up and came to the front of my car.  And she began to talk.   

I learned she is alone–no husband or children.  I learned she is out of work, but is looking for a job.  I learned there was a time when she had friends, but that time is no more.  

 “Where are your parents?”

“I don’t have parents,” she replied.

“Are they deceased?”  I asked.

“No,” she said, “I had dummy parents.  They were not real parents.”  

Dummy parents.  With those words, the dirty and hungry stranger before me transformed into a wounded, broken person.  

It’s just a word.  But what heaviness it carries.  What sadness.  

Dummy–a model or replica of a human being; something designed to resemble and serve as a substitute for the real or usual thing; a counterfeit or sham.  

Heartbreaking. 

I found myself not knowing the right words to say; so I just said, “Oh, I am so sorry.”

She went on to talk about her mother.  She told me that her mother was always talking.  But, she said, “I could not hear her.” She shook her head as if exasperated, “I just could not hear her.”

I nodded at her and again repeated how sorry I was. 

As she talked, I listened.  I smiled at her. I watched her.  I thought about how different we are;  how the circumstances of our lives and the consequences of our life choices sent us in different directions.  And yet, I thought about how much we are the same. 

Our earthly parents are different, but we share the same Heavenly Father.  

And He calls us by name.  

Although she could not hear, and perhaps would not listen to her mother, she wanted to be heard that morning.  I heard her. I heard what she said, and I heard what she didn’t say. 

And I wanted to remember her.  Everyone has a story.

As they delivered the food, I told her I would pray for her.  I told her that I wish her all the best. She smiled and blew me a kiss. 

I asked her what her name was.  She did not ask me my name, and that was okay.  More than likely, she will never think of me again. 

I have looked for her during my daily Sonic visits. And the bistro tables remain empty.

But, I will remember her.   And I will call her by name.

Elizabeth.  Her name was Elizabeth.

Dear Downton Abbey

Dear Downton Abbey,

I was late to arrive to your story, but I am so thankful that when I did arrive, it was the perfect time. Your story spoke into my life in ways I could have never imagined.

To the women of Downton Abbey, you inspire me. May we all strive to have the:

• gentleness and devotion of Cora

• vulnerability and strength of Edith

• courage and passion of Sybil

• loyalty and fortitude of Mary

• spunk and drive of Daisy

• dedication and work ethic of Mrs. Patmore

• spirit and soul of Rose

• faithfulness and kindness of Anna

• compassion and patience of Mrs. Hughes

• boldness and heart of Isobel

• wit and wisdom of Violet. 

I adore you all. 

And to my favorite Downton men—Thomas, Mr. Bates, Mr. Moseley, Robert, Matthew and Tom—oh how I love you.

And of course, Mr. Carson. Thank you, Mr. Carson, for reminding us that “The business of life is the acquisition of memories. In the end, that’s all there is.”  
Ah, yes indeed. Memories. 

Lastly, thank you Downton Abbey for the reminder that whether upstairs or downstairs, we are all connected. We all have a story. We all experience heartache. 

But, most importantly, we all have a desire to be accepted, to live a life of purpose, and to be loved. 

You are loved, Downton Abbey. 

Until we meet again,
Michelle

Like Mother, Like Daughter

This picture.

I found it recently, tucked away in a drawer amongst old cards and letters.

And I love it.

I love that it says “May ‘73” in the white border—I would turn three that June.

I love my mother’s big sunglasses...her hoop earrings...her necklace...her outfit...the collar.

I love the big ring on my finger...my long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail...the Winnie-the-Pooh embroidered on my shirt. The look on my face.

We appear to be picking up take-out and buying the item on the counter.

All so ordinary and yet, so extraordinary at the same time. My mother...I love that she is looking at me. Pure. Simple. Sweet.

Now, all these years later, it is me with my sunglasses, my hoop earrings, my necklace, my rings, my long blonde hair is often in a ponytail.

And she and I are still picking up take-out and shopping together. And she is still looking at me this way.

“Honor your father and your mother, so that you may live long in the land the Lord your God is giving you.”

— Exodus 20:12

I Am Still Here

I remember this December day in 2006.

We met the photographer at Arsenal Park near the State Capitol. She told me that we were going to just follow my children around...they will guide us, she said...we are not going to pose them, but capture them as they are. Free.

They stopped to smell flowers. Climbed on low branches. Played peek-a-boo in the palm leaves. They hugged. They kissed each other.

I can still remember the wind and London’s long, curly blonde hair. That wild, gorgeous hair.
I can still see Becket skipping, smiling, sticking out his tongue. That smile.

At the end, the photographer and I were walking behind them. They kept turning around to see if we were still there. When they would see us, they would turn around and walk on.

They would take a few steps, then turn around again—to see me.

Still there. Still behind them.

Even now, they walk their path—no longer young children, but young adults—I am still here.

The path has not always been easy nor have they always stayed on course.

But even in those moments, I can still see her blonde hair, see him skipping and hear them laughing.

Thank you Nicole Callac for capturing this memory.

I am still here. And they are still turning around.

A Basket

A basket.

A mother—Jochebed.

She was the mother of Moses.

I have thought about her many times throughout my motherhood journey. Knowing her son was in danger, Jochebed covered a basket in tar and pitch and placed it in the reeds of the Nile River. She placed her baby in the water.

And at the same time, she placed her faith in the Lord.

Faith over fear.

I imagine her love for her son as she covered the basket in tar and pitch—doing all she could to keep him safe. I think about her overwhelming love for him—loving him enough to let him go.

I wonder what she was thinking as she placed the basket holding her precious son in the water.

Maybe fear, maybe unbelievable sadness, maybe there were tears.

She had to put him in the water, and then she had to walk away. There had to be pain in the walking away. But there had to be hope. Hope for a future for her son. Hope for a journey that would ultimately lead him back to her. She had to let him go in order to save him.

I think about her. I think about her faith. And, I think about letting go.

Recently, a dear friend who has raised four children, shared with me her struggle with one of her children. She told me about her many dark days. She told me of the days when she would walk through her house saying, “Lord, take my basket.”

Take my basket.

Oh, she knows Jochebed. She understands Jochebed. I do, too.

As mothers, I think we all do at some point.

But my friend also shared how she is on the other side of pain. How her son was pulled from the reeds. Jochebed’s son was pulled from the reeds as well—Moses.

It was a mother’s love. A mother’s faith. It was tar and pitch placed by his mother’s hands. And it was a simple basket. God had a plan all along.

Yes, indeed. He is a good, good Father.

Even in a Diet Coke

Anyone who knows me well knows how much I love my Diet Coke from Sonic.

The styrofoam cup, the crushed ice, the Diet Coke. I love it all.

It is part of my daily routine—every morning before work, I stop at Sonic to order my $1 drink. Every morning. So, of course they know me there.

Sometimes, the manager will greet me with my Diet Coke in hand before I even order. Other times, when I try to pay the $1.08, he waves me off and tells me to have a great day.

I met one young man who on his last day working for Sonic thanked me for always being so kind to him. He made sure I knew that he would still be working at Sonic every now and then. I told him how proud I was of him. When I see him at Sonic now, it is like seeing an old friend.

But, most days, the same woman comes to greet me and deliver my Diet Coke. And we visit. She is trying to get her life together. She lost her way as a young woman—had two children. She has not seen the father of her children in more than 15 years. She spent four years in prison for drugs. Her daughter who is in college lives far away. She lives paycheck to paycheck. Her 16-year-old son had to quit school to help with the bills.

Yet, every morning she greets me with a smile.

We make small talk, but sometimes she asks me questions about life, insurance, raising kids, or about cars. And many times I find her encouraging me. I will comment on the weather—“oh, it’s so cold,” or “oh, it’s so hot.” Her response is always the same, “I love it.”

She reminds me to be grateful.
She reminds me that kindness matters.
She reminds me that everyone has a story.

She also reminds me that joy can be found in small things, not just in our circumstances.

And, joy can even be found in a Diet Coke.