A Good Thing

My daughter-in-law.  Maureen.

I remember the first time I saw this girl.  She was about 9 years old and I had stopped by her family's farm stand to buy produce.  She was such a cute thing with her head full of beautiful hair and her intense blue eyes.  I didn't talk to her - just saw her - along with one of her sisters.

It wasn't too long after that when one of my neighbors told me that a local farmer might have a job for my boys.  He had been to the farm stand to buy strawberries.  I called Brad.  He gave my boys a job picking strawberries.

They worked hard - and because they did, Brad offered them a summer job.  Then a part-time fall job.

Little did I know then that one of my boys would, one day, marry the farmer's youngest daughter.

But I'm so glad.

I've heard of terrible relationships between mothers and the women their sons marry.  But I've never experienced it.

Maureen is like a daughter to me and I'm not just saying that.  She really is.  I love talking to her - I love shopping with her - I love being with her.  She makes me laugh.  I love, too, that she trusts me with her children.

I don't want to embarrass Maureen but I do want to say how grateful I am to the Lord for giving this woman to my son.

Proverbs 18:22 says "He who finds a wife finds a good thing and obtains favor from the Lord," and Proverbs 19:14 says "House and wealth are an inheritance from fathers, but a prudent wife is from the Lord."

You know, it has really really mattered to me who my sons marry.  A wife makes or breaks her man.  A wife helps or hinders her man.  A wife can be either a blessing in his life or a curse.

Well, Maureen is a good thing.  She is from the Lord.  She is an incredible blessing to my son.

And she is a blessing to me.

Happy Birthday Maureen!

There was a time when Jameson was Jordan and Maureen's chaperone.  In this photo, she's paying him off.   :)  I know, I said I didn't want to embarrass her but, oh well . . .  I LOVE YOU, MAUREEN!

The Seabrook Woman

OK, so I just threw together a recipe last night and served it to Carl when he came home.

I think he was the most expressive about how awesome, how wonderful, how great it was – more expressive than he has ever been about any thing I have made in our nearly 32 years of marriage.  Years filled with lots and lots of food.  After he raved and raved with so many compliments – I thought he was going to ask, “So did you get that from the Pioneer Woman?”  (I’ve made quite a few of her recipes which he has loved - thanks to my daughter and daughters-in-law). 

Since I was anticipating the Pioneer Woman question, I intercepted, “Well, thank you.  And just so you know – that recipe came from the Seabrook Woman.  Her name is Audrey.”

He followed up, “You need to send that to the Pioneer Woman," quickly followed by, “Write down how you made it so you won’t forget.” 

I knew what he meant.  He meant, “I want you to make that again . . . regularly.”

So here I am, writing it down – er, I guess I should say, typing it out.

And if I were a really savvy Seabrook Woman, I would have taken pictures of the process and I would have made sure my make-up was perfect and my hands were lovely.  And that my kitchen looked awe-inspiring. And I would have set up the camera so to see the spanish moss draping the live oaks in my backyard with the marsh reeds peeking through.  All from my kitchen window which would be laced with appetizing things.

And of course I would be wearing one of my most lovely aprons.

Maybe next time.  If there is a next time.  Words will have to do, so here we go:

The Seabrook Woman's Made-Up Thrown-Together Pasta Dish

(And just so you know, I measured nothing)

Pasta (I used spaghetti noodles but next time, I’m going to use Fettuccine)

While the pasta was boiling, I poured some milk (probably 2 cups?) and a little half-n-half (probably ¼ cup) in my big sauté pan, and turned it on high until it started boiling – then I turned it down to low

I added about 2-3 tablespoons of butter (I ALWAYS use real butter, never margarine or diet stuff).   Then I sprinkled a little flour in to thicken the sauce.

While it was on very low heat, I kept stirring – I then added some fajita seasoned chicken strips (pre-cooked in the freezer section at the grocery store).

Then I threw in some fresh spinach, let it cook down, added some more till it “looked about the right amount.” 

I then sliced up about 4 or 5 smaller fresh tomatoes and threw them in, stirring.

The pasta was done by now, so I drained it, and threw the noodles in the pan and stirred (of course.)

After stirring, I tasted this to see what kind of seasoning I wanted to add.

Then I added salt and fresh ground pepper.  I threw in some rosemary and a little hot and spicy seasoning (my husband adores hot – both in temperature and flavor)

I added a little more milk and stirred.  It was looking so good!  But it needed something else.

My last ingredient? 

Feta cheese.  And again, I don’t know how much I threw in –  but I didn’t stir.  I just let it sit on top.

Then I turned the burner off, put the lid on, and let it rest until Carl came home.

When he did, I fired up the burner and served.

He couldn’t stop talking about how great it was.

So now, I guess I should write a cookbook.

The Seabrook Woman . . . um, cooks? . . . um, throws stuff in a sauté pan? . . . um, stirs?  . . . um, doesn't take pictures? . . . um, doesn't measure . . .

Well, she does something . . . not sure what . . .

How Do I Love Thee

Over 250 years have passed since Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote these words:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of being and ideal grace. I love thee to the level of every day's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for right. I love thee purely, as they turn from praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.

With Valentine's Day and it's "forced love" (as my husband says with a smile) approaching, I have a challenge for you.  If you are married, count the ways you love your husband and write them down.  Yes, I'm challenging you to make a list.  I'm challenging you to only think about the things you admire, appreciate, and really love about that man you married.  There were reasons you chose to marry him.  Remember them.  Let yourself count them - at  least one for every year you've know him and then, after you've made it, draw some hearts and kissy-things on it . . . and then give it to him.  Make it meaningful.  Force yourself to do this - that is, if you're up to the challenge.  And I know, I know, for some - it really IS a challenge.

Then after you make your list, thank God for those qualities in his life.  Ask God to bless that man.  Ask God to help that man.  Ask God to remind you of the love you seem, sometimes, to lose.  Then ask God to help you love him better. Ask God to help you love him freely, purely, with passion put to use, with your childhood's faith.  With smiles and tears of all your life.

That's what I'm going to do. Happy Forced-Love Day ;)

Mama, Can't You See?

I wrote the following post right after Grant graduated from college in May of 2010. He worked in the private sector since graduation but has always had a longing to serve our country in the United States Marine Corps.  He is now at Officer Candidates School.   I am so, so, so very proud of him.  He came home for about a week during his transition from his job in Raleigh. I have had many emotional moments (and yes, hours) since he left.   Carl and I loved having him around - helping him, laughing with him, and praying for him - just the sheer joy of being with our boy.   As you read this two-year-old post, you'll understand why.  But . . .  though I already miss him terribly and though I will not be able to talk to him for a long time . . .  I am so thankful for his heart to serve both his God and his country.  

Like I said, I am so proud.

This is our family. November, 2011.

May, 2010  Well, the dynamic of my life has changed yet again. We let our fourth child go - officially - from the safety net of our home. All those years ago when Carl and I were young parents, we kept welcoming babies into our home. We had Jeremy, followed by Jordan, then GraceAnna, followed by Grant. Our fifth, Jameson, wouldn't come along for nearly five more. We welcomed our first four children in rapid succession so now, we're releasing them in the same way.

This is Grant. August 1988.

As I've faced the going away years of my children, mothers who have gone before me have told me that it would get a little easier with each goodbye. Not so, not really except that yes, I know a little more of what to expect each time - kind of like after you have your first baby. You know the intensity of labor, you know what the pain will be like, you also know you made it through delivery and you know you'll be fine and even better when it's all over. You know you'll be holding a sheer miracle in your arms and when you do, wow. Yet, even though you know these things and the knowing brings great comfort, you find that you're still so incredibly overwhelmed and you simply cannot believe that God would entrust you yet again to raise another life for Him.

So for me, the goodbyes haven't gotten better or easier. Yes, I know a little more of what to expect, I know what the pain will be like, and I know I will be so fine when it's over. But as I've walked into it each time, I am still so incredibly overwhelmed as I've looked at these now adult children who are quite amazing and I think how I cannot believe God entrusted me to mother each one. Each child brings a new dynamic to your life - and when each one leaves your home, their particular dynamic leaves too. But . . . after they're gone, if you're contemplative at all, you realize their dynamic has forever changed you. It's made you more dependent on God, made you see how sinful and selfish you really are, and in the end has made you realize how utterly helpless you are without Jesus Christ. Raising children does that.

This is Grant. 1996.  

And raising Grant? You have to understand - there's so much presence with Grant. Anyone who knows him, knows what I'm talking about. He is so much fun. He is all there. He is funny and noisy. He has a great smile. A quick smile. A wink you'd die for. He doesn't go to an event, he is the event.

Four years ago, as a mom, I began the process of releasing him. That was when he entered those transition years, the college years - part gone, part home. He went to the Citadel, the Military College of South Carolina. He wanted the challenge, the discipline, the rigorous physical training, and the academic schedule. My free-spirited little boy - yes, the one who was attached to his blanket.

The day we took him to the Citadel, it was a gray, wet, rainy, muggy Saturday in August. Seems so long ago. I kept saying to myself as we walked all over campus, "I need an umbrella." But it didn't matter, the rain mixed in with wet eyes. We said our goodbye at 12:30 p.m. and we didn't see Grant again. We drove home in silence.

The hardest part back then was not the releasing-thing. It was the fact that I would not be able to hear from him for ten days. That was when first-semester knobs couldn't have phones. So I was left with just praying. And wondering. The days that followed were very long. It's funny how your children never leave your mind or your heart - ever. They don't understand that - and never will until they have children of their own.

The next day at church, we sang "May our homes be filled with dancing . . . " And so OK, I had a moment. My emotions were raw. See, not uncommon for Grant while he was a teenager was his grabbing me in the kitchen quite unexpectantly while I was making supper and then swinging me around to some song that he had turned on, blasting and jarring me out of my quiet. Didn't matter if he was tired from a hot, sweaty day of work or from a long day of classes. He was the same. Smiling, happy, barging through the house, leaving a wake. Not that he never had serious, contemplative, and even aggravating or temper-filled moments. He's a guy, he did. Yet those moments were so overshadowed . . . as he filled the atmosphere of our home with so much presence beginning with his birth.

For example, when Grant was little, he always called me, "Ma!" The rest of my children called me "Mommy" until they grew older and eventually dropped the ending calling me the very plain "Mom." But not Grant . . . no . . . it was "Ma!!!!" as soon as he could talk. And he was so cute with his freckled face and his little lungs hollering, "Ma! Ma!" when he needed me or wanted to show me something quite incredible - like a spider. He was loud.

He used to lick gummy bears and stick them the picture window in our Texas house. Random, I know, but sorry, I'm having a moment.

Another example. As a toddler he would run way ahead of me no matter where we were. Once I was meeting a friend at the neighborhood pool with my four little ones. As soon as Grant saw the water, he wriggled out of my arms (I guess I basically dropped him) and he ran as fast as his little legs would take him and just plopped in the pool. Fortunately for him I caught up and plopped in with him. He kept me on my toes. There was no rest unless he was sleeping. Like I said, he changed the dynamic of my life.

He kept me from gaining weight. Another random thought.  And he still challenges me in that area. "Mom, you would love these running shoes.  Mom, too many carbs.  Mom, you really should do more than just run - try these pull-up bands, do push-ups. Mom, too many oatmeal cookies and caramel ice cream."

Well, now those transition years are over. He graduated from the Citadel May 8, 2010. He had two job offers.  I went with him to North Carolina to help him move into his new place and get settled. The dynamic of the house changed when Grant bounded through the door of our lives all those years ago. And now it's changing again as he's left.

This is Grant. 2010.

But you know what?  Raising children for the glory of God not only changes the dynamic of my life, but it is my continued prayer that it changes the dynamic of the world.

Now it's January, 2012.   My boy - no, the MAN . . .  

Mama, Can't You See?

The New Year

When I was a teenager, I made New Year's resolutions.   Things like

• I'll try to be nice to my brother.

And I was nice to him . . . until he made me angry.  

• I'll do things around the house without being asked or told.

And I did . . . unless I didn't feel like it.  

• I'm going to please God all the time - at school, at home, with my friends.

And I meant it . . . unless pleasing God meant giving up something I wanted to do.

After a few years of making resolutions and failing miserably at keeping them, I learned that making resolutions didn't make me good.  In fact, they seemed to point out to me what a failure I really was.  Resolutions didn't teach me anything except that I couldn't keep them.

I had good intentions but I seemed to never live up to my own expectations.  All those resolutions didn't fix my problems or temptations or bad habits.  The problem with my resolutions is that they were based on my trying to do things in my own strength.

I've never done well in my own strength.  

But one New Year's Day back in 1978,  I was in a car filled with college students as we were coming home from a Cru student conference.  I remember leaning my head on the window in the backseat, staring out, and thinking about my life. 

I had grown up in a good home, I was taught right from wrong,  I had loving parents, I had a good life.  I loved high school and I loved being a college student - I loved my life.  I was the kind of girl who didn't think too long or too hard about things and I certainly didn't worry much.  But I did have one nagging frustration - my roller coaster life with God.  

I had good intentions where God was concerned.  I loved His word but I wasn't consistent studying it.

I loved obeying God but I also found it irritating when obedience to Him was in conflict with temptations in my life.

I wanted my unbelieving friends to be believers but I didn't want to make them uncomfortable.  

So on that New Year's Day, I was thinking about these things in the car.  See, for the couple of months leading up to this day, my world had been turned upside down after I learned that one of my friends was killed in a car accident.

I was trying to make sense of it all.  I had a lot of questions.  This carefree girl had been worrying and thinking long and hard.  God knew.  And He answered a lot of my questions at that conference.  It was like I was the only one there and many of my worries were abated.

But I had one worry that wouldn't leave.    I was so afraid that once I got back home or back to campus, I would get right back on the roller coaster.  Good intentions gone awry.

BUT.  GOD.  He heard the pleas of my heart.  I was pleading with - no, I was begging Him to make my life count and to never be ashamed to speak of Him or live for Him.  

I usually think about that car trip every New Year's Day.  God is so very faithful.  He crashed that roller coaster back then.  My life changed.  My life had a plumb line - one that I was beginning to understand.  Because I came to a better understanding of the grace of God, His unmerited favor in my life, His unconditional love for me, His choosing me before the foundation of the world that I would be holy and blameless before Him - all this according to the kind intention of His will, to the praise of the glory of His grace . . .

I came to a new understanding of my redemption.  And I wanted to live all my days for Him - whether I lived to see another New Year or not.

Well, it's been 34 years since that day and I haven't been on a roller coaster since.  Ups and downs in life?  Oh yes.  BUT. GOD. 

I've never liked roller coasters or making resolutions anyway.  Happy New Year.  

Pretty Normal

So I was in Atlanta last week for the birth of Grace Catherine Broggi.  My son Jordan and his wife, Maureen, had their fourth baby. It was such a sweet time with them and I can't believe my son has four little ones!  Seems like yesterday I was having my fourth baby and now I have seven grandchildren. 


I'm getting old. I don't feel it.  In fact, every time I am with my grandchildren, I feel like I've jumped in a time travel machine - the years roll back and I'm right there again.  And you know what helps with that?  Leggings and tunic tops!   Why, you ask?  Well, they were a fashion statement in the eighties when my children were little - I lived in them -  and they're back . . . 


Anyway, Jack and Luke came back to Beaufort with us for a few days.  It's always fun to have them.  Always.  I absolutely love it. 


And so on this trip, I had not yet gotten a Christmas tree nor had I hung the stockings.  Don't judge me, please.  See, I purchased this little 3 foot tree last year - it looks SO REAL and I put it on a table and it made me feel all festive. And then with Josh Groban holiday music playing on Pandora all the time - well, let's just say my home seemed Christmasy even without a big tree.


But last night I told Jack and Luke that TODAY, I would get out my box of special ornaments that Grandma Hill made and they could help me put them on my little tree.  And we when got a bigger tree, we'd move them.  So first thing this morning, they were helping me put Grandma Hill's crochet ornaments on my tree. 


They were fascinated with the fact that she made them by hand so many years ago and that I still had a box full of them.  How did she make them?  What is crochet?  That was hard, wasn't it?  That took a lot of time, didn't it?  That was a special thing, wasn't it?  Did you thank her for them?


I told them how my grandma liked to be busy with her hands and she loved to make things for her family. After we placed all those ornaments on the tree, we then hung the stockings she made.   I told them I only had five because she reached a point in her life when she couldn't crochet anymore. My mom made our last two stockings.  


They asked many questions about Grandma Hill.  They both said they wished they knew her.  "Was I just a little baby when she died?" Jack asked.  "How about me?" Luke added.


"Oh no, Jack and Luke, y'all weren't even born.  Your parents weren't married yet.  Grandma Hill died in 1998 - think about it this way, Uncle Jameson was 4 years old, almost 5 - that's how long ago it was."


"Oh," they said.  So then we  talked about getting old and dying.  We talked about how sin spoiled everything - and that was sad - but we also talked about how God redeems everything.  It's so obvious to me how Jordan and Maureen have been teaching the Bible to them.  And seriously, I was thinking how that's the way it's supposed to be.  Psalm 78 lived out.

The next thing they asked about Grandma Hill was, "What do you think she's doing in heaven?"  


"Enjoying Jesus.  And . . . waiting for us!  You'll know her one day."


That will be fun.


Then they wanted to know how old she would be if she were still alive, "You know, alive on earth?"


I said, "Ninety-nine."

"That's old!" 

And that launched into a conversation about me - Amma - and how I was old - imagine that - but not that old.  Oh good.  


Not yet, anyway.  They told me how they wanted to bring their grandchildren to see me one day. 


I said,  "I probably won't be around then, boys or if I am, I'll be really, really old like Grandma Hill if she were alive."


Jack said, "I'm glad you're not that old now.  Cause you do things with us. And you don't look old either."

Wow. Earlier they told me I was old.  But now, they were telling me I didn't look old.  This was good.  


This was starting to sound like a compliment . . . so to further this complimentary conversation, I asked, "So, since you don't think I look old, you must think I look young.  Do you think I look young, Jack?"

Big mistake.

He replied laughing just a little, "No, Amma, you don't look young - you just look normal."

"Normal?  Are you sure I don't look young?"


"No, Amma, I said you look normal."  


Now Luke, who had been quietly working on ornaments and stockings most of the time, finally added with a flare,  "Amma, don't you know you look pretty normal?"

I guess so.


I walked into the kitchen and looked at myself in a mirror. Hmmm, the boys were right.   I don't look young. I've certainly got those fifty-something lines, wrinkles, and a few gray hairs. And yeah, those will increase as the years go by . . . until the Lord either takes me home or He comes for His church.

So I guess for now, I look pretty normal. 


Luke had said "Amma, don't you know you look pretty normal?"  But I know what he meant.  He meant pretty AND normal.

At least that's how I'm taking it!

Let Your Child Teach You

My child taught me something about twenty-two years ago. She was four at the beginning of the teaching.

Then she grew to be seventeen and there was a moment in my life when I paused and reflected on a seemingly nothing event.

The day her lesson sunk in was the morning I did the ordinary thing of making a bed. A mundane mothering task.

I made GraceAnna’s bed. She had to leave early so I decided to straighten her room before she came home. And there I saw Bunny tangled in the covers where she had obviously fallen from the shelf above the bed. My mind drifted to the time . . .

Not long after we moved to Beaufort, four-year-old GraceAnna and I were shopping in the old Roses department store. GraceAnna noticed a little nothing of a stuffed bunny and asked if she could hold it.

I said yes, just for a moment, because we had lots of shopping to do. In that moment, fresh memories of GraceAnna’s tears just weeks before our move flooded to my mind. I remembered seeing my little girl cry as we drove away from a cat she loved and the only home she had ever known.

Now we were in this new place ~ she missed the cat, her street, her house, her Texas. I looked at the bunny. It wasn’t the cutest and I wondered, “Out of all the stuffed animals, why did she choose that one?“

To look at her hold the bunny, you would have thought she had found a long lost friend. And that’s all it took ~ Bunny came home with us. This bunny was nothing special - really, it wasn't. It was a no-name brand, it was not expensive or exquisite. It was not from a boutique or a specialty store and it probably wouldn't last long. I could already see it disintegrating before my eyes or at best ~ ending up as clutter. It was so poorly made. So cheap. Before purchasing it, I offered to buy some markers instead of the bunny. But no, GraceAnna had set her heart on Bunny.

Some things we’ve purchased for our children as they were growing up have ended up as clutter, but Bunny never did.

Over the years, I patched up Bunny so many times that she seemed to be more trouble than she was worth. My mother patched up Bunny whenever she visited. Bunny's head is coming off. Bunny's ribbon is fraying. Bunny's insides are coming out. Bunny is so dirty. And the one time I tried to wash Bunny was a disaster - both for GraceAnna who had to be tricked so I could put Bunny in the wash and for Bunny, who came out looking worse and I was in a panic as to how I would fix her up. My mom works miracles on sick things - Bunny was no exception.

So on the bed-making day, I looked at Bunny ~ no, I stared at Bunny. She was a mess. Her little body was so tattered and torn. Her fur, if you could call it fur, was so stained and so matted. Her stuffing was coming out and so much of it was missing. But in that moment I really loved her.

And I remembered times over the years when I noticed better bunnies on the shelves at different stores. And I remembered how I sometimes thought it would be so easy to replace Bunny. I bought new, cuter bunnies. Fluffy, soft fur, sweet face, plump clean body ~ some costing so much more than Bunny. I had done that because to me Bunny was so dirty, so worn out, so fragile, not worth much.

I am ashamed to say that now. I should have known better. Yes, perhaps Bunny was dirty, worn out, and fragile to me . . . but to GraceAnna? Bunny was a friend.

Bunny was precious when we bought her and Bunny remained precious for ALL of GraceAnna's growing up years. No matter how tattered, torn, dirty, worn out or fragile she became. In fact, the more tattered Bunny became, the more love and care GraceAnna gave her. We even had to dress her in doll clothes to keep her together.

So the day I made up my 17-year-old daughter’s bed, I was careful with Bunny.

I remembered that little 4-year-old so many years ago, gazing into this worthless stuffing and choosing her.

And today? Well, GraceAnna's 26 now, married, has a baby and a home of her home. And me? I was going through GraceAnna's closet and I found Bunny. So I sat down and I loved her and I let my child teach me once more as I remembered the days when it was all about this little stuffed thing.

In so many ways ~ I am like Bunny. I am nothing special. I am tattered, torn, worthless, of little value, needing to be patched up all the time.

Yet, like Bunny, God took notice of me, He chose me, and He purchased me with His very own blood. I belong to Him. I was lost - now redeemed - to be His friend. To Him I am absolutely precious ~ not because of anything found in me but because of everything found in Him.

It’s amazing the way God works in the mundane, everyday, ordinary moments of mothering. When your child is 4, when she is 17, and when she is 26.

Bunny. Love for that little stuffed thing was not based on anything special found in it ~ but on the heart of a little girl. And no matter how tattered and torn Bunny became, the care of it was based on the one who loved it.

And it's so true. God’s love for me is not based on anything special found in me, but on everything found in Him. He says I am His beloved ~ no matter how tattered and torn I become in this life. Why? Because I am His. He has called me by name.

Isaiah 43:1 But now, thus says the LORD, your Creator, O Jacob, And He who formed you, O Israel, "Do not fear, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name; you are Mine!