Family Matters

I spent the better part of the day at a family reunion.

I understand that I'm supposed to be focusing on the wonderfulness of multi-layered generations intertwining into a mangled mush of togetherness, but, really, these kinds of events leave me a little perplexed.

This particular reunion was for the "Edwards" clan.  Or "Edderds" as we've strangely enough nick-named ourselves.  (I haven't quite figured out why we feel the need to scrawl the word "Hillbilly" in bright black sharpie on our foreheads with such a naming, but, for reasons far beyond my realm of understanding, it's just the way things are.)  The Edwards family branches me from Jim-Dad's mom's side of the family.  My Nanny.  Sweet adorable cute-as-pie Nola Mae Edderds. 

My Nanny adored family reunions.  She was one of 5 brothers and sisters that were a closer set of siblings than I have ever witnessed in my life.  Each of the 5 had a smattering of kids and so on....so the Edderdses have grown to a somewhat scary multiplication of numbers.  (I'm just glad I'm in the family...because I'm pretty sure that they will take over the world one day...and all you non-Edwards will be out.of.luck.)

Because Nanny loved family reunions so much is why I think that I'm left with mixed feelings about such an event.  As the designated mother-figure of the entire clan, my Nanny loved nothing more than gathering her huge nest of chicks together.  She knew every.single.detail. about every.single.member. of our extended family....I know...because she told me every.single.detail. about every.single.member. of our extended family.  She just loved the fellowship and the togetherness of it all. 

And I haven't been to a family reunion since she went home to dance with Jesus.

And it makes me kind of sad.

Because, honestly, I don't really want to be at one without her.

Oh...I understand the importance of continuing on our legacy and that our generation has a great responsibility to handle such amazing tradition of a family that truly exemplified the meaning of the word. 

But it just stinks.

Because Nanny is not there for me to sidle up to and ask who someone is.  She's not there to fill me in on the latest gossip information regarding my 3rd cousin twice-removed's second wife's brother.  I don't get to hear her call all 5,398 Edwardses by name...first, middle, and last.  And I don't get to see the sheer joy that would envelope her face just at the mention of getting to see her family.

So....was the family reunion fun?  No.  Not really.  But not because the people aren't fun.  And not because the food wasn't amazing.  And not because the weather wasn't absolutely perfect for the day. 

No...it wasn't really fun today because Nanny wasn't there.

Here's my Nanny and I in 2004.  That's a 2 year old carrot-topped Sawyer holding her hand.  We were at a funeral when this picture was taken.  It didn't matter to Nanny though.  Funeral or not...it still meant her family was together.

Here's two of my most favorite ladies.  My mama and my Nanny.  Aren't they gorgeous?

Seriously...my new favorite picture of my Nanny.  That's her on the left in the blue shirt.  She's with her brother, Herb, and her sister, Ethel.  Gosh, how she loved them.  What they have on their heads, I have no idea...but I think they are cute as can be.

Sure wish they all could have been there today.......

Betcha Didn't Know: The OBU Edition

My college alma mater turns 124 years young today.  And in its honor, my fellow blogging Ouachitonians and I are dedicating our posts to its birthday celebration.  Like the icing on a collegiate cake. 

I think everyone wants to say that their college home was/is like family.  That their college experience was something spectacular.  That it was the birthplace of lifelong relationships and friendships.  And I'm sure that that is true to some degree.  But I'm pretty sure that nothing compares to the Ouachita experience.  And I'm pretty sure all my fellow Tigers would agree with me.  Because we know that we have something that the rest of you don't.  And for today....and maybe a little longer!...we're going to allow all of you to be envious of our story. 

BETCHA DIDN'T KNOW......

*  That Ouachita is not pronounced Ouch-uh-taw.  Nor is it pronounced Oooo-uh-chee-tuh.  Nor Watch-i-taw.  Nor O-aw-chi-taw.  It's Wash-i-taw.  Say it with me....WASH.I.TAW.  And we Wash-i-ton-ians take it very seriously.  And have been known to hold linguistics lessons wherever we deem appropriate or necessary.

*  That I can still remember the smell of 3rd Floor McClellan.  The education floor was my home for 3 years, and I would be able to recognize that distinct mix of floor cleaner, hot laminator, and crayons anywhere.anytime.anyhow. 

*  That I studied for many a test on a "bridge." 

*  That after pulling an all-nighter on the bridge before a final one December, I went back to my room to quickly change clothes before my 8:00 test.  That I must have laid down for just a second to "gather my thoughts."  That the next thing I know, my phone was ringing, and it was my professor calling to wake me up and tell me that I was 45 minutes late for his final and that I needed to get across campus pronto.  That only at Ouachita would a professor care enough to do that.

*  That my hallmates and I "borrowed" a neighborhood dog from its front yard just to see if we could sneak it past Mom Taylor in Flippen Perrin.  We succeeded.  And I don't think that dog will ever be the same.

*  That I never pledged a Social Club, but felt as though I was honorary member of every club on campus.  I definitely did enough pledge duties for my friends to have deserved a spot.

*  That I've never written so many Top Ten Lists in my life....thanks to aforementioned pledge duties.

*  That my favorite professor of all time was Dr. Lavell Cole.  That man could make American History come alive by just letting his voice meet its pages.  I still remember the way he would walk into the room, prop himself on the edge of his desk, and just start talking.  Never a note, book, or visual aide in tow.  He is definitely missed.

*  That I took Art in Humanities in May Term.  And that that was the stupidest decision of my college career.  Because it is near impossible to memorize 67 million artists and paintings in two weeks.  *shudder*

*  That I changed my major at least a dozen times.  But still managed to graduate in 4 years.  Don't ask me how I swung that small feat of That.Never.Happens.

*  That I ate waffles for almost every meal.  Because no matter how legendary, Walt's was gross.

*  That I can still hear Minnie saying, "Hey, honey!" to every student that walked through the lines of the cafeteria.

*  That I still have a problem walking on the grass on OBU's campus, because Dr. Ben Elrod's "Save-the-Grass" speeches are forever ingrained in my brain.

*  That it stunk the year that my Chapel seat was on the very.front.row. of Jones.  Because it is hard to skip Chapel when you are on the very.front.row.

*  That is was awesome when my Chapel seat was on the very.last.row. of Jones.  Because it is easy to skip Chapel when you are on the very.last.row.

*  That those last two statements make it sound like I liked to skip Chapel.  It wasn't that....it was just that I liked to sleep.  A lot.

*  That I almost failed Racquetball.  Because I liked to sleep.  A lot.  And it was a VERY long way to walk to the gym.

*  That I left my mark on OBU's campus courtesy of the Gum Tree.  Nasty or not...it was necessary.

*  That I know all the words to "O-U-A-C-H-I-T-A," and sing it to myself everytime I drive past the campus.  (Which is a lot...since I...uh...live here.)

*  That I will never forget the preciousness of my time at OBU.  Like most events in life, it was definitely taken for granted at the time.  But, as I reflect back, I certainly know that I was part of something special.  Something huge.  A piece of community and fellowship that stretches far beyond the borders of a ravine and a river.  I'm part of a family that gets to call itself OBU Alumni...a brotherhood of sorts.  Like we need our own secret handshake or something.  Because when you find another OBU-er, it's like you just...know.

So, Happy Birthday, Ouachita!
You are loved.
And remembered well.

Go Tigers.

If you are interested in reading the other OBU stories go here.  And if have your own OBU story, join us and link up!

The Divine Miss Em

By now, most of you know that I grew up overseas.  As a Missionary's Kid, I was given an opportunity that I often took (and take) for granted, but definitely realize that the entire experience airs on the side of super-fortunate. 

When I think back over my time as an MK, my memories wouldn't be complete without one particular person.  If I think about Bangladesh...she's there. 

Meet Emily.

This picture of me and Em was taken just last week in Branson, where she was vacaying and I was chillaxin' with the 'rents.  And I was thrilled beyond Texas to see her and her mama, Aunt Patt (all missionary kids refer to the other missionaries as "aunt" and "uncle." It's just how we roll.)

Before I get too far away from this picture...do you see how tall she is?  Jiminy Cricket.  Um...I'm also standing on my tippy-toes.  And she's just as gorgeous as ever.

Anyway...Em and I were raised together.  Both of our families arrived in Bangladesh at the same time and both waded through the knee-deep waters of culture shock together.  Emily and I were the same age, and we instantly bonded.  Em's parents were my parents' BFFs, and they went to Language School together, as well as muddling through the first months of ministry together.  We lived in a duplex with Emily's family, so the togetherness was end.less.  Emily's younger brother, Nathan, always wanted to be like us, and my big sister, Michele, couldn't stand us.  We were family.  Plain and simple.  Family.

Here's some early pictures that Jim-Dad dug up of me and The Divine Miss Em....

That's me on the left in the stunning red ensemble.  Em's in the middle, and that's her little brother, Nathan, on the right.  It looks like, in this particular picture, we were hangin' in a village somewhere.  I do recognize the man standing right behind me.  That's Matthias, who was our cook there...so I'm thinking we must have been in his village. 

That's me and Emily getting off of our school bus and heading for the house.  We went to the American School for our first year in the country (we were later home-schooled), and every morning and afternoon, our aiyahs would walk us to and from the bus-stop.  The pretty lady in red with me was my aiyah, Cecilia.  The unfortunate looking guy escorting Emily was Cecilia's good-for-nothing husband Shamir.  If you want to get Jim-Dad stirred up, just get him started on Shamir.  Whoa.Nelly.

Aren't we precious.  Ahem.  This picture was taken at one of our Mission Meetings, and our moms thought it would be all kinds of swell to dress us up alike.  That's me with the fabulous red shoes on the left.  Emily's on the right.  And the girl in the middle is Jamie, another Missionary Kid.  Our mothers should be hung out to dry.  What.Were.They.Thinking.

Back to last week.  It was so great to sit and visit with Emily and Aunt Patt.  Emily had also brought a friend of hers with them, and Nathan's soon-to-be-fiance was with them, too.  Cannot believe that little Nate is old enough to be gettin' hitched. 

A lot of time has gone by.
But some relationships last forever. 
You can't quit family.

For The Love of Passie

WARNING:  This post contains material that will make sappy suckers cry.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

This is Tate now.

Cute, right?  Yah.  I know.  But you can tell me again that Kirk and I make pretty babies. 

This is that same pretty baby then.

And here he is again.

And again.

Ugh..this makes my heart hurt.  I miss those squishy cheeks so.stinkin'. much.

But, if you look in every one of those pictures you will see IT.  In fact, if you dig through his scrapbooks you would be hard pressed to find a picture that didn't have IT stuffed in his blessed little mouth.  Or in his hand.  Or two ITs...one in each hand.  Or one at least sitting on the table or counter in the background of a picture.

My purse, our couch, and every other nook and cranny of the house held the blessed plugs hostage.  They multiplied and bred in toy-boxes and under the seats of my van. 

It's how we lived our lives for almost 3 years. 

And I held onto those 3 years with everything I had.

Because Tate was my baby.  My last one.  Milestones like potty-training and sleeping through the night and giving up the bottle hurt my core.  Babyhood was ending.  And I was fighting it with everything that I had.

So it is possible that I let that sweet baby keep his beloved passie for just a wee bit longer than all the baby books said I should.  I didn't really worry about his teeth and the weird looks in Walmart.  Because him holding those plastic plugs in his chubby little hands screamed "BABY" to me. 

And then he grew up one day.  And his daddy (Grrrrr.....) put his foot down on the passie issue, spouting off some weird sermon about him going to prom with a blue sparkly passie stuck in his mouth.  And just like that...the passie was gone.

And I might have cried about it.

And threw the husband dirty looks across the room about it.

And I also might have continued to slip Tate a passie on the sly for 3 months straight.  But if you bring it up...I'll deny it, so don't bother.

Eventually, though, I moved on. 

And I forgot about the passie.

Until.

Yesterday the boys and I were busy working in my bedroom.  We were cleaning and moving some furniture, and I found this.

OH.MY.HEART.

Now....get past the fact that it was actually hiding under my bed, which is just testament to the fact that I NEVER clean under there, and that my mama is mortified about right now.....

But, y'all....I was a mess.
A puddle of snot and tears and mascara on the floor.
And my uterus hurt for more babies.
And then I remembered that I like to sleep at night.  And was over it.

But I did keep the passie. 

Shhhhhh....don't tell the husband. 
He scares easy.

Jungle-Ality

I have had a bloggy request.  And since I'm at a loss for anything to discuss except The Great Living Room Remodel of Twenty Ten, which I'm most certain you are tired of hearing about (because I am), then I am more than happy to oblige.  That and because my good good buddy New Every Morning asked me to.

I think I've discussed my childhood in bits and pieces before.  But I don't know that I've ever devoted an entire blog post to my jungle-ality. 

I'm a jungle girl.  Raised where coconut and banana trees stretched tall to the muted gray skies.  The rivers and ponds were dirty and infested, and mud and dirt seemed to grow easier than grass.  The flowers were more beautiful than anything I have ever seen, and the dark hues of the people's skin were as pure and beautiful as chocolate. 

When I was a toddler, my parents began the very long process of preparing themselves and our family for a life of service on the mission field.  I have never in my life met anyone with more of a mission-minded heart than my father, and we were about to embark on a journey that would forever change all of our lives.  Our family had a few hiccups in the process what with some medical delays and such, but when I was 5 years old we said goodbye to our grandparents and extended family and boarded a plane for Asia to become part of the Foreign Mission Board family (now the International Mission Board, or IMB). 

We spent almost 4 years in Bangladesh, a very primitive 3rd world country that juts up next to India.

We lived in the capital city of Dhaka for a year while my parents were in language school.  My sister and I attended an American School during that time, and our whole family settled into a period of trying to adjust to the tremendous culture shock that comes with moving to the jungle from the land that flows with Walmart and super sized fries.  I think everyone would agree that I had the easiest time of any of us.  As a small child, I acclimated well. I became fluent in the language, spent endless hours playing with my ayah and the other household servants, and learning to love the food and the environment.  That new world was full of things to explore and learn and do, and I soaked it up.

After a year, my parents, equipped with the language well enough to begin their ministry, packed our family up and moved us to village life.  We lived in the village of Comilla for our remaining time in Bangladesh (If you look on the map:  just southeast of Dhaka).  Our home was inside a large gated compound, which provided me the opportunity to spend a lot of time outside playing.  Being young, I never noticed the people hanging out of their apartment windows just to catch a glimpse of my white skin and blonde hair.  My sister, however, was older and did notice.  And she rarely left the house because of it.

Michele and I were homeschooled during that period of time in Comilla, and when she reached 9th grade, she went to boarding school in Thailand leaving me an only child.  I spent my days playing in my room and busying myself with my toys and playing with our servants...my only playmates.  Our gardener and day guard was a Muslim man named Abdul, and he became my best friend.  I know that sounds weird and strange...but it wasn't.  He watched out for me and never tired of me "helping" him in the garden (or at least never let on that he did!).

That's me and Abdul shelling peas. 

My dad was heavily involved in one of our mission's primary ministries, installing tubewells in villages so that the people would have access to clean drinking water.  He also provided a means of income for local village women by giving them embroidery projects.  Dad's sewing circle changed the lives of many families in Comilla both financially and spiritually.  Dad was also involved in relief work and spent many days out of the week in the villages sharing the Gospel with the Bengali people.

A village woman fetching water from a newly installed tube well.

Jim-Dad teaching his sewing class.  If you look on the board, you can see that he was writing in the native language. 

What came from the hands of one of the ladies in the circle.  Gosh. It's beautiful, isn't it?

My dad overseeing a boat building project as relief work.

Sharing a meal with a gathering of villagers.  That's right.  Eat with your hands.  On the ground.  Only way to eat curry! *wink*

When I was 8 years old, my dad answered the Call to transfer our family's ministry to Thailand. 

The English speaking church in Bangkok was in need of not only a pastor, but of general help.  The church was struggling and needed strong leadership.  Our family moved into the parsonage next door to the church, and my dad got right to work.  Another bonus was that my sister, who had been in boarding school there, was able to move back in with us.

My sister and I attended the International School of Bangkok, and quickly settled into modernized and Westernized life.

Thailand (or at least the parts that we were in) were so very different from Bangladesh.  The hustle and bustle of the Bangkok city were a far cry from the mud huts and dirt roads of village life.  We quickly became used to the shopping and the luxuries that come with a booming Asian metropolis.  McDonald's.  And department stores.  And swanky hotels.  And enormous buffets of food.  Definitely not the onslaught of poverty that had been staring us in the face the previous 4 years.

It's actually very sad how easy it is to become so used to modern conveniences.  Regrettably, it didn't take long for my mind to shift gears and focus.

My dad remained the pastor of the church there in Bangkok until I finished up my 8th grade year.  My sister had already returned to the States to attend college, and my parents were being faced with the decision about my schooling.  The options had turned to boarding school for me or homeschooling, and after much prayer, my family packed up and headed across the big water.

I started 9th grade in an American high school, and my dad became involved in mission ministry here in the States.  And we've been here ever since.

Of experiences on the mission field, most siblings tend to share memories and outlooks.  My sister and I, however, are very different on our takes as MKs (missionary kids).

She struggled when she was younger.  I didn't.  I struggled when I was older.  She didn't.  While she holds our time in Thailand dear, I hold our time in Bangladesh as treasured.

I'm a jungle girl.  That time of my life stirred something in me that I feel shaped me to be adventurous and eager to see and try new things.  Though I can become grossly entrenched in bouts of materialism, the memories of nothingness and poverty haunt me.  The people of Bangladesh still hold a special place in my heart, and I would love one day to revisit.  To see it.  To minister.  To show my husband and my children where I come from.

The old adage is most certainly true.

You can take the girl out of the jungle. 

But you can't take the jungle out of the girl.

No matter how many pairs of GAP jeans and Quarter Pounders you buy her.  You just can't.

Vintage. A Word for Ugly Clothes.

As you know I'm way over my head and gasping for air up to my knees in this blessed remodel.  In between going out in public with my hair shining with various paint splatters and breathing in drywall dust, I've been working through some kind of design process in my head.  As I've already mentioned, this is not my spiritual gift.  I am not on the list for Heaven's interior decorating committee, and I've already decided that if Jesus gives me a choice, I'm inviting my good buddy New Every Morning over to my mansion to decorate it for me. 

But in my minute attempts to feather my nest (there's that phrase again...oy), I have decided that on one wall I am going to try to throw together some kind of photo collage thing.  You know....lots of frames that are all matchy and mismatchy and such.  (I saw it in a magazine....so it must be okay.)

I've gone through my pictures and sorted and sifted.  All while trying to remember the days when I actually took my film to the processor to get developed; paid $4.68 for a stack of photos that may only have 7 good shots in the bunch; and sprang occasionally for doubles.  I've picked some of my most favorite ones of the boys from when they were younger that I'm going to turn into black and white, but I also think I'm going to mix and match them with some of my most favorite old photos of mine and Kirk's families.

Wanna see?

Aw...you know you do.  Everyone loves old pictures.

And if you are like me, your favorite thing is looking at all the horrid fashion emergencies vintage clothing.  (Ahem, Carpoolqueen.)

Lookey there.  That's Jim-Dad.  Looking very smart in his skinny tie and killer glasses. 

This is one of my most favorite pictures EVUH.  That sweet chunk of a baby is my gorgeous mom.  And that beautiful lady holding her?  That's my Granny. 

Look at that hair on my mama!!!  And it was red, too!!  Even cuter!!!  That big ole baby is my Uncle James.  I love this picture because it is just precious, but it also hung in my grandparents house for as long as forever.  Makes it even sweeter when I see it.

This is Kirk's dad.  This picture is one of my most favorite.  I love his polka dot shirt.  I love his 50's curl swooning down his forehead.  I love that he is putting on his cologne.  LOVE IT.

Now there is almost too much in this picture to discuss.  The carpet and lovely draperies are enough for a post in themselves, but our fashion choices are my fave.  Jim-Dad's shoes are rockin', my mama's skirt makes me want to sing for Scotland, and my sister is rockin' the green pants.  (Mich...please still speak to me after this post.)

And here's Kirk's family.  Aren't they..uh...something?  I love his dad's purple ensemble.  Groovy.

Guess who????  That's me...in the quintessential Olan Mills portrait from the late 70's. 

And if you don't think I look like Jim-Dad in this picture, then you have done lost your mind.

I'm not putting this one on my wall, but it cracks me up every time I see it.  This is my first passport photo.  I was THRILLED. 

Nothin' like a good ole' pair of UnderRoos.  The husband is thanking me already, I'm sure of it.

And here's Don Johnson...uh...I mean, Kirk.  Miami Vice rocks.  And, no.  That wasn't a Halloween costume.  He dressed like that for real. 

Oy.  This one isn't going on my wall either, but because I have lost all pride in the blogosphere anyway, I decided what the heck.  Yes, I thought my bangs looked awesome like that.  Yes, I'm wearing a jumper.  When I was 13.  And yes, I thought I was gnarly cool.

I'm not putting this next one on my wall either, but I saw it when I was going through pictures, and remembered that it was the very first picture Kirk and I had taken together.  We were babies.  I made a habit of wearing ribbons in my hair, and fabric paint on my shirts.  And Kirk was too cool for anything. 

Trips down memory lane are fun, aren't they? 

Except when you realize that your mother actually let you out of the house wearing a puffy paint reindeer on your shirt.  And you were 18.  Not 3.

Geez, Mom.  Really.

I'm Giving Away....Knee Socks. Just Kidding.

My room was a weird mint green color.

I had bunk beds. And I wore knee socks. And floor length dresses with lace collars. And apparently my mother let me.

I would play dolls and Barbies in that room.  And listen to Solid Gold albums, and sing into a hairbrush in my mirror. 

And at night, I would be tucked in by either my mama or my daddy.  And they would read to me.

I only remember 4 books that were ever read, but I'm positive that there were more.  But these 4 have always stuck.

Little Women.  A classic.  My mama read that one.

And then I can remember Jim-Dad, in his baby blue polyester pants, reading Little Pilgrim's Progress, The Chronicles of Narnia, and Hinds' Feet on High Places.

My dad was a sucker for a good allegory.

And so was I.

Those stories have always walked with me.  Their brilliant symbolic messages told in layman's terms.  So that even children "get" it.

I would imagine walking the roads on the way to the Celestial City with Christian.  Meeting Mr. Tumnus at the lamppost with Lucy.  And skipping through the High Places with the Chief Shepherd. 

They were all so real.  And beautiful.

And then time happened.  And growing up happened.  And stuff happened.  And those books, though still on my shelves, weren't taken out as much.  And weeks that turned into months turned into years. 

Last week, while we were at my parents' a stack of Hinds' Feet books set in the floor of my dad's office.  He quickly reminded me of our times reading those books together many many moons ago.  And the beautiful memories of those stories came flooding back.

Jim-Dad gave us a brand new copy last week and this morning, I sat my children down and cracked the binding.

The walls aren't mint green.  And no one is wearing knee socks.

But my children are going to hear these wonderful allegories of Jesus' love and our salvation journeys.  Not only because of heritage and nostalgia, but because they are beautiful.

-----------------------------

Pilgrim's Progress and the Narnia books are very well known, and if you haven't read them yourself or with your children, please consider doing so.  Hinds' Feet on High Places is not as well-known, but it's story is just as breath-taking. 

The story follows Much-Afraid as she journeys with her two companions, Sorrow and Suffering, to pass through dangers and to overcome her tormenting past to finally reach the High Places and be in union with the loving Shepherd.

Oh...and just to show you how strongly I feel about this particular book, I'm giving away a copy.

All you have to do is leave me a comment telling me if you've read the book or not (I would love to hear what those of you who have read it think!), and you'll be entered to win.  It would make a really great Christmas present, too, if you already have your own copy!  I'll pick the winner on Friday around 3 p.m. central time. 

Me...Like You've Never Seen Me Before

I love seeing pictures of people way back in the day.

I'm a people watcher by nature, so my eye immediately goes to hairstyles, jean washes, and shoewear. And then I giggle. And sometimes snort. And usually a beverage comes shooting out of my nose.

Because I love how we all thought we looked smokin' way back when.

But so did not.

It just makes me laugh.

Today I was being lazy and indulging myself by looking through old pictures instead of cleaning was scrubbing my house feverishly and this picture just popped out at me.

And it made me smile.

Because I hadn't thought about it in years.

And I thought it might be good for a giggle.

Ready?

That's me. The clown on the right.

Well, "Twinkles", actually.

Yes. A real, true life clown. Me.

The spiffy clown next to me in the photo is my good good friend and clowning mentor, Terry (aka Spangles). She was the secretary of the association that my dad worked for, and our families became super close. A major ministry that Terry was involved in was clowning. It intrigued me, and she soon had me, my dad, and a host of others all decked out and clowning around with her.

It was great. Clowning is all about costumes and silly antics to put people and children at ease to open up the doors for sharing the Gospel. It is an amazing ministry, and I'm so honored to have been a part of it. This particular picture was taken on a mission trip to Wyoming that our association took. It was one of the few times that I clowned, but I loved every second of it.

So there you have it.

Betcha didn't know I was a real true life clown.

The husband tells me that I need to run away with the circus.

Then I remind him that he'd be left with the children. And he begs me to stay.

Can't Write With Purple Ink Without Thinking About It

I was just telling someone this story today, and because I'm a glutton for punishment (and at a lack of anything else to write about)....here goes.

I'm still haunted by this day. I can remember what I was wearing. I can remember what he was wearing. I can remember the color of marker that was used. I can remember the face of my best friend with her mouth hanging open, completely mortified on my behalf.

It was a Spring day in 6th grade. I was in school in Thailand, at the International school there, where all the missionary kids attended. The school was an eclectic mix of nationalities and cultures, but for the most part....it was like any other school. Full of drama....at least the middle school and high school were.

I had a tremendous crush on the cutest boy in 6th grade. I can still hear his deep Georgian accent. He was dreamy. And he was the first kid in our class to have an Apple computer (remember those?!) at his house. Big stuff. Not only was he cute-as-a-bug, but he was also genuinely nice. I don't remember him ever being mean to anyone. He held doors open for all the girls and said, "Yes, Sir," to our crazy, whacked-out Buddhist teacher (that's a whole other story!). This kid was a great catch.

And I finally worked up my nerve to tell him that I thought so. My best friend and I carefully drafted note after note which detailed my love for him. We worked for days on the perfect words and the perfectly shaped hearts that would dot all the i's. And finally we had it. It was a beautiful note.....even written in purple ink.

My best friend sneaked into our room during lunch recess that Spring day. She slipped the note into his desk and crept back out to the playground where I was waiting. I remember he was playing tether ball with his friends, and my heart was beating out of my chest knowing what he would find when we all headed back inside.

The bell rang and we made our way up the steps. My best friend and I giggled all the way up to our room. But then it was over. Because when we walked in the room, all we heard was the horrid sound of snickering and laughing. He was standing in the middle of the room, red-faced and shaking his head. And then I saw it.

There. On the board. Written in bright red marker were my words. All my words. Even my hearts over my i's.

And then I saw him. The meanest, most cruel boy in our grade, if not our whole school. He had his arms crossed, face stuck up in the air, laughing....and holding a red marker and my carefully folded piece of notebook paper with the purple ink. I would have known it was him even without the red marker.

He had done it. He had followed my friend in at lunch and watched her. Then he nabbed my heart-felt letter and did the most horrid thing ever. He rewrote it on the board and displayed it for everyone to see. Awful. Pure awful.

I could do nothing but cry. He, that sweet boy, just stood there shaking his head. Then he did the sweetest thing ever. He walked over and grabbed the note and shoved it in his pocket. He took the red marker, recapped it, and placed it in the basket. Then he grabbed an eraser and calmly erased the words. He then walked to the tissue box, grabbed a tissue and brought it to me. Then he walked back to his seat, took out his math book, and got to work. The room fell silent and everyone else started working on their math, too.

We never talked about that day again. He never became my boyfriend, but we stayed friends until I moved.

I will never forget how horrifying that day was....but will always remember that little Southern gentleman. He brought me a Kleenex, y'all!

And that other boy.....ugh. He continued terrorizing me right through 8th grade. Only to "ask me out" the last year I was at that school.

Uh...the answer was a big, fat "NO!"

No Twirling Ballerina In This Jewelry Box....But Still Lots of Old Memories

I rearranged the furniture in my bedroom the other night. And, boy, did it need it.

Because what you find when you move furniture are all the dust bunnies and just-plain-nasty that have been living behind the chests and dressers. Ew. Gross.

What I also discovered while I was moving everything around was that my jewelry boxes were in desperate need of attention. I made a mental note on cleaning/moving day to take care of the jewelry situation when I got a chance.

This afternoon was my chance. And look what I found....

This is my mom's high school ring. Sweet, huh? I never had my own class ring (not sure why), but loved wearing my mom's. Love that I have it.

Aren't these cute? A few years ago, my mom ran across all of my old jewelry from when I was a little girl and gave them to me. I want to wear the Strawberry Shortcake pendant, but Kirk won't let me. *wink*

This was my grandmother's (my mom's mom). A couple of Christmases ago, my mom gave my sister and I each a piece of her jewelry. Very special.

This pretty cameo was my other grandmother's (my dad's mom). She loved her jewelry!!

My daddy picked this necklace out for me and gave it to me for Christmas. Mom said he picked it out all by himself. Isn't that sweet?

And I found the little pill box that I keep all the boys' teeth in....shhhhh....the boys would be highly irritated if they knew their teeth didn't fly off with the Tooth Fairy but rather lived in their mom's bedroom. The box is one that Kirk brought me home from Denmark.

Now this is a little awkward. This is my promise ring. Only it's not from Kirk. See, I told you it was awkward. I had a very long relationship my freshman and sophomore year of high school, and received a promise ring. He didn't want it back when we broke up....so it still sits in my jewelry box. Kinda weird, huh?

And then I found 3 of the exact same tie tack from Kirk's company. He has never worn any of them and probably never will.

And then I found this ONE earring. Kirk bought me this pair of diamond studs several, several years ago. I lost one...I'm thinking it was the vacuum cleaner's lunch...but, I still have the other one. It seems so lonely....maybe I should just wear one. Nah.

And I found my precious necklace that is one-of-a-kind. My parents had it made for me in Thailand, and it is "Amber" written in Thai. I haven't worn it in forever...but, I think I'm going to. One of my favorite things about the necklace are all the people that stop to tell me that I have it on backwards! Hee hee! It's cute, huh?

What I didn't take pictures of are all my bazillion bracelets and necklaces that came from a couple of shopping trips to Sam Moon in Dallas. That place is wild! I also didn't include the gobs of beads, beads, and more beads.


It was kind of fun to dig through my jewelry box and find the items that I don't take out regularly enough. Made me super nostalgic.

A Little Green, But A Lot Blessed

I've decided that I got the raw end of the deal.

There are 7 years between my big sister and me, and I can remember countless occasions where I busted out the "everyone likes you better than me!" argument on her. She has a different opinion, since I was the baby of the family and had a tendency to be a little spoiled, but I can remember getting so mad that my mom would just "hang out" with Michele all the time, or that she would get to go do stuff and I wouldn't. Never mind that I was 11 and she was 18......but, that didn't seem to matter to me at the time. Now I get that my mom would have much rather had a girly talk with my teenage sister than play Chinese jumprope with me....but, whatever.

Anyway....the whole "everyone likes you better" monster crept back on my shoulder just yesterday when I read this post written by my beloved sis on her blog. You should go check out all this stuff that she put on here....

Why?

Because it is all the stuff that I DON'T HAVE!!

My sister is a lover of antiques. And she is a fantastic decorator. Her house leaves my house in total Wannabe Land.

And her antiques? Not many are antique store finds....they are heirlooms. Heirlooms that I DON'T HAVE!

She's got dishes, furniture, and well, dishes and furniture. All which were lovingly handed down to her by various family members.

She claims that it is because at the time that we were "putting our names on stuff," she was a young adult....so, she knew what was worthy of the taking. She got the hundred year old china and depression glass. Me? Not so much. The things I scrawled my name on (probably with a crayon) were Coca-Cola glasses and salt-n-pepper shakers shaped like cartoon dogs.

So, am I bit envious? You betcha.

My sister did graciously "share" a portion of these beautiful antique green glasses that were my grandmother's, because she felt pitifully sorry for me and my Coke glasses when our goodies were being dished out. (I really do love my glasses, so thank you very much, Mich!)

It is so easy for the little green monster to begin to take over. I've been pegged in the family as the one who appreciates the more "practical," while Michele gets the "beautiful." And it is probably for good reason. My home is very practical, minimally decorated, and if I had anything nice it would most likely be adorned with a lightsaber or legos.

But, this is where I have to insert my change in attitude. It is so easy for me to get all "I want pretty dishes from Aunt Fay" and "I didn't get a plate from Grandpa Sib." But, as I look around my quaint little house....I see the things that I did get.

Mine are much more practical....but no less from the people that we loved than her pretty stuff is. So....because I love my things so much, too, and just need a reminder that my family does like me (therapy is not in order at the present moment)....here are a few of my favorite things....

1) My dad painted this. Isn't it beautiful? It hung in our dining room when we lived overseas and I have always loved it. When Kirk and I bought our house, my dad dug it out and had it reframed for me. It hangs over my mantle....love it.

2) Kirk's grandmother is a seamstress like none I have ever seen. She's an even better quilter. She taught me how to quilt, in fact. I have been given stacks and stacks of her quilts. All of them are tidily tucked away inside several chests that I have. Each are hand pieced and hand quilted....amazing. And the rate that she could turn these puppies out was superhero-ish. Her eyes and arthritis will not allow her to pick up a needle anymore.....so what I have is it. This one is my favorite. I know that it isn't really "cool" to hang quilts up anymore, but I have tried and tried to take this one down and I just can't do it. I love it too much....so hangs it still does.

3) This is a small portion of my Nanny's bell collection. Her bells were one of those things that I picked out when I was a kid...fascinated by all the shapes and sizes and colors. It was a known fact throughout the family, that one day.....I would get the bells. She even started to refer to them as "our bells." When she died, my mom and I carefully boxed them up and I lovingly looked over each one....remembering how proud we were of our bells. I also got her china cabinet when she passed away, so our bells sit in it here at my home, just as they did at hers. Love that.

4) These are the green glasses that Michele shared with me. Supposedly they are worth something.....to Mich and I they are....worth lots of memories of our Granny.

5) And these are my Coca-Cola glasses.....fabulous aren't they? I sure thought so when I was a kid. I think my Granny collected them at garage sales and auctions.

6) This desk was made by my Grandpa Jack for my Nanny. It sat in her kitchen for years and was painted a lovely shade of mint/pea green. I begged for the desk when she passed away and got it. Kirk stripped it and refinished it for me. I think it is beautiful. My dad didn't even recognize it without its green paint!

7) This is my Nanny's honey pot. My Grandpa Jack and I shared many a slice of toast slathered in honey from this pot.....she knew I loved it. When she passed away....we found a slip of paper in it with my name written on it. She wanted it to be mine.

8) My Great Aunt Fay never had children of her own, and my mom and she always had a very close bond. Aunt Fay had remarkable things. My sister got her china....so pretty. And because Aunt Fay wanted to give me something "comparable" for a wedding present....she gave me her silverware. Our family still uses them everyday.

(Aunt Fay is still going...at 96 or 97 years old...I lose track. She is also the one that gave me toothpaste for Christmas that I mentioned here. What a great lady!)

9) My Grandpa Jack was, not only an amazing carpenter, but a gifted artist. He went through a stage where he painted a lot of still-lifes, and my Nanny had a lot of them displayed in her kitchen and dining room. When they both passed away, everyone in the family got at least one of his paintings. I'm so happy about that, too. I think that is what he would have wanted. This is the one that I picked. I hate fruitcake...but, I love it in this painting!

I am blessed....really, really blessed. So, I'll lay off my sister...I'm so glad that she was given the things that she was. She adores them, and it is as it should be. Even though my eyes flash green every once in awhile!!!!