Five years ago today, on January 20, 2014, I met my husband. We went on a blind double date and stayed up til 3 am talking in my friend's living room. That night I learned a lot about Will. He told me all about his work as a cotton farmer and about his co-workers. One co-worker and friend I heard about that very first night we met was David Jones.
David was a childhood friend of my father in law and had managed the farm for years. He drove a truck and on any given day you could spot him in his truck "driving the loop" or on the farm. Let it also be noted that the man enjoyed a Budweiser, even if it had been sitting in a truck bed for 8 hours in the Alabama heat.
When Will returned to the farm after finishing college at Auburn, he and David began working together and David quickly became a colleague, mentor, and friend to Will. He was a one of a kind man.
Not too long after my first date with Will, I had the privilege of meeting David for myself. Will and I had been dating for a few months and he was back in planting season so I finally got to go visit the farm. Though he never told me directly, I can imagine David had some doubts about Will bringing some city-girl from Birmingham (Mountain Brook, at that!) down to the farm. Nonetheless, he invited me to hop in the tractor with him and take a ride. So I did! That's right, the first time I climbed into one of those giant machines was not with my future husband but with David. We rode for a little while...down and back down and back...talking about politics, history (Will had mentioned that I was a history major so David was sure to quiz me on my Civil War facts.), religion, and a little bit of farming. By the end of our ride I like to think I'd started to grow on David a little bit.
On my next visit to Prattville, David invited Will and me to his cabin to visit. Once we got there he proudly displayed his newest jar of moonshine and like the good Southern gentleman he was, offered some to us. I was pretty sure this was some sort of test. During our tractor ride we had covered the fact that I enjoyed a nice bourbon every now and then. I think he found my brown water preference a bit "hoity toity" so he figured he'd see what I did with this offer. Still trying to prove that I could hang with these farm guys, I accepted and thanked him generously as my throat burned and the taste of grain alcohol lingered on my tongue. As I looked up, David was grinning. I couldn't tell if he was taking more joy in the face I was making or that I'd just accepted his challenge. From that point on, I knew David and I were friends.
As Will and I dated, I got to know David a little better with each visit to the farm. I came to love his kindness, loyalty, and the confidence he had in being himself. Since we've been married, I have watched his relationship with Will change from one of caution and supervision to one of respect, trust, and love. When my parents came to visit the farm, David came out and met them. He walked my mom around one of the fields and helped her pick cotton by hand as she told him stories about her mom who had grown up doing the same. Both times I've brought our son to the farm David made an effort to spend time with us. He only met Mack twice, but I'm pretty sure they took a liking to one another. David always spoke highly of me to Will and of Will to me. That meant to world to both of us.
David passed away yesterday morning after being sick for awhile. It broke my heart. I know it broke Will's. But I have no doubt that David is with Jesus. In fact, I told some of his family this morning that Will and I had smiled as we pictured David cruising around "the loop" in Heaven in his dirty pick up truck on streets paved with gold. We're also pretty sure he declined his mansion in favor of a cabin, and I for one can't wait to stop in for a visit when I get there!
Thursday, January 10, 2019
Tuesday, October 16, 2018
Ode to the Forgotten Coast
There is something in the human spirit that causes us to, when disaster
strikes, long to link ourselves to those impacted. It seems we are searching for a connection.
"My dad has a business partner whose brother was on flight 93."
"My best friend from college went to high school at [insert name of countless locations of school shootings.]"
"The tornadoes in Tuscaloosa ravaged my college town."
After Hurricane Michael I have, unwillingly and with a broken
heart, joined in the chorus:
"My in-laws have a beach house in Port St. Joe,
Florida."
The first time I visited this house was in the summer of
2014. I can't claim a life-long love for the "Forgotten Coast," as it
is affectionately called by those who know it well. However, it's a place that
grows quickly on a person.
That first visit, back in the summer of '14, was when I
realized I could (and would very much like to) not only marry my (then)
boyfriend, but marry into his family. Spend a week at a house in a sleepy beach
town with people and you'll figure out pretty fast how you feel about
them.
Since then there have been multiple trips. Long weekends
spent with friends. Our first New Year's as a married couple. Family beach
weeks with both of our parents. And, most recently, last January, a trip with
our 3 week old son. We were new parents and had no clue what we were
doing so the three of us hunkered down among the locals and snowbirds and
enjoyed the quiet of a beach town in the winter. We took him to many of our
favorite places that week. And I'm glad we did, because some of those are now
damaged or gone.
There's the local spot, Killer Seafood, in Mexico beach
where we sadly pinned a dollar to the (already crowded) wall in honor of our
pug, Presley, who had died the day before we arrived. Killer Seafood is gone
now and that dollar is floating somewhere in the gulf. I wish it would wash
ashore and find someone who needs it.
There's Oyster City Brewing Company in Apalachicola where
we have shared local beer and stories with friends and strangers. They
experienced damage but are up and running as of today, providing a place
for people to gather and, as they put it, try to "resume life as
normal."
And there is, of course, Indian Pass Raw Bar. It's a
place of legend that, if one place can, embodies the spirit of the entire
Forgotten Coast. They lost their doors, their sign, and took on several feet of
water within their restaurant. Their team, mostly family, has already begun a
clean up effort and is donating all of their t-shirts to those who lost even
more than they did.
These are only a few of the local establishments that make this place what it is, and I am only one of many who could write this post. Each person who has spent time down there could pen an ode, and I hope each one will.
As stories of hurt and loss continue to surface in the wake of this disaster, so do stories of heroism, sacrifice, and perseverance. So we will continue to pray. We will continue to give* and go to those who are hurting. Because, in the end, we do in fact have that connection for which we are searching: we are made in the image of God and God is present in tragedies. He is embedded in the lives of the hurting. He is "near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit."** As his image bearers, we will try to do the same.
*There are many places you can give to support the Forgotten Coast, but two I can recommend and know to be sincere are:
**Psalm 34:18
Thursday, March 8, 2018
Grief and Celebration
We had Mack dedicated at church a couple of weeks ago. Right in the middle of Lent. We're Baptist (well, technically, I'm a "Baplican," but that's another story for another time), but were we of a more "high church" denomination, we would have been asked to wait until after the Lenten season to perform such a celebratory act. We also would have been asked to sprinkle him. Yet another story for another time.
It has been noted on this blog before that despite being a Baptist I am a huge fan of the Liturgical tradition. I revel in the anticipation of Advent and the solemnity of Lent. However, as I contemplated this joyful occasion we were imposing on such a sacred time of year I felt a peace.
I have come to realize that one of the bittersweet tensions we hold this side of Heaven is that grief and joy are not mutually exclusive. They are not confined to their own separate corners only coming forth when asked. They ebb and flow and mix and mingle and cannot truly be separated.
I have seen this in my own life as I feel I am constantly grieving the end of one stage of life while celebrating the beginning of another. I remember as our wedding approached I felt a surprising amount of grief for the end of my single days. The same was true as my due date approached last year. I grieved the end of the "just the two of us" newlywed stage Will and I were preparing to exit. And in a brief three months of parenthood I have already grieved many stages of Mack's life even as I rejoice to see him growing and progressing into a healthy little boy. I have no doubt that will continue.
This tension between grief and celebration became clearest to me last summer when my grandmother passed away while I was almost nine months pregnant. I stood in front of a crowded chapel and gave her eulogy while inside me I could feel my son kicking--a sign of life. The significance was not lost on me and I remember in the moment taking a minute to soak in the beauty of God's mercy that as He had called my grandmother home He was simultaneously gifting my family and me with new life. It left me breathless.
We also see this tension in the life of Jesus, especially the end of his life that we celebrate during the Lenten season. The Bible tells us that "for the JOY set before him, Jesus endured the cross."* There must have been some bittersweet thoughts in his last few days. Knowing the agony that was to come but the joy and peace that would follow--I often wonder what He was thinking. I think the human side of Jesus held this tension in the same way we do today. After all, on his last night on Earth he did not retreat to solitude to mourn his impending death. No, he gathered together his closest friends and had a meal. We don't know every detail of that night, but I have to believe Jesus rejoiced, even if only inwardly, over the work they had done and would do in the name of the Father.
This Lent has been perhaps my least devoted. I can't tell you what I'm giving up or what I've added to my life except that I have a bit less sleep and personal time and a little more laundry. However, as I stood in front of our church dedicating my son back to the Lord on the second Sunday of Lent, I felt a tinge of that bittersweet tension washing over me and knew that in this particular season I was exactly where I needed to be.
*Hebrews 12:2
Monday, November 20, 2017
Womack Hopson
This baby could come any day now. Its due date is 10 days away. If it's a boy, his name will be Womack Hopson Sanford. He will be called "Mack."
His name will be all family--my maiden name coupled with Will and his father's middle name. I love that the name is a perfect merger of Will and me. That Mack will have a name from both his mother and father. I love that Womack will be kept alive with him, because it would have otherwise died with my getting married. I love that he would be the third consistent generation of Sanford men with "Hopson" as a middle name.
Mostly, though, I love the men for whom he will be named.
William Gregory Womack will be an awesome grandfather--but oh to see him with a little boy! Although he'll tell you he had "the best of both worlds" with two girls who were tomboys, he also says that if "God himself" had guaranteed his third child would be a boy, he would have gone for it! Bless him, he would have spent more time playing with GI Joe action figures than gluing the heads back on my Barbie and Ken dolls. I'd love for him to have a grandson. I'm told Dad was an energetic child who got into things...a typical boy. I'm also told that through high school and college, though never jumping too far over the line, he pushed the limits on what was kosher and acceptable. Some of that hasn't changed. Dad still has a lot of energy he has to get out of his system, hence his regimented daily workout routine. He also, at least in the 32 years I've known him, hasn't always stuck to what is "kosher and acceptable." I'm not sure that it's kosher to turn down promotions at work in order to be able to spend more time with your wife and coach your kids' rec league teams. I'm not sure that it's "socially acceptable" to spend more time making sure your family is spiritually and practically secure rather than trying to keep up with the rest of the community. And frankly, I don't know who in the WORLD pledges SAE at Auburn and never takes a drop of alcohol. Greg Womack is not like every other man, and thank God for that. I think he's the greatest man in the world (over the age of 32) and hope his grandson takes on his "differences."
James Hopson Sanford will tell you with complete sincerity that he's "just a cotton farmer from Prattville, Alabama." This is about as accurate as Peyton Manning describing himself as a "just a guy who likes to throw the football now and then." Before I met Jimmy Sanford, I wasn't sure "renaissance men" still existed. Trust me, they do. At least one does. With interests and expertise ranging from agriculture to business to higher education to real estate to sports, there's not a whole lot Jimmy cannot do or hasn't done. And while I swell with pride each time one of his accomplishments is pointed out to me, it's not those accomplishments that would make me proud for my son to bear his name. Jimmy Sanford the resume is impressive. However, I can assure you that Jimmy Sanford the father, father in law, and grandfather is even better. I'm coming up on four years of knowing Jimmy. That's not very long, but it's long enough to know I won the father in law jackpot. It's long enough to have seen the trust, confidence, and pride Jimmy takes in Will as he runs the farm. It's long enough to have seen (on multiple occasions) Jimmy drive over to our house in the freezing cold or pouring rain to deliver us a "to go plate" from a family meal we missed. It's long enough to have learned that although he'll never push anything on me, he is always there as a listening ear and a second dad when I want to process something. And it's long enough to know that if his grandson is half the man he is, I'll be a proud mother!
William Hopson Sanford is the love of my life. He is the man God created perfectly for me and there truly is not a day that goes by that I do not stand in amazement at God's sovereignty in bringing us together. Will is the calm to my frenzy. He is the patience to my hurry. He is the detail oriented to my "let's rush through and just get it done." He is the laid back to my planner. He is the quiet to my loud and he is the happy being back stage to my "performer" personality. I hope our son would inherit all of this from his dad (with just a TOUCH of my planner side so we aren't always late). I also hope that our son would inherit his dad's gentle spirit, sacrificial work ethic, tender heart, servant leadership, and ability to see others with the eyes of Christ. On the surface level, I wouldn't hate it if Mack had his dad's curly hair, long eye lashes, and tan skin tone either. His dance moves, sense of humor, and ability to rock a bow tie would be even greater added bonuses! Will is going to be an amazing father--I get more and more excited each day to have a front row seat to this. And if this baby is a boy, I hope he grows up to be just like his dad!
Womack Hopson Sanford will have a lot to live up to, but he'll also have these three men to look up to as well. If he ends up a nice blend of all 3 of his namesakes, he'll be doing just fine.
His name will be all family--my maiden name coupled with Will and his father's middle name. I love that the name is a perfect merger of Will and me. That Mack will have a name from both his mother and father. I love that Womack will be kept alive with him, because it would have otherwise died with my getting married. I love that he would be the third consistent generation of Sanford men with "Hopson" as a middle name.
Mostly, though, I love the men for whom he will be named.
William Gregory Womack will be an awesome grandfather--but oh to see him with a little boy! Although he'll tell you he had "the best of both worlds" with two girls who were tomboys, he also says that if "God himself" had guaranteed his third child would be a boy, he would have gone for it! Bless him, he would have spent more time playing with GI Joe action figures than gluing the heads back on my Barbie and Ken dolls. I'd love for him to have a grandson. I'm told Dad was an energetic child who got into things...a typical boy. I'm also told that through high school and college, though never jumping too far over the line, he pushed the limits on what was kosher and acceptable. Some of that hasn't changed. Dad still has a lot of energy he has to get out of his system, hence his regimented daily workout routine. He also, at least in the 32 years I've known him, hasn't always stuck to what is "kosher and acceptable." I'm not sure that it's kosher to turn down promotions at work in order to be able to spend more time with your wife and coach your kids' rec league teams. I'm not sure that it's "socially acceptable" to spend more time making sure your family is spiritually and practically secure rather than trying to keep up with the rest of the community. And frankly, I don't know who in the WORLD pledges SAE at Auburn and never takes a drop of alcohol. Greg Womack is not like every other man, and thank God for that. I think he's the greatest man in the world (over the age of 32) and hope his grandson takes on his "differences."
James Hopson Sanford will tell you with complete sincerity that he's "just a cotton farmer from Prattville, Alabama." This is about as accurate as Peyton Manning describing himself as a "just a guy who likes to throw the football now and then." Before I met Jimmy Sanford, I wasn't sure "renaissance men" still existed. Trust me, they do. At least one does. With interests and expertise ranging from agriculture to business to higher education to real estate to sports, there's not a whole lot Jimmy cannot do or hasn't done. And while I swell with pride each time one of his accomplishments is pointed out to me, it's not those accomplishments that would make me proud for my son to bear his name. Jimmy Sanford the resume is impressive. However, I can assure you that Jimmy Sanford the father, father in law, and grandfather is even better. I'm coming up on four years of knowing Jimmy. That's not very long, but it's long enough to know I won the father in law jackpot. It's long enough to have seen the trust, confidence, and pride Jimmy takes in Will as he runs the farm. It's long enough to have seen (on multiple occasions) Jimmy drive over to our house in the freezing cold or pouring rain to deliver us a "to go plate" from a family meal we missed. It's long enough to have learned that although he'll never push anything on me, he is always there as a listening ear and a second dad when I want to process something. And it's long enough to know that if his grandson is half the man he is, I'll be a proud mother!
William Hopson Sanford is the love of my life. He is the man God created perfectly for me and there truly is not a day that goes by that I do not stand in amazement at God's sovereignty in bringing us together. Will is the calm to my frenzy. He is the patience to my hurry. He is the detail oriented to my "let's rush through and just get it done." He is the laid back to my planner. He is the quiet to my loud and he is the happy being back stage to my "performer" personality. I hope our son would inherit all of this from his dad (with just a TOUCH of my planner side so we aren't always late). I also hope that our son would inherit his dad's gentle spirit, sacrificial work ethic, tender heart, servant leadership, and ability to see others with the eyes of Christ. On the surface level, I wouldn't hate it if Mack had his dad's curly hair, long eye lashes, and tan skin tone either. His dance moves, sense of humor, and ability to rock a bow tie would be even greater added bonuses! Will is going to be an amazing father--I get more and more excited each day to have a front row seat to this. And if this baby is a boy, I hope he grows up to be just like his dad!
Womack Hopson Sanford will have a lot to live up to, but he'll also have these three men to look up to as well. If he ends up a nice blend of all 3 of his namesakes, he'll be doing just fine.
Friday, July 7, 2017
Virginia
If Will and I have a baby girl, her name will be Virginia. I've been wanting for sometime to articulate why, and like so many things in my life, writing is the easiest way to do this.
Oddly, using the name Virginia comes from another name...one from the Bible. Many of us have grown up singing the second verse of the popular hymn "Come Thou Fount" without ever knowing what in the world an "Ebenezer" is. In 1 Samuel 7:12 we are told that after God had delivered his people from the Philistines, "Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen and called its name Ebenezer; for he said, 'Till now the Lord has helped us'" (ESV). Samuel was drawing a line in the sand. Creating an altar. Reminding himself and his people of God's faithfulness to that point and thus pointing them to the fact that they could trust His faithfulness moving forward. Once I learned the meaning behind this word, it changed the way I sang the hymn and caused me to ponder what the "Ebenezers" in my life might be.
I've said for years that (until Will) the greatest proof and reminder to me of God's faithfulness and sovereignty in my life is my journey to and through Virginia--both the state and the school. When I was 15 I decided that I would attend the University of Virginia for college. This became my goal--it's what motivated me to study, to participate in extra-curriculars, to attempt to play volleyball well. I didn't get in...twice. Early Admission: deferred. Regular Admission: Wait Listed. I never came off that wait list. It was the first time in my life I'd been truly disappointed. That I'd wanted something so badly and had failed. And it humbled me at a time in my life when I very much needed to be humbled.
So, this child will be named for humility.
That failure to get into UVA led me to Auburn where I had the best four years of college anyone has ever had. Ever. Come at me if you'd like to argue. I majored in History--specializing in American History which, in case you've forgotten, involved studying a good bit about Virginia. I met amazing people, had incredible experiences, and made best friends that will be with me for the rest of my life. It provided me an opportunity to share an experience with my parents and sister that has become something treasured we share together.
So, this child will be named, although indirectly, for my undergraduate alma mater and my family--for those life-changing friendships and experiences at Auburn and the gift the is a shared experience among family members.
After college I moved to Falls Church, Virginia to participate in a Fellows Program. While I was craving the content of the program, I was pretty sure that I was full to the brim on friends and needed no more. I was wrong. I met more amazing people, specifically six women who have enriched my life in ways I cannot fully express. In addition the program itself, as well as the subsequent two years I spent in Northern Virginia, opened my eyes and shaped me significantly. My time there allowed a part of myself to grow and blossom that, I firmly believe, could not have done so in another setting.
So, this child will be named for more life-changing friendships and the time I spend learning to know and experience God in ways I'd never imagined.
Once I left Northern Virginia, the Lord completely redeemed my experience at the University of Virginia where I applied, was accepted, attended, and graduated with a Masters of Education in Higher Education. It was only a year, but at age 26 I was finally able to realize a dream I'd dreamed for 11 years. During that year my "relationship" with Virginia was put into such a new, eternal perspective. UVA, like any other place this side of Heaven, has warts and imperfections. However, it is also so much of what I'd imagined it would be as a leader in higher education. Charlottesville is a picturesque town with incredible people, beautiful mountains, and a vibrant local culture. It is home to one of America's greatest founding fathers and presidents and my history-loving self relished in all it had to offer. I realized that at age 18 I might not have appreciated it the way I did at 25 and 26. And once again, I met wonderful people who helped me learn, think, and grow and who God used to continue to shape and mold me into who He has created me to be.
So, yes, this child will be named, in part, for the University of Virginia and what it and its people have meant to me as a 15 year old, a 26 year old, and now a 32 year old.
Upon graduating from the University of Virginia I stayed 14 more months in the Commonwealth. I took a job at an all-male, small liberal arts college in the extremely rural town of Farmville, Virginia: Hampden-Sydney College. I knew no one when I took the job. I had no place to live. I ended up renting a duplex off a dirt road where the only television was satellite and there was no garbage pick up service. As a 26 year old single girl I went to work at a place where there were no other females my age. My friends became a group of Hampden-Sydney alums who were all vastly different from one another and from me. We did things like play Settlers of Catan until our eyes bled, hang out at the swimming pool outside the guest cottage one of them was renting, watch DIII basketball and pray for the home team to score more than 100 points so we could get free Bojangles, and listen to a lot of music. These guys took me in as family. They welcomed me with open arms and loved me well. I didn't invite any generic "guy friends" to my wedding, but I invited them. Although they were different than me and some of them hold different beliefs from me, they were the hands and feet of Jesus to me for those 14 months. They loved me without asking (m)any questions. They also allowed me a lot of time to myself (I can't hang out with dudes ALL the time). I had plenty of afternoons and nights to work on myself, to spend time delving into things that interested me, to read and pray and study God's word. It was the most alone time I'd ever had and the most I will probably ever have.
So, this child will be named for boldness. For going into unknown situations and new adventures trusting the Lord will provide what you need. For learning about yourself and about God and about who He made you to be.
Since moving back to Alabama from Virginia in 2012, I've had incredible professional and personal experiences--the greatest of which was of course meeting and marrying Will. I can now say he is the greatest proof I have of God's faithfulness and sovereignty in my life. And as I reflect on my life thus far, I can say with confidence that "till this point, the Lord has helped me." So now when I sing "here I lay my Ebenezer, hither by Thy help I come," I am reminded of my journey from age 15-26 to and through Virginia. I am also reminded of the man God made to be my husband, to fulfill such a great desire of my heart. And when I look at our daughter, I will rejoice and give thanks for God's faithfulness and provision to this point and claim it for all three of us in the days and years to come.
Oddly, using the name Virginia comes from another name...one from the Bible. Many of us have grown up singing the second verse of the popular hymn "Come Thou Fount" without ever knowing what in the world an "Ebenezer" is. In 1 Samuel 7:12 we are told that after God had delivered his people from the Philistines, "Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen and called its name Ebenezer; for he said, 'Till now the Lord has helped us'" (ESV). Samuel was drawing a line in the sand. Creating an altar. Reminding himself and his people of God's faithfulness to that point and thus pointing them to the fact that they could trust His faithfulness moving forward. Once I learned the meaning behind this word, it changed the way I sang the hymn and caused me to ponder what the "Ebenezers" in my life might be.
I've said for years that (until Will) the greatest proof and reminder to me of God's faithfulness and sovereignty in my life is my journey to and through Virginia--both the state and the school. When I was 15 I decided that I would attend the University of Virginia for college. This became my goal--it's what motivated me to study, to participate in extra-curriculars, to attempt to play volleyball well. I didn't get in...twice. Early Admission: deferred. Regular Admission: Wait Listed. I never came off that wait list. It was the first time in my life I'd been truly disappointed. That I'd wanted something so badly and had failed. And it humbled me at a time in my life when I very much needed to be humbled.
So, this child will be named for humility.
That failure to get into UVA led me to Auburn where I had the best four years of college anyone has ever had. Ever. Come at me if you'd like to argue. I majored in History--specializing in American History which, in case you've forgotten, involved studying a good bit about Virginia. I met amazing people, had incredible experiences, and made best friends that will be with me for the rest of my life. It provided me an opportunity to share an experience with my parents and sister that has become something treasured we share together.
So, this child will be named, although indirectly, for my undergraduate alma mater and my family--for those life-changing friendships and experiences at Auburn and the gift the is a shared experience among family members.
After college I moved to Falls Church, Virginia to participate in a Fellows Program. While I was craving the content of the program, I was pretty sure that I was full to the brim on friends and needed no more. I was wrong. I met more amazing people, specifically six women who have enriched my life in ways I cannot fully express. In addition the program itself, as well as the subsequent two years I spent in Northern Virginia, opened my eyes and shaped me significantly. My time there allowed a part of myself to grow and blossom that, I firmly believe, could not have done so in another setting.
So, this child will be named for more life-changing friendships and the time I spend learning to know and experience God in ways I'd never imagined.
Once I left Northern Virginia, the Lord completely redeemed my experience at the University of Virginia where I applied, was accepted, attended, and graduated with a Masters of Education in Higher Education. It was only a year, but at age 26 I was finally able to realize a dream I'd dreamed for 11 years. During that year my "relationship" with Virginia was put into such a new, eternal perspective. UVA, like any other place this side of Heaven, has warts and imperfections. However, it is also so much of what I'd imagined it would be as a leader in higher education. Charlottesville is a picturesque town with incredible people, beautiful mountains, and a vibrant local culture. It is home to one of America's greatest founding fathers and presidents and my history-loving self relished in all it had to offer. I realized that at age 18 I might not have appreciated it the way I did at 25 and 26. And once again, I met wonderful people who helped me learn, think, and grow and who God used to continue to shape and mold me into who He has created me to be.
So, yes, this child will be named, in part, for the University of Virginia and what it and its people have meant to me as a 15 year old, a 26 year old, and now a 32 year old.
Upon graduating from the University of Virginia I stayed 14 more months in the Commonwealth. I took a job at an all-male, small liberal arts college in the extremely rural town of Farmville, Virginia: Hampden-Sydney College. I knew no one when I took the job. I had no place to live. I ended up renting a duplex off a dirt road where the only television was satellite and there was no garbage pick up service. As a 26 year old single girl I went to work at a place where there were no other females my age. My friends became a group of Hampden-Sydney alums who were all vastly different from one another and from me. We did things like play Settlers of Catan until our eyes bled, hang out at the swimming pool outside the guest cottage one of them was renting, watch DIII basketball and pray for the home team to score more than 100 points so we could get free Bojangles, and listen to a lot of music. These guys took me in as family. They welcomed me with open arms and loved me well. I didn't invite any generic "guy friends" to my wedding, but I invited them. Although they were different than me and some of them hold different beliefs from me, they were the hands and feet of Jesus to me for those 14 months. They loved me without asking (m)any questions. They also allowed me a lot of time to myself (I can't hang out with dudes ALL the time). I had plenty of afternoons and nights to work on myself, to spend time delving into things that interested me, to read and pray and study God's word. It was the most alone time I'd ever had and the most I will probably ever have.
So, this child will be named for boldness. For going into unknown situations and new adventures trusting the Lord will provide what you need. For learning about yourself and about God and about who He made you to be.
Since moving back to Alabama from Virginia in 2012, I've had incredible professional and personal experiences--the greatest of which was of course meeting and marrying Will. I can now say he is the greatest proof I have of God's faithfulness and sovereignty in my life. And as I reflect on my life thus far, I can say with confidence that "till this point, the Lord has helped me." So now when I sing "here I lay my Ebenezer, hither by Thy help I come," I am reminded of my journey from age 15-26 to and through Virginia. I am also reminded of the man God made to be my husband, to fulfill such a great desire of my heart. And when I look at our daughter, I will rejoice and give thanks for God's faithfulness and provision to this point and claim it for all three of us in the days and years to come.
Friday, May 13, 2016
Cleaning the Shower
Last weekend I cleaned our bathroom. It wasn't just the usual spit shine, once-over. This was the scrubbing on my hands and knees clean that was much overdue. As I was doing this, I came to an odd realization: I would MUCH rather clean the toilet bowl than the shower. I started to ask myself why. I discovered that it came down to expectations and distance. With the toilet, well, we all know what happens there. I'm prepared for any nasty I may encounter. It's a toilet. It's supposed to be gross. I can handle that. It's also convenient that to clean the toilet (at least the bowl) there is a brush with a large handle that allows me to keep my distance from the messy stuff.
The shower is an entirely different story. Shouldn't a shower be self-cleaning? I mean we dump who knows how much soap and shampoo in there on a weekly basis. It ought to take care of the messy parts for us! A shower isn't supposed to be gross. It's supposed to be a place of relaxation and cleansing. Wrong. Also, there is (to my knowledge) no toilet bowl brush equivalent for the shower. I was head down on the floor scrubbing with my nose in the grime. There was no keeping my distance. Once I decided to clean it, I was all in.
At some point as I was scrubbing the shower, I realized that I tend to take this same approach to my sin. My "toilet sins," the ones that are easy to acknowledge and out there for everyone to see are often so much easier for me to deal with than the ones I keep mostly inside me, the ones that fester primarily in my heart--my "shower sins." If I don't acknowledge my "toilet sins," other people will notice. They will be repulsed by me, just as they would if they came to my house and saw a dirty toilet. So I clean them up faily quickly with a long handled brush and move on. I look clean and shiny because I've handled my obvious shortcomings for now. However, the "shower sins" are easier to hide. They get in the crevices of my heart and my soul and they stay there and they mildew and rot until I finally have the courage to go before the Lord and ask Him to scrub my heart clean. Sometimes I don't even realize the "shower sins" exist and many times I choose to just ignore them in hopes they'll go away on their own. But, they don't. I have to go inside my heart and face the dirt and grime, just like I do in the shower.
This could seem discouraging, but the beautiful thing here is that when I bring ALL of my sins before the Lord, it is like bathing in a freshly scrubbed shower. God's mercy and grace pour down over me and wash me clean.
Here's to praying my literal shower and the one in my heart and soul get a good scrubbing more often!
The shower is an entirely different story. Shouldn't a shower be self-cleaning? I mean we dump who knows how much soap and shampoo in there on a weekly basis. It ought to take care of the messy parts for us! A shower isn't supposed to be gross. It's supposed to be a place of relaxation and cleansing. Wrong. Also, there is (to my knowledge) no toilet bowl brush equivalent for the shower. I was head down on the floor scrubbing with my nose in the grime. There was no keeping my distance. Once I decided to clean it, I was all in.
At some point as I was scrubbing the shower, I realized that I tend to take this same approach to my sin. My "toilet sins," the ones that are easy to acknowledge and out there for everyone to see are often so much easier for me to deal with than the ones I keep mostly inside me, the ones that fester primarily in my heart--my "shower sins." If I don't acknowledge my "toilet sins," other people will notice. They will be repulsed by me, just as they would if they came to my house and saw a dirty toilet. So I clean them up faily quickly with a long handled brush and move on. I look clean and shiny because I've handled my obvious shortcomings for now. However, the "shower sins" are easier to hide. They get in the crevices of my heart and my soul and they stay there and they mildew and rot until I finally have the courage to go before the Lord and ask Him to scrub my heart clean. Sometimes I don't even realize the "shower sins" exist and many times I choose to just ignore them in hopes they'll go away on their own. But, they don't. I have to go inside my heart and face the dirt and grime, just like I do in the shower.
This could seem discouraging, but the beautiful thing here is that when I bring ALL of my sins before the Lord, it is like bathing in a freshly scrubbed shower. God's mercy and grace pour down over me and wash me clean.
Here's to praying my literal shower and the one in my heart and soul get a good scrubbing more often!
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Sports and Womanhood
This post is a response to a recent Sports Illustrated article detailing how female sports reporters are still bullied and abused online by a minority of men that just can't handle women in the sports world. I do not agree with every point the author makes, but I agree with enough to write this post. One of my favorite quotes from the article is below. You can read the whole thing here (caution: awful language due to the tweets/comments the author has received).
"Those of us [women] who dare invade this mostly male space [sports] are generally accepted, but there remains a vocal minority committed to forcing women out and rolling things back to the good ol' days, when women talked about recipes and PTA meetings and shoes. (Is that what they talked about? I’m guessing here.)
Unfortunately for these “meninists,” an entire generation grew up as the daughters of Title IX, with progressive fathers and kick-ass mothers who took us to football games, played one-on-one with us in the driveway, and taught us how to throw a fastball. With more and more women brought up to believe that sports can be their space, too, it’s natural for them to expect a seat at the table when sports come up in conversation."
I am by no means a radical feminist, but this article is heart-breaking and important. I wouldn't call my dad "progressive," but he, along w/ my "kick-ass mom" took me to football games, played one-on-one with me in our driveway, and taught me how to slide into second (I wasn't a pitcher so there was no need for fastball lessons).
I love sports. I love everything about them. I also believe men and women were created by God with unique gifts and strengths. I don't agree that women can do everything men can do. I don't think men can do everything women can do. Men and women are different. That's why I think it's important to have men and women represented in sports and sports media. They bring different, yet equally valuable, perspectives to the arena.
I was reminded this weekend of how women are made to appreciate beauty. This is absolutely true, and a role I relish as a woman. However, I don't think beauty is limited to a perfectly decorated home or chic new fashion trend. It certainly involves those things, but there are other types of beauty. A Tom Rinaldi College Gameday piece highlighting walk-on athletes who receive scholarship offers from their coaches is beautiful. Pat Summitt coaching a championship game in the prime of her career was beautiful. A pitcher throwing a perfect game is beautiful. Watching Jordan Spieth play golf this year was beautiful. And of course, watching a young man from Woodlawn High School in Birmingham, Alabama return a missed field goal 109 yards to complete the upset of his in-state rival is absolutely gorgeous.
Those who know me well know I often use the refrain "sports tell good stories." They do. These stories range from the events happening on the field to the human interest backstories of the athletes and coaches involved. They display redemption and disappointment, victory and defeat, heroes and villains. They remind us that we are simultaneously the image-bearers of God and sinful humans who have a hard time getting out of our own way. Sports offer us a lens into the state of the human condition.
Most recently, I am thankful for a husband who is not threatened by my love for sports, but instead finds it attractive. He doesn't care if I beat him in H-O-R-S-E every now and then. He always welcomes me to tag along with him to the driving range even if I whiff 50% of my swings, get frustrated, and interrupt what would have been his relaxing afternoon. I am beyond thankful that his confidence in himself allows him to encourage me to be myself. Last night "myself" looked like cooking us our first homemade chili of the season then eating it with him as we watched Monday Night Football and discussed our fantasy rosters. On commercial breaks, he washed the dishes so that I could switch out the laundry. By the end of the night we had full bellies, a clean kitchen, 4 fresh loads of clean clothes, and a celebration over Aaron Rodgers' 5 touchdown passes.
I don't know the author of this article or the men who made those atrocious comments towards her. I don't know how they spend Monday nights or how they treat their daughters. However, I do know that being a woman has shaped the way I view sports, and sports have shaped the way I view womanhood. I know that one day I want my children to understand that "sports tell good stories," and I look forward to attending the PTA meeting at their school then coming home to play catch with them in the front yard.
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