The Summer Everyone Thought I Was Liberal

Until I got married, my life had been blissfully dull. I was born in Lanett, AL, the rough equivalent of Mayberry, to a mom who was a dance teacher, then stay at home mom, then kindergarten teacher at the First Baptist Church. My dad owned the local hardware store.

I had an inkling that there were people “out there” who lived and thought very differently from me and my family. I knew there were people who went to high schools with more than 500 people and vacationed in Europe, but they lived in far off places like Montgomery or Minneapolis.

So, about my 2^nd year of college, I decided I needed to do something to bridge the gap between myself and the rest of the world. I looked at my church denomination's college programs and found a couple that sounded interesting. One possibility was working in Appalachia for the summer. The other was to be a Peace Intern. Peace Interns got to travel the country visiting church camps and talking with high schoolers. People who worked in Appalachia did hard, hot, dirty work.

So, I applied to be a Peace Intern.

I painstakingly researched and wrote an essay about what “peace” means to me. It was long with lots of references. Maybe not surprisingly, I didn't get it. So, I spent the summer after my sophomore year of college doing something just as meaningful and thought provoking: I taught high school majorettes.

The summer before my senior year I decided to give a peace internship one more try. This time I almost missed the deadline and ended up writing a one page paper about how Jesus Christ should be our peace. Know Jesus, know peace. No Jesus, no peace.

I sent it off not expecting much and not really concerned either way. I had met people who applied for this program and didn't get it, impressive and smart people like my sister and a great-great niece of Hemingway.

I was shocked when I received a letter not too long afterward telling me that I was selected to be a Peace Intern for the summer of 1992.

I knew I was an unlikely selection, but I didn't realize that I was the least likely choice ever, I mean EVER, until I arrived at training in Indianapolis.

When I arrived, and met the other interns, I realized they all had a “platform”, like Miss America contestants, and they were all kind of mad. There was a woman who had spent the previous summer in Africa and now refused to eat the seeds in tomatoes, another woman who called God a goddess. There was an army brat who was staunchly anti-military and a guy who thought I should leave the training immediately because I voted for Bush. One intern had a pony tail and planned to ride his motorcycle from camp to camp, another was proudly gay, but hadn't worked up the nerve to tell his parents. There was a sweet guy who was Puerto Rican and another who's strangest characteristic, as far as I could tell, was that he went to the University of Connecticut. 

Peace Intern Training 1992

And, then there was me – white, female, uninformed, conservative, southern, not mad about much and just voted for Bush. I became very quiet, considered going home and tried repeatedly to stop my head from spinning by suggesting we play silly games in the hallway of the offices of our General Assembly where the training was taking place.

You may be able to guess that this was a weird week for me. I loved learning about “peace with justice” issues and the people I was meeting were fascinating. But, I realized, probably for the first time, that I was different. I wanted to tell every kid I met at church camp that it didn't matter who they voted for, what their families looked like, or what their plans were for life after high school, if they didn't embrace Jesus Christ as their Savior there would be no peace in their hearts and lives. Without peace in your heart, there won't be peace in your home, your neighborhood, state, country or world. He is the only way.

After we've addressed the peace that you live in, we can talk about hunger and war and stereotypes. But, it just won't work before that.

After that week at training, I made some strange changes. I would never again consider peace to be solely the absence of war. I stopped drying my hands in public restrooms with the electric dryers or paper towels, instead I would run my hands through my hair. And, I would never look at bananas the same.

We read about the “just war” theory and why flying is bad. We talked about prejudice and hate. But somewhere in all the stories and statistics and letters, there was this one poem that stuck with me. It was in the “hunger” segment of our materials. The poem was written by someone visiting a desperately poor nation. In some of this travelers’ observations, he saw a small girl steal a banana. She took this one banana back to her even smaller brother and sister, giving each of them half. Then, the little thief sat down and licked the inside of the banana peel. The poem ended with the phrase “I swear I saw the face of God.” I wish I could find that poem to share with you now. Just the thought of it, the reality of it, moves me.

After that week of training, I knew I had a decision to make. I could become more informed and involved. I could get swept along and give in. I could get angry and condescending. I could embrace every issue that came along, even ones I didn't agree with. Or, I could figure out how to care about the world around me and still be true to who I am. I could learn to disagree with people who voted differently than I did, yet embrace them because we both want this world to be a better place.

The rest of that summer was good. It wasn't as trying as my week of training. I wasn't asked to go to any gay bars or think about whether flag burning should be ok. But, I was confronted with a retired military man who openly disliked me as soon as he heard the word “peace”. I was flattered by a camp director who said she had been really worried about having a Peace Intern and I made her feel better about the program all together. I met a man who became a dear friend, who respected me and my views and threatened to call Bobby, who would soon propose, to ask him a series of questions including “what are your intentions” and “will you really promise to take care of her?”

Camp in Montana

I visited camps around the country that I would never have seen and met people I would never have thought about meeting. I was forced to think through issues I had never given much brain power to and I learned how to present my views in a way that took others' perspectives and disagreements and backgrounds into account.

Mostly, I was confronted with my Savior. Jesus got me into that summer program and showed me that I was His. He called me out and asked me do and say stuff that was sometimes uncomfortable. He took me to places I had never really wanted to go and would never have planned on. And, it was all really, really good.

As I said before, I was the least likely Peace Intern ever. If there were a reunion, I'm sure someone would think I should leave. I mean, I'm a mom now. I cook dinner most nights and hardly ever protest anything. I drive a minivan, for goodness' sake, and freely use the paper towels in public restrooms. I have even given my Birkenstocks away.

But, I still care. I pray for our country and leaders while wondering exactly where we're going to end up. I want people to know that refugees are some of my favorite people ever and that slavery still exists. I help those around me and teach my kids to help out too.

So, whether you're crazy or sane, whether you get your news off your Yahoo homepage or listen to NPR, whether you refuse to shower until Tibet is free or shave your legs every single day, we're all really more alike than we are different. And if you don't believe that, you should at least believe that we all care deeply about something.

“For a while that worked fine
All the Zooks stayed away
and our country was safe.
Then one terrible day
a very rude Zook by the name of VanItch
snuck up and slingshotted
my Snick-Berry Switch!”

-Dr. Suess, The Butter Battle Book

In a Hurry

I just had a breakthrough. I had a lunch date today with dear girlfriends at the local Thai place. When I finished getting ready at home, I realized I had about 15 minutes to get to lunch and it should only take me about 5. So, I had a decision to make. I could fold the clothes that had just finished their last spin in the dryer and probably be a little late, which would be totally acceptable to these friends. Or, I could take my time, head out, find a good parking space and probably be the first one there.

Here comes the breakthrough.

I chose to be the first one there. 

I don't often make that choice. I'm usually trying to squeeze one more thing into my schedule. I think I can finish baking brownies real quick or grab just a couple of things at Wal Mart and still make it where I need to be in a fairly timely manner.

For most of my adult life, I've felt like I was in a hurry. If I set out to read a book, I count pages in chapters and calculate how long it will take to read. If I'm mopping the floor, I gear up like I'm starting a race. I've used the FlyLady "method" for organizing and cleaning which encourages you to do things in 15 minute increments. I love the principle, but I don't like sometimes feeling rushed.

I'm sure all this hurrying has had a negative impact on my health and I know it's affected my disposition. I often feel my heart rate increase and anxiety starting to tap its way into my thoughts. But, get this, I’m a stay at home mom. What do I have to be in a hurry for? I can't even imagine the press that women who have full-time jobs and families and full lives must feel.

I asked my friends at lunch if they ever feel this same pressure and what they do about it. They both agreed that yes, they often feel like they're in a hurry. My friend who's a thoughtful single, busy, working woman said she thinks it's just the American way. We don't like it, but to get away from it I would have to move to a Latin or African country where they treat time in a whole different way. My other friend is a mom to a young child and her husband used to be our youth pastor. She's the most “chill” person I know. She laughed when I asked about this and said, “If you figure out how to stop, let me know.”

In the Bible in Jeremiah 2:25a it says, “Slow down. Take a deep breath. What’s the hurry? Why wear yourself out? Just what are you after anyway?” (The Message)

What a great question. What AM I after? Truly? What does it profit me to rush around like a chicken with my head cut off? I don't think I've gained anything. Maybe I do it because I just want to be done. Maybe my love of comfort drives me to finish what I know needs to be done so I can do what I want to do without guilt.

I saw an article online called 10 Signs That You May Suffer From Hurry Sickness. “Hurry Sickness”, seriously. It was written in convenient bullet points and said something fairly interesting about patience being a skill and not just a virtue. I didn't take the time to read all of it, but I'm sure it made a lot of sense.

I also read something on Huffington Post called Why We Rush Through Life by Sura. She said, "We cannot be present and rush at the same time." I'm sure that's true. But, then she said, "We’re lazy: It’s easier to rush through life and be on automatic, than to slow down and make a conscious effort to be present. Being present takes energy and intention. Rushing allows us to live on the surface rather than go deep." That really surprised me.

I totally agree that I shouldn't be rushing around, that I should be savoring moments and not sloshing through them on the way to the next thing. So, what would happen if I just slowed everything down? What if I still did first what needs to be done, but I tried to enjoy the process; if I still mopped the floor, but slowed down enough to enjoy seeing the shine on the tiles of my kitchen? What if I still counted pages in my book, but then settled in to enjoy them without worrying too much about how long each page would take me to read. What if I instead stopped to think about what I was reading, even narrate it back to myself to see what I've learned and retained; if I stopped to notice the world around me and took more time to write about and think about the first snowfall or when the first daffodils come up instead of just rushing to write the date in my book of firsts.

I want a life of peace and beauty, a life of calm and fun, a life of relationships and love. I don't think being in a hurry is going to get me there.

When my children were little, all my friends with small kids were playing the “I can't wait game”. They would say things like, “I can't wait until he can walk. I can't wait until she starts kindergarten. I can't wait until they sleep through the night.”

That didn't ring true to me. I was so thrilled to be a mom.  It had been a long road to get here. I didn't want to wish it away. So, I asked God to help me enjoy each stage, each part of my children's lives.

I wanted to cuddle them when they were sick and laugh when they got grass stains on their jeans. I wanted to be the mom who stopped to play a game or listen to the 10 millionth joke my son had made up. I wanted to show up at ALL the basketball games and encourage them to say at least one good thing about the refs afterward. 

Even now, I want to enjoy the way words come together when I write and the way beautiful images appear when I pull out my camera. I want to meet my husband at the door at the end of a long day and tell him I'm glad he's home, and mean it.

Maybe in the same way I asked for help when my boys were little, I need to ask for help now. Help to not wish away the everyday moments that make up my life, because this is my LIFE.

My friend, Melanie, is headmistress of the Red Mountain Community School in Birmingham, AL. She seems to have this “not rushing” thing down. I know she wouldn't agree, but her lack of hurrying is one of the things I love most about her. At one point, in her school, all the clocks had a quote above them. She jokes that they rushed to put it there. But, I love it.

“He who is in a hurry delays the things of God.” St. Vincent de Paul

I don't want to delay the things of God. I want to hasten them, not by hurrying, but by noticing. I want to be so in tune with God and myself that I notice when He speaks, when He answers a prayer, when He's especially near and I just need to take a moment to bask in His presence.

Psalm 46:10 says, “Be still, and know that I am God.”

When I know that He's God and I'm not, don't things go more smoothly? Doesn't my perspective stay a bit clearer? And don't I already know that being still in God's presence makes most things – my will and emotions and plans – more clear?

So, next time I feel that familiar increase in my heart beat, when I feel a tightness in my jaw, when I start counting how many minutes I have left to accomplish an impossible to-do list, I'm going to stop. I'm going to be still. I'm going to breathe in and out and smile and say, “Hey, Amy? What's your hurry? Why wear yourself out? Just what are you after anyway?”

A Huge Hunk of My Heart

There are things I love about each of the places we've lived. I love the brilliant colors of fall in Pennsylvania. I love the ingenuity and hard work of the people in Nebraska. I love the independence and lack of regard for the rest of the world in Texas. But, Alabama is my home-place, where I was raised and married. It's where my family still lives and my kids were born. “Sweet Home” is my theme song, playing in my head when I need to walk with a bit more confidence. So, Alabama will always have a huge hunk of my heart and a special spot in my mind.

We're fresh off a trip home for Christmas. It's a terribly long drive from Pennsylvania, but it was so worth it to be down South, even for a short time. I was surprised on this visit that I wasn't just consumed with our family, but I was struck and charmed with some stuff that's particular to the South itself, it's culture and cadence. I guess we've been gone long enough to notice some differences.

So, here are 5 things I love about the South.

1. The friendliness. About halfway through our trip in December, Bobby said, “Do you notice how everyone looks you in the eye and says 'Hi'?” It's true. The people are incredibly warm and open. They're not too busy to acknowledge a passerby. They probably think it would be rude if they didn't say, “Hey.”

2. The manners. Speaking of being rude...in the South, people generally aren't. I know there are those who think Southerners are fake or simple-minded to be so polite. But, if you think that, you've never had a gentleman doff his cowboy hat to you and say, “Nice to meet you ma'am.” I promise you, if you did, you'd feel differently.

My husband had the chance to introduce our boys to the bull rider, LJ Jenkins, one New Year's Eve. Bobby kind of skipped over me in his introductions, excited for the boys to meet a real live bull rider. When Bobby passed me over, LJ focused his attention on me and literally tipped his cowboy hat as he shook my hand to introduce himself. And, I literally did giggle like a teenager. 

Thanks, LJ Jenkins' Facebook page!

I was newly married and in my mid-twenties when I attended my cousin's wedding in San Antonio. While the bride and groom were leaving, I was introduced to one of the groomsmen and asked if he was a friend of my cousin's from college. “Yes, ma'am,” he answered. Ughhh. I did not want to be called ma'am then, but, gotta love those Southern gentlemen.

My boys have been labeled Southern gentlemen too and I'm proud of them for that. They will stop to hold doors for others and they still say “yes, Sir”, even if it's weird up here. My son, Allen, appreciates how when you introduce yourself, down South, others shake your hand and offer their names in return. It's a pet peeve of his that this doesn't happen everywhere. Simple, yes, but makes a big difference.

3. The natural beauty. An arrogant baseball dad in Ft. Worth once asked me where we were going on an upcoming vacation. “Alabama,” I answered wistfully. “Why?” he sneered condescendingly. I sputtered something about it being beautiful and where our families live. I never can think of anything really good to say in those situations.

weather.com, Mount Cheaha

But, Alabama is beautiful. It's right there in the state motto. There are pine trees aplenty and a lushness not found in other parts of the world. There are rolling hills and red clay soil, strange and wonderful. There's an openness, not like in Montana, but open and yet still cozy; like you're being hugged by someone with a strong chest and impossibly wide shoulders, your face doesn't get smooshed, but you still feel the embrace.

4. The accents (or the way y'all talk). While working as missionaries in Austria, we were confronted with accents from many lands. English words tripped over Iranian tongues and Bosnian lips. The German words that I spoke, I'm sure, sounded crazy coming from this southern mouth. On our trip back home after 2 years, Bobby and I were sad to leave, yet giddy with excitement. We flew Delta from Vienna straight into the heart of Atlanta. There was one flight attendant who was obviously from the south. He said “y'all” without hesitation and didn't even raise an eyebrow as we stared at him with goofy smiles on our faces. We rang our “attendant call button” way too many times asking for extra cookies and a blanket and who knows what else because all we really wanted from him was more of that golden accent. It was a portent of things to come as we moved back to the South.

5. The food. Ahhh, the food. While I love the fried stuff down south, I'm not just talking about hush puppies and catfish. I also love the pimiento cheese, cornbread, grits and black-eyed peas. But, the fried chicken, oh the fried chicken. I love that there are at least 3 restaurant chains that exclusively serve fried chicken fingers with French fries and this heavenly, glorified Thousand Island sauce to dip them in.

On this trip to Alabama we found out about another restaurant chain called Chicken Salad Chick. It serves 15 different kinds of chicken salad plus deli sandwiches and, of course, pimiento cheese. The restaurant is adorable and the food is great and I don't think it would have started, much less been successful, in any other corner of the country.

But, I can't forget the sweet, iced tea; how it fills up your mouth and leaves you with a smile. On our honeymoon, my sweet husband took me to Bar Harbor, Maine. We flew in to Bangor and drove the rest of the way to Mount Desert Island. When lunchtime came on that blissful road trip, we stopped at a roadside stand for lobster rolls. I ordered “tea” with my sandwich then looked on in confusion as the proprietor filled a dainty tea cup with piping hot water and plopped a tea bag on a saucer. Bobby, who spent his summers “Down East”, noticed the error and asked for iced tea for his clueless bride. It wasn't the least bit sweet so I dumped packet after packet of sweet n low in my glass.

I'm sure there are more things I love about the South. I didn't even mention college football, steak restaurants housed in cinder block buildings and magnolia trees. But, mainly it's home. And that's what you love most about where you're from, too.

No matter where and I live, and for how long, I think I'll always be like my Aunt Sally. She claims Alabama as her home, but she's lived in Minnesota for over 40 years. She's stubbornly kept her Southern drawl and fondly recalls her roots in Beulah, AL whenever possible.

Aunt Sally and I would agree with W. Morris who said, “I am a Southerner. I like the feel of these words. I could no more be otherwise than I could shed my outer skin or change the color of my eyes.”

While I'm kind of sad I'll never have violet eyes, like Elizabeth Taylor, I'll happily trade that in for belonging to the South. I really do like the feel of those words.

Decorating the Christmas Tree

I love our Christmas tree every year. I think there's been one year I wasn't super happy about it – it was a live tree with droopy limbs. But, for the most part, I love it, every single year. We've had live trees with bare spots and we sometimes use my Grandmama's fake tree (ever-lasting my Mama would say). I almost always wish our trees were taller. But, once you get the lights and ornaments on, it's beautiful. So beautiful.

Our ornaments are a delightfully quirky mix. There's a sled-full of clay snowmen with our names on them, and a Swarovski crystal star that proclaims the year is 2001. There's one made of cardboard glued to a red, wooden ring hung by red yarn with a picture of 5-year-old Amy in it. There's an elegant shell angel from my friend Lori's wedding and a cowboy boot from Texas. I always finish off the decorations with a tartan garland and pipe cleaner candy canes the boys made one year. I can't remember the last time we used white lights. It's colored lights for us. 

The tree is kind of funky. But, it's ours and I love it.

My problem comes in with the actual decorating of the tree. This year the boys put the tree up while I was out of the house. I thought they did a great job until I finished putting the lights on, which I've done since I was a high-schooler. Once the tree was smothered in lights I gathered the empty boxes to put in the attic when I noticed something funny about the Christmas tree box. It wasn't empty. There was a branch in there! The boys had left a whole branch off the tree. They claim they couldn't find an extra hole for it to go in, but that's never happened before and I know there's not an extra branch. I figured if I hadn't missed it while putting the lights on then no one else would miss it either.

After the lights, we all hang the ornaments together.

I always picture this going differently than it does in real life. I want us to have Christmas music playing gently in the background. There should be hot chocolate cooling in mugs on the coffee table. I want us to laugh and tell stories and reminisce about the ornaments, where they came from and why we got them. I want everyone to be ON BOARD and paying attention.

That doesn't happen in my house.

This year, I was just happy we were all home on the same night so we could hang ornaments together. I had thought we might need to divvy the ornaments into piles and let each person hang them when they were home. I sat on the floor by the tree with the huge plastic box of ornaments and a tangled pile of ornament hooks. I would say things like, “Here Allen, you hang this one. It's the twin bears in mittens that my friend Rosalie gave us right off her tree on your first Christmas.” And, “Bobby, you hang this one. It's a real silver bell!” 

 

They would humor me a little. Each would look at his ornament, smile, say “hmmm,” and find a place to hang the precious bauble. Then, they would refresh themselves, not with their hot chocolate, but with a minute or two of whatever football game happened to be on.

I wanted to huff and sigh. I wanted to say, “Hey, over here. This is all part of celebrating the birth of Jesus! Don't you care?!!”

But, I didn't.

I know they care. I came home one afternoon after the tree decorating to find Davis alone. He had plugged in the Christmas tree, but that's all. No lights in the front window. No lighted garland going up the stairs. No adorable Christmas Minion on the front porch. When I asked him about it he said, “The tree is all that's really necessary for me to feel like it's Christmas. Well, that and stockings.” 

So, I know they care...

They just care differently than I do, or differently than I want them to.

Maybe my love language is undivided attention to decorating the Christmas tree. Or, maybe I just need to get over it and be thankful for what I've got – three men in my life who let me decorate my dining room with a huge pink rug, who give me candles for my birthday and Christmas, who occasionally take me to the ballet and try really hard not to break the fancy china dishes when we use them.

Just like so many things in my life, the decorating of the Christmas tree doesn't “look” and feel exactly like I think it should. But, just like my crazy, quirky, mismatched tree, I want to love it or at least embrace it as mine.

I'll never stop oohing and aahing over the ornaments and wanting the boys to look at the pictures in their Noah's Ark First Christmas ornaments. I may still feel like sighing and huffing a little. I'll probably still make hot chocolate and turn Christmas music on. But, I hope I remember that none of this stuff really matters.

Whether we even have a tree or not, we'll still celebrate the birth of Jesus. We'll still sing carols at church and struggle to find the perfect gift for each family member. I hope I remember that it's not how we decorate the tree but who is decorating it. It's not the ornaments and stories, but those three men who love me so much and who I so desperately love. 

 I hope you loved your Christmas tree this year. But, whether you did or you didn't, my prayer for you and me in 2017 is that we love our lives, too; bare, missing pieces, mismatched, kind of funky and beautiful. Oh, so beautiful.

“Christmas waves a magic wand over this world, and behold, everything is softer and more beautiful.”

-Norman Vincent Peale

Merry Christmas from the Brittons 2016

Merry Christmas! How are you? I hope you're looking forward to celebrating the birth of Jesus and thoroughly enjoying the Advent season.

Let me get you caught up with the Brittons.

We did NOT move this year! Yay! We're still living in Bloomsburg, PA. While summer is mild and fall is gorgeous, we're not excited about the coming winter months. This year promises to be cold and snowy. But, since Allen and Davis have joined the ski club at school, they're willing to deal with it.

We're already praying for safety during those Wednesday afternoon ski trips because we've used up our injury quota for years to come. Last year during football season, Allen re-injured his shoulder but continued playing and even played a season of basketball. Near the end of basketball, he asked if we could get his shoulder checked out. Turns out he had a “slap tear” or torn labrum. His doctor recommended physical therapy instead of surgery which would have included 6 months of rehab. So, spring found him at our physical therapist once a week at 6am. He worked hard, rarely has pain in that shoulder now and played a great season of football this fall.

In the 5^th game of our football season this school year, Davis severely sprained his ankle. He couldn't walk off the field and the team trainer quickly called an orthopedic doctor, who's also a football player's dad, from the stands to the sideline. Davis was out for the next 3 games, became good friends with the team trainer because of all the hours spent icing, taping and rehabbing that ankle and now does exercises every day during his chemistry class in order to strengthen his joint.

Both boys attended Pennsylvania Free Enterprise Week this summer where they, along with about 500 other high school students, tried their hand at running a company. They learned about marketing and stocks and the costs of running a business. They both enjoyed it but Davis' interest in business as a profession seemed to be particularly peaked.

Both boys started on the varsity football team, Allen at free safety and holder, Davis at defensive end and left tackle. They're considering wallpapering their rooms with all the college letters they're receiving and they're enjoying the newfound freedom of driving themselves around town in their Nissan Altima, or the Vroom Vroom Car as Bobby likes to call it. Though neither is quite sure where they want to attend college or what they want to major in, they're learning to face the future and all it's uncertainties quite bravely. They are just juniors, after all, they have some time, and we're quite proud of them.

The "Vroom Vroom" Car

Allen is taking another AP history class and planning a trip to Germany, Austria and Switzerland (and Lichtenstein, says Allen, everyone forgets Lichtenstein!) in the spring with the German Club. He worked at the Bloomsburg Fair in September. Friends of ours from church hired him for their apple dumpling stand which their family has run for years. Allen worked about 60 hours hauling drums of ice cream, taking customer orders and scooping Penn State ice cream (that's a real thing for those of you non-Pennsylvanians!).

Davis also planned on working at the fair, but since his ankle injury was the Friday before he was to begin, he had to sit this year out. This summer Davis played a lot of golf with a patient friend who's on the golf team at school. He also attended a mission trip with our church youth group to Ocean City, MD. There, they helped serve meals to international students, shared the Gospel on the boardwalk and participated in Bible studies with a local church. He recently got his braces off which makes him happy and Allen irritated in equal measure. Allen gets his braces off on February 2^nd. We're all counting the days.

Davis' Braces

At Thanksgiving, Bobby fulfilled a bucket-list dream of his by taking us to the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, NY. We spent a long weekend wandering around the Hall of Fame, reading inspirational stories, looking at team memorabilia, listening to famous clips of baseball games and watching video of incredible plays. We stayed in a cozy and comfy cabin just outside town, enjoyed the cute shops in Cooperstown and the beauty of Lake Otsego.

Bobby also really stepped out of his comfort zone when he reluctantly agreed to be the president of our high school football booster club. He did a great job and has been asked by more than one person to take on the job for another year. I'm not sure he'll do it again, but I'm so proud of him for all his hard work. I didn't realize the booster club presidency came with first lady responsibilities, but alas, it did. I ended up selling ads for the weekly football program and helping to organize senior night. It was fun to be involved, help out and get to know people better.

This year I hosted a weekly Bible study at our house and attended Moms in Prayer meetings to pray for Central Columbia schools. I was lucky to be able to make a trip back to Alabama in March to celebrate my Grandmama's 95^th birthday! And, I grudgingly had my second knee replacement in 2 years. This time my right knee needed to be replaced and the same doctor who did my left one in May 2015 did this one, too. I found this surgery harder to recover from, but am happy to report that all's well now. As my doctors continue to joke, luckily, I only have 2 knees (har har), so hopefully I'm done with major surgeries for a long while.

As you can tell from this blog, I continue to write fairly regularly and appreciate the outlet it offers. Thanks for indulging us and reading this letter here instead of receiving it in the mail. Doing our part to save the rainforests, I suppose.

Allen in the foreground, Davis with the Auburn hat

May you find a chance this Christmas to slow down, reflect on your blessings and plan for the coming year. May you feel the presence of the Almighty God down to your bones, may you swim in His love and revel in His grace. May your time in the glow of the Lord Jesus change you, grow you, and set you free to live the life you've so freely been given.

Gather 'round ye children, come

Listen to the old, old story

Of the pow'r of Death undone

By an infant born of glory

Son of God, Son of Man

Gather 'round remember now

How creation held its breath

How it let out a sigh

And it filled up the sky with the angels

Son of God, Son of Man

So, sing out with joy

for the brave little boy

Who was God,

but He made Himself nothing

He gave up His pride

and He came here to die like a man.

“Gather 'Round, Ye Children Come”

• from Andrew Peterson Presents Behold the Lamb of God

Merriest of Christmases to you, dear friend!

Amy, Bobby, Allen and Davis Britton

 

Thanksgiving


The dictionary defines Thanksgiving Day as “a day appointed for giving thanks for divine goodness.” While it strikes me as amazing that the dictionary still acknowledges the divine and not just a day to eat as much turkey and dressing as possible, I'm thankful that it does. I'm glad it's still tradition to count your blessings and express gratitude. And, I hope everyone makes that part of their Thanksgiving ritual, a time when they can openly number the goodness in their lives and the One responsible.


While we've had lots of traditional Thanksgivings with a jumble of family and we've eaten cranberry sauce from a can, our last several have been unconventional. While they've been fun, they haven't looked exactly like I think they're supposed to.


Beginning about 5 years ago, we decided that we couldn't go back to Alabama for Christmas AND for Thanksgiving. So, we've opted to stay close to home in November. One of the first times we tried this we were living in Nebraska. We were so new to the area that I still regularly got lost, we were living in a hotel and we hadn't yet found a home to rent . So, we decided to visit my Aunt Sally and Uncle Gary in Minnesota.


We spent a long weekend cooking and eating, of course, but we also played cards for hours, laughed at stories of Aunt Sally and my dad growing up and bought a huge bag of popcorn that we tried to polish off during the Auburn – Alabama game. We were comfortable and welcomed and wanted. Just how I want to feel when I step into someone else's home and just how I want others to feel when they step into mine.


The next two Thanksgivings we still lived in Nebraska, but we spent both at the home of Diane and Dallas McKellips. We were good friends with them, their kids and grandkids from church. We ate dinner at tables scattered throughout their family room and kitchen, then spent the rest of the afternoon playing card games that I never quite got the hang of. It was fun and delicious and we truly felt like part of their family. When I asked Diane what I could bring she told me to just bring whatever made it feel like Thanksgiving to us. That would have been my grandmother's cornbread dressing which is lots and lots of trouble. So, Allen decided he couldn't live without my mom's strawberry and pineapple jello “salad” instead.

Thanks Wikipedia!

 
We called my mom for the “recipe” which goes something like this: Get two small boxes or one large box of strawberry jello, not the sugar free kind. Just make the jello like the package says, but don't add quite as much water as they tell you to. Let it sit in the refrigerator until it starts to “jell”. But, not too long. Then, stir in a can of crushed pineapple, drained, and some frozen strawberries that you've thawed. But, don't put all the can of pineapple in if it looks like too much and you may need to cut the strawberries. Stir it around and put it back in the fridge and hope it sets up.


If you're smirking or laughing about now, you should ask my mom for her biscuit or cornbread “recipes.”


Grandmom's strawberry pineapple jello “salad” sat happily on the McKellip's counter where Allen ate about half of the 9x13 pan. That dish continues to make annual appearances on our Thanksgiving table where it's about the only “traditional” thing we have, and, yes, I know it's not strictly “traditional.”


Now that I'm thinking about recipes, I have to tell you this. On our first Thanksgiving living in Austria, I decided I would bless all our new missionary friends with my grandmother's cornbread dressing. So, I placed a very expensive long-distance call for her recipe and moral support. I had no idea (no idea!) that you had to MAKE cornbread and biscuits BEFORE you even mix it all up and bake it again. No idea. I've had this dressing for most of the Thanksgivings and Christmases in my life. It's what the holidays look and taste and smell like to me. But, now I usually just wait for the trip south to eat Grandmama's. It doesn't taste quite the same if she's not sitting nearby anyway.


Our last two Thanksgivings have been even more unorthodox. Last year, we took a trip to Washington DC where we ate our Thanksgiving lunch at the Museum of the American Indian. I had a “taco” which consisted of ground beef on top of some sort of round bread. Bobby had corn on the cob with gigantic kernels of corn, and at least one of our boys had a hamburger. Just like the first Thanksgiving, right?


That evening, after walking miles and visiting most of the monuments on the National Mall, we drug ourselves back to our condo near the Capitol. We made Grandmom's strawberry pineapple jello “salad” to eat with turkey and fancy cheese sandwiches. Then, we gathered at a tiny table beneath a mural of the White House to eat and give thanks and rest our tired feet.

Cooperstown, NY

 Last week, we spent Thanksgiving in Cooperstown, NY. We planned to see the Baseball Hall of Fame and wander around a cute town. Thanksgiving Day we slept in at home, ate a big breakfast (we did have biscuits, but I did NOT call my mom for her recipe) and packed peanut butter sandwiches for the road. We ate sandwiches and tiny bags of chips in the van knowing that for dinner we would again have “our” Thanksgiving tradition of fancy turkey sandwiches, this time with swiss cheese and cranberry chutney and, of course, Grandmom's strawberry pineapple jello “salad”. We ate at a table in a cabin with the Dallas Cowboys on TV in the background.


While our Thanksgivings aren't always “traditional”, there is always much to be thankful for. We've had adventures and laughter and fun. We've been blessed and hopefully blessed others in the process. What I hope my kids will remember and what I want to remember too is that there's great joy in sinking into whatever the holidays may look like for you. For us that means living too far away to get home easily, for you that may mean making the rounds to three Thanksgiving dinners at three different homes. But, for all of us, taking a minute to thank the “divine” for family, friends and good fortune is a beautiful practice.


Ann Voskamp in her book One Thousand Gifts encourages us to number those blessings we have in life, those gifts small or huge, those things that take our breath away or make us sigh. I've kept a “thankfulness notebook” for several years now. While I don't write in it every day, I do often pick it up to write new blessings or reminisce over those I've already counted.


A few gifts in my notebook are candles that smell really good, $29 basketball shoes, and Facebook birthday messages. I've included bowling with fun people, a chilly night and a snuggly sweatshirt, and Valentine decorations left up too long. New knees, Bobby who keeps on loving me, and chapstick with different flavors at each end have made my list, too.


But, the things I'm thankful for at the moment are my family, laughing with my way too grown up kids, my mom who clipped a recipe for strawberry pineapple jello “salad” a long time ago, and knowing I can thank the Divine for this crazy, beautiful life no matter what day it is.

“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos into order, confusion into clarity...It turns problems into gifts, failures into success, the unexpected into perfect timing, and mistakes into important events. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow.”

--Melody Beattie, author

The Romance of the Daily

I enjoy a good love story.  I relish and seek them out.  My friend, Heather, says she'll watch any movie as long as there's enough love to keep her interested.  I don't think Heather and I are alone.  I think women across the globe long for stories that make them sigh, stories that come back to us in our dreams.  

I've long wondered why I'm so drawn to romance.  A while ago I started wondering if there wasn't some spiritual implication in all this.  Guys are drawn to a quest or battle, a fight between right and wrong, good and evil.  Women are typically drawn to the love story.  So, I started looking around and here's what I found.

“Real life” totally gets in the way.  I have a wonderful, romantic husband.  He occasionally brings me flowers and makes grand gestures.  He regularly lays down his life for me and our kids and I know I'm spoiled and blessed beyond measure.  But, we live in a world where work is stressful and surgeries need to be recovered from and kids need our undivided attention.  We live where there's dust on the mantle and the silly “all natural” toilet cleaner doesn't keep the toilet clean for very long.  Intimacy doesn't always sound like a great idea and dinner out sometimes sounds like too much effort when we can order in and watch another episode of “Once Upon a Time” on Netflix.  

In an article on familylife.com called “5 Romantic Needs of a Woman,” Dennis Rainey says, “But creating adventurous romance requires planning and enthusiastic effort.”  I don't know about you, but my planning and enthusiasm muscles are sometimes the last things I want to exert.

I don't want to just pop in The Princess Bride or pick up Jane Eyre when the desire for romance comes along, but sometimes it's all I can manage.  In her article on christianitytoday.com, Caryn Rivadeneira says, “Any of us who enjoy reading fiction – of any stripe – do so in part for the entertaining escape.  Whether it's romance or mystery, literary novels or action-packed adventures, we love reading because we love getting lost into other people's lives, worlds, interests, and desires.  We can enjoy all the good of their world or crying at the hardship, all the while understanding that it is made up.”  She goes on to say that romance is lovely and that God even uses romance to describe His passion for us, His people, in the Bible.

“Entertaining escape.”  I want to tread lightly here. Escape just for the sake of escape may not be good or right.  But, everyone needs a breather now and again.  When Allen and Davis were tiny babies and we still needed help as often as we could get it, I felt a bit, um, overwhelmed.  I was a clueless though passionate mom to those twins.  I was unprepared for what life would be like with two babies and felt like I was sinking in a pit of diapers and burp cloths and tiny socks.  I nursed and nursed and slept, then started nursing again.  Part of what got me through that time was a series of books called The Mark of the Lion by Francine Rivers.  What I remember about the books is that a girl named Hadasseh lived this brave, romantic, beautiful life.  She was a Jewish woman who remained true to God even after being sold into slavery, taken to Rome from her home, and thrown into the coliseum to be eaten by lions.  

I read these books aloud to tiny baby Allen and Davis while I nursed them.  At one point in the book, blood-thirsty crowds start chanting, “Jugular, jugular!”  Oblivious, I kept right on reading until my sister stuck her head in my room and asked what was going on.  I think she gently suggested different reading material for her nephews' first introduction to fiction.  It was just so much easier to read about Hadasseh's inspirational life than to go out and live my own.

But, it's not just an escape I long for.  It's an unmet need for things to be better.  To look out at the world and actually see the good.  I long for those “ahhh” moments, the moments that make you want to weep with the beauty and perfection of the romance.  Those moments like when Buttercup realizes the Dread Pirate Roberts is her long lost Wesley, like when someone proposes by having a banner flown behind an airplane over a football game, like the picture I saw online of a Marine holding hands with his beautiful, emotional bride, hidden around the corner of a wall, praying just before their wedding.

It seems I should be able to transfer this joy and comfort in the love stories of Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy or Buttercup and Wesley to joy and comfort in the living God.  God's love is perfect and holy and sacrificial and all things good.  Though I've read Song of Solomon, I can’t seem to regularly think of God's love for me as romantic.  I've spent so much of my life thinking of God as my Father and Savior and Friend.  How do you make that transfer to knowing God loves us with a romantic love as well?  Should I even be trying?  Because, so far, I haven't been successful.

In the first chapter of Song of Solomon alone, the man compares his love to a horse and her eyes to doves.  They speak of the bed they share and what his head smells like as he lays it on her chest.  That's all just in the first chapter!  But, the most romantic picture of all is Christ, coming to the dreadful earth from the paradise of Heaven and giving Himself, literally dying, for the one He loves, the one who is worth it all.  

I've heard the symbolism of living the Christian life being like a grand adventure, an epic battle and a romance of the ages.  I want to live like Stephen Curtis Chapman's “The Great Adventure” and saddle up my horse every morning, knowing I have “a trail to blaze.”  I want to leap out of bed wondering what God has for me.  I want to be like Jean, an Assyrian refugee we once knew.  A fellow missionary said, “I like hanging around Jean, exciting stuff happens because he loves God so much.”  

I'm sure Jean worked on his relationship with God.  Maybe his relationship with Jesus was marked by “planning and enthusiastic effort”.  Maybe Jean wouldn't have thought of this as romance, but maybe he didn't need that imagery.  But what about women?  Do we NEED that?  Does the thought of “falling in love with Jesus” spur us on to being better Christians?  

There's a song by Jason Gray called “More Like Falling in Love.”  Part of it goes like this:

I need more than a truth to believe
I need a truth that lives moves and breathes

To sweep me off my feet, it's gotta be

More like falling in love than something to believe in
More like losing my heart than giving my allegiance

Caught up, called out come take a look at me now
It's like I'm falling, oh it's like I'm falling in love

It's a good song and I like it a lot.  I think it sums up my feelings on this whole romance thing.  I want to feel like I'm falling in love.  I don't just want a set of principles to live by.  

But,...

Hardee's Biscuits, yumm

I fell in love with my husband over frozen yogurt and the Shakespeare theater, Hardee’s biscuits on Saturday mornings and water skiing, watching from my screen door hardly able to wait to see his blue car pulling up in my driveway and holding hands walking into the free movies at Auburn.  Now, 23 years into marriage, I'm still crazy about him, he still makes me laugh like no one else and I'm still happy to see him pull into the driveway.  

But, it's different than it used to be.  I may not thrill when he touches my hand like I used to, but now I'm known by him.  He senses my moods and my thoughts.  He cares for me and protects me.  The heart-pounding and the barely contained excitement may have tempered, but the love, deep and abiding, is still there.  It's still beautiful and strong, but it's really different.  I'm not falling in love, I have already fallen.  I'm in.

So, while I love a good romance and it reminds me of where I've been, it also reminds me of what's to come.       

Again, in Madeira’s christianitytoday.com article she says, “It is the ideal of being forgiven and love conquering all that appealed to me.  And while my brain knows this isn't always true, my heart wishes it were.  The good news is that my soul knows it will.  Not in a book.  Not in this life.  But one day.”

One day!  One day all the pieces will fit, this will all make sense and we'll love it!  We don't know the time, but one day Jesus will come back and call those who know Him, who've given their lives over to Him.  We'll be with Him in His Father's mansion, better even than the Beast's mansion in Beauty and the Beast or living in Biltmore in North Carolina.    

Of course, I don't want to be locked up whiling away the hours doing nothing but reading Jane Austen and watching “Wives and Daughters.”  I want to live the romance.  I want to appreciate what I have and enjoy the here and now.  I want to see the beauty and feel the love around me.  I want to dwell there, in the romance of the daily.  

So, go ahead and cry when Jerry Maguire says, “You complete me.”  Go ahead and sigh when Kate Bosworth tells Topher Grace how many smiles he has in “Win a Date with Tad Hamilton.”  But, don't forget that it's just a poor picture of what will really happen when Jesus comes back in the clouds, when He speaks your name, when we finally get the happily ever after we’ve been longing for.