Puppy Life Times Two

At this moment, I have a three-pound dachshund puppy asleep inside my shirt and a 25-pound goldendoodle puppy asleep at my feet. Neither will stay asleep for more than about half an hour. And it's only 7:30 pm. So what do we do from 8 pm to 10 pm? That is the question we ask every night.

So the latest Espinoza news is...we got a second puppy one week ago.

Why would you not leave well enough alone when you've just brought home the most good-natured, trainable, loving goldendoodle puppy ever? Don't ask us, because we decided, after having Blu only for about eight weeks, to add to our family a puppy of a breed that is notoriously the most stubborn, difficult to train ever. I can say that firsthand because Pepper (aka El Pepe) is the fourth dachshund we've had in 38 years of marriage. We know the breed. And yet....we chose El Pepe.

 So this is what it's like at the Espinoza home with two puppies.

 Charli sleeps on the couch downstairs at night alongside El Pepe in her pint-sized crate  while Blu sleeps beside Charli or beside El Pepe. Charli gets up at about 2:30  am and 5:30 am with Pepper to go potty. Pepper then sleeps (or at least stays quiet) until about 8 am. You might as well call an exorcist for me if I my sleep is interrupted on a regular basis. So having Charli get up during the night with Blu and now with El Pepe - well, she saves us the bother of finding a modern-day exorcist. As for Blu, she has taken herself out the doggie door to go potty since about 10 days after we brought her home and slept through the night after about 4 days with us.

 Last weekend, I took the nightshift so Charli could get a good night's sleep on the eve of a boatload of homework that was due. Pepper went to sleep peacefully in her crate with Blu sleeping beside me on the couch at about 10:30. I knew Pepper would wake up to go potty during the night, so I could not get to sleep. Sure enough, about 1:00 am, she stirred. I took her out...she went potty...then she settled back down in her crate. Until about 6:30 am. This is not an acceptable wake-up time for me, particularly when I've already been awake all night waiting for a puppy to let me know it's time to go potty. After her morning pee and poop break, I figured it was too much to expect her and Blu to both lounge on the couch with me for a while. So I resolved to be awake for the day. I plopped Pepper in a puppy carrier, put Blu on a leash, and took them for a lovely sunrise walk that honestly would have been even more lovely had it occurred an hour or two later. Pepper kept squirming and trying to crawl out of the carrier while Blu vacillated between picture-perfect "heels" and Tigger-like leaps on the leash. All the while, Blu continued to glance up to make sure her sister was doing OK.

 That entire day, I was completely out of sorts. Lisa Espinoza with interrupted sleep is a human volcano waiting to erupt. Thankfully, Charli got her homework done, was well rested, and resumed her nightshift puppy duties that evening, thereby averting any newsworthy eruptions on my part. Aaahhh the benefits of youth. Charli sleeps soundly between potty alarms while I lie there pretending to sleep while awaiting the next whimper or whine. We would NOT have undertaken this ridiculous adventure of two pups simultaneously without Charli.

 Back to the typical day...

Morning means a walk with Blu and now also with Pepper in the puppy sling carrier followed by breakfast. Breakfast is not your typical "throw the food in a stainless steel bowl" sort of deal. No, puppy breakfasts in this day and age mean snuffle mats or some sort of food puzzle incorporated with self-regulation training. We hand feed at first, reinforcing the "sit" or the "eat calmly" paradigm. We have not once used a regular dog food bowl with Blu or Pepper. Seriously, my daddy who threw table scraps out the front door every day to our dogs is turning over in his grave.

 After the morning routine, it's all a crapshoot. The three of us are juggling work and puppies. And Charli is also juggling her pre-med studies online at UCLA. We just tag-team it the best we can.

 Today, it was a literal sh**-show. Charli texted me at work and told me she was in the middle of a lab and had to go to work immediately following. She was in a real time crunch and felt badly that I would need to bathe Pepe and clean up her (Pepe's) apartment when I got home.

 Sure enough, when I got home there was poop and pee and a whining puppy -- a spoiled rotten rockstar trashing the hotel room for the fun of it!

 This called for some strategery. I decided to first bathe Pepper and then, for containment, to put her in her tiny crate which was miraculously unsoiled. Then I gathered up the poop-caked toys and soaked the hard ones in bleach while the soft ones went in the washer. Next, I scrubbed the tile floor, scraping the dried poop off bit by bit, not unaccompanied by various appropriate curse words. Last, I wiped down the wire pen that comprises the boundaries of her apartment.

 All the while, Blu was a rockstar. Yes, she had the usual excited piddle when I came home from work, but she watched in puzzled amusement as I cleaned up the mess, almost as if to say, "Why would you poop in your apartment and then smear it all over?"

 In the evenings, we wing it, not unlike when you have a newborn or a toddler, and every night you just try to make it until it's time for them to fall asleep. Only you can put diapers on a baby or a toddler. Puppies...mmmmm....let's just say I wish I owned stock in Nature's Miracle.

 So...there is a three-pound farting doxie puppy asleep in my lap. And a 25-pound goldendoodle puppy asleep at my feet. If I'm being honest, I just want my normal life back. I want to do spin or Pilates or yoga when I get home from work. I want to continue binge watching stuff on Netflix. I want to know that my mornings, my daytimes, and my evenings are my own to do with what I wish. But I chose to bring two puppies into my life. So I am learning the arts of patience and perseverance and of savoring the moment.

 And of getting to bed before 11:00 so I can get a decent night's sleep. That's a big one.

 Night night Blu. Night night El Pepe. Until tomorrow...

Working, Writing, and Training a Puppy

I may have bitten off a bit too much.

I'm not sure how it escaped my cognition that:

1) January and February are crazy busy months for me as an admissions director.

2) I committed to my publisher to get First, Brush Your Teeth submitted by April 1 in order to have it out by Chandler's birthday on July 2.

3) Puppies take a LOT of work.

I knew all these things separately, but somehow I forgot to consider them collectively. So now I'm in the middle of probably my busiest admissions season ever, training a puppy, and working on my book.

I love my job. I love my puppy. And I love that First, Brush Your Teeth is going to be published by Chandler's birthday IF I can get it turned in on time.

You know what I don't love? Being awakened at 5:30 a.m. by the rustling of a puppy that needs to go potty. Five-thirty am does not exist for me. I'm a night owl and prefer to sleep until at least 7:30.

But here's what makes it worth the interruption of sleep. I took Blu on her very first walk/run today. She was literally bouncing with happiness and was just a pleasure to run with! We have to steer clear of other dogs and grass until her next set of shots, so it was a pavement run, and she was a champ! Not one bark or growl toward another dog, person, or child she encountered. She did piddle with excitement a couple of times, but haven’t we all. She is gonna be Charli's running buddy for sure.

 I've been watching ALL the dog training videos and reading the books. Some call it dedication. Others call it OCD. I had no idea there was this growing continental divide between dog training philosophies.

We didn't need dog training videos or books or philosophies when I was young. Growing up, my dogs lived under the trailer, ate table scraps, hunted for squirrels, and got a rabies shot when they needed it. I don't think we owned a leash, and we certainly never spent money on dog toys. Why would a dog need a toy? If my Daddy were alive, he would disown me if he knew I just spent $20 on a snuffle mat to mentally stimulate my dog during her feedings.

From childhood until now, I've had eight dogs, and I can honestly say, I've never devoted this much mental and physical energy to training. My outside dogs growing up never needed to know anything except how to tree a squirrel and dodge a rattlesnake. The dog we got in our first year of marriage, well, we were just too young, dumb,  and busy with life to think about actually training him. Then the dogs we got after having kids....we were too busy with the kids to think about training the dogs. Somehow we lucked out and ended up with a handful of pretty awesome adult dogs, despite their lack of proper training. But this time, we are older and wiser. We realize that we have a blank slate here with Blu. We know we are the only ones to blame if she grows up to eat all the shoes, bite all the visitors, and bark until every neighbor calls the police.

 So what I've discovered is...it takes three committed adults tag-teaming it in order to train a puppy well without anyone losing their sanity. I had sworn to never get a puppy again. They are too much work! But Chip and Charli both swore we would all do it together, and they've certainly kept their end of the bargain. It doesn't hurt that this goldendoodle is the most cooperative, well-tempered, intelligent, easily trainable dog we've ever had -- nothing like our puppy experiences of the past. She doesn't whine or bark, sleeps through the night, and goes out the doggie door to potty in the dog run...every time. I didn't even know this was possible with a puppy.

Still…it’s a lot.

Working, writing, and training a puppy?! Yeah, I may have bitten off a bit too much. But it all tastes pretty good right now, so I'm just gonna keep chewing.

Inhabiting This Moment

It's been an ongoing process for me, this learning to fully inhabit the present moment.

My first teachers were my boys. When I was in the world of dirty diapers and runny noses and bugs in pockets and bedtime tuck-ins, I came to realize if I was continuously preoccupied with what came next, I would miss the gifts right there in front of me. I determined to be there not just physically, but mentally, to live into the simple moments. By allowing my perspective to shift from lamenting all the things I wasn't "accomplishing" to allowing myself the human experience of being, not just doing, I unwrapped beautiful gifts of fulfillment and joy.

Another teacher has been my yoga practice. Whether steamy hot, warm, or otherwise, the focus of yoga is the breath. The inhale and the exhale place me right there on my mat and guide me through each movement. I'm not worried about the next pose. I'm just breathing into this one. In a pen with baby goats, in a studio, or in my own workout room upstairs, yoga draws me into the moment.

Saturday morning, I joined some friends for a yoga session at a park overlooking the ocean. It was breath and movement and gratitude on a grassy green carpet beneath a boundless azure ceiling. Enveloped by the sounds and smells of the ocean, gently caressed by the cool breeze rippling through the palm trees, every child's pose and down dog and crescent lunge was a prayer. Thank you, God, for all of this. For the ocean stretching out as far as I can see. For the birds. For the trees. For the blue of the sky that I can't even find words to adequately describe. For beauty. For these friends. Thank you for this opportunity to nourish my soul in the sanctuary of your creation.

After yoga, I went home to be greeted by another little guru who is teaching me to be in the moment -- Blu the goldendoodle puppy. Knowing that we would be getting a puppy after Christmas, I had begun adjusting my expectations for myself, forming a resolve to  to let some things go and to simplify. So when the little angel with a mouthful of shark teeth we call Blu came to us on December 30, I was ready to embrace the puppiness. Oh, don't get me wrong, it will be wonderful when Blu can go out for walks after her last shots and lay on the couch without the constant urge to bite the pillows and sleep in on occasion. But puppiness offers its own delightful rewards, and I'm not going to miss them wishing for tomorrow and next week and next month when things will get easier. Blu is teaching me to inhabit this moment...one "sit," one puppy kiss, one bounding furry leap at a time.

For someone with an inborn “what’s next” default operating system, learning to inhabit the present moment is a challenge. I'm grateful for the wonderful master teachers God has placed in my life to show be a better way. I'm sure there will be more to come.

January 1, 2021

How can it be that I haven't heard his voice since December 15, 2018? That exactly two years have passed since I held his hand, kissed his cheek, watched his chest rise and fall? Every day moves me further from that last moment with Chandler on this earth.

The Christmas and New Year's holidays bring a series of salient…brutal… reminders.

I hate that the stocking that says “Chandler” is the only one left hanging on the stairs. I hate that every time I see a Santa hat, my first thought is of that late afternoon when Chandler was riding to work on his bike, complete with Santa hat. I hate that when my kids draw names for Secret Santa, they are painfully aware of the name that is missing. I hate that I don't get to look across the table at Christmas dinner and see Chandler...shirtless, of course.

I love that friends of Chandler brought things to his bench to honor and remember him during these holidays and am grateful we were granted permission to leave those items in place until January 4. I love that Chandler still wins family games because there's just no way to award anyone else the points for questions like, "Who is most likely to lock him or herself in the trunk of a car as a joke?" I love that Chandler's name falls off our tongues easily and often. He is still here with us and always will be. We will always remember, always hurt, always miss him. He is a part of us -- forever.

The pain is different now. It's taken on a new shape, a somewhat discernible rhythm, a veil of normalcy. I don't understand how it happens, how something that seems so NOT normal could become a new normal. But it has happened with time. Grief itself, missing Chandler, does not feel new to me any more. It has become as much a part of me as my bones and my skin. It still sneaks up on me at times and kicks my butt hard, but in general, I'm not surprised by it anymore.

Despite the inherent difficulty of this holiday season, I remain deeply grateful that our family has continued to find comfort and strength and joy and life in being together. Christmas Eve and day were absolutely perfect --  watching Christmas movies, driving around looking at Christmas lights, playing games (yes, it is possible to win a video game solely because you don't know how to move your player, so you stay put in one room while everyone else gets killed), opening gifts, and gorging ourselves on tamales, enchiladas, beans, rice, and Chase's homemade sinful sopapillas. Tonight we were all together for New Year’s dinner. These people…my heart and soul. My heart and soul.

Two days before New Year’s, the Espinozas welcomed a new family member.

We are a dog family, no two ways about it. Actually a two-dog family. We sorely miss D'Marcus and Maddie. Just before Thanksgiving, I had told a couple of friends that I really wanted a goldendoodle. Have you tried to find a puppy or a dog since March when the COVID craziness started? It's not an easy endeavor. Two days later, goldendoodle puppies popped up on my FaceBook feed, available from the cousin of someone I was already friends with on FB. We put in a deposit that day and have been receiving pictures almost weekly since then. Yesterday, Blu came home to us. Her name was going to be MaisyBlu, but it turned out to just be too close to "Maddie." Now that she's home with us, we agree that she's definitely a Blu.

This little girl has the sweetest, most loving temperament. Hugging her is like hugging the fluffiest, silkiest teddy bear you could ever imagine. We are all smitten, obsessed, and in love. She is bringing us so much joy, and we've only had her two days. I will be posting too many pics on social media because, I'm so sorry to brag, but she is the cutest dog ever, and I'm certain she's a prodigy.

I had to write about Blu because she is one more way God is showing up for us, especially during this season, reminding us -- I am WITH you, bringing us a beautiful spark of life.

We will never stop missing you, Chandler. We will always, always remember and miss and hurt because you are a part of us...forever. My mind can’t comprehend this new reality that is the source of my greatest comfort— you are with God, and God is with us. It is too much to grasp. But I believe. And I know I will see you again, Chandler. Until then…I love you always and forever, my sweet boy.

Almost December 15th...

It's been a while since I sat down to write. Today, I need to.

It's December 11. Four days before December 15, a date that is hard-wired into my autonomic nervous system, no less than the beating of my heart or the blinking of my eyes. My body knows. My heart, my soul, my mind all know. It's coming.

I remember the call. "Is this Chandler Espinoza's mother?"

I'm wrecked.

Just a few minutes ago, I was scrolling through pictures to find one for a particular project. And then...there was Chandler. My sweet boy. I have never shared images of my son as he lay on the sterile while sheets, tubes and monitors protruding from his motionless body. But they are my reality. Our reality. My heart aches and throbs and breaks for my kids. They love their brother so. And they saw it. All.

We took pictures surrounding his bed on Christmas eve. We each wore a red Christmas hat of some sort. Like the Santa hat he was wearing on December 15.

I'm not sure if it will feel just like this every December. Maybe it will soften a bit. Or maybe every time I scroll through pictures, I will see. And I will be wrecked. That is the price of love.

I had to write this because I always said I would be honest, and this is me right now.

So true to form, and true to the erratic nature of grief...and even of life...there is good stuff on my mind too.

A LOT has happened in the past few weeks. One of the biggest accomplishments -- we actually finished cleaning out the garage! Be encouraged, my friend -- if there's any monumental task you're afraid to undertake for fear it is impossible, our neatly organized garage is proof positive that ANYTHING is possible! I stood in the middle of that overflowing-with-crap garage the Friday we rented the huge trash bin and thought, "There's no way." We started just one section at a time. And before you know it, we had filled up the ENTIRE trash bin! And, YES, we filled a second bin to the top! After two weeks of sorting, purging, and organizing....aaaahhhhh! It is a true source of joy to pull into the garage without fear of a boogie board or a lawn chair tipping over onto the car.

But it didn't stop there. How could it? My OCD had kicked in big time. I did a declutter of the entire house! It is the best feeling ever to know what we have and where to find it. After a declutter of the pantry, we are very clear on the fact that under no circumstances are any of us to purchase Pace Picante, garlic salt, cinnamon, or more than 30 other items placed on the "Please, no more" list. I will say, when COVID hit, my husband's tendency to, shall we say, overstock, meant we did not have a moment's panic over not having enough toilet paper or paper towels. Or tomato sauce. Or Montreal steak seasoning.

Another big accomplishment -- the workout/meditation space. I had written a while back about my son Chance moving out to his own place, leaving his room empty. I hate that. I love my rooms full of kids and activities and friends, and life. I needed to repurpose that space. Otherwise, I would glance down the hall every single day and remember how much I miss having all my kids here at the same time. And how much I miss hearing Chance play guitar in that room, write music, sing a lyric over and over until he had crafted the words just right. It was a privilege to witness his artistry, to see him grow as a musician, and more importantly as a young man of character, through the years. The memories will always be in this room where I write at this moment, but I had to bring some new life to it as well.

 With the help of my friend Teri, I painted it, and she helped me pick out furnishings and accessories for the room and the attached balcony. I even painted the walk-in closet and made it like a little meditation space. This is now my soul space. I hop on my spin bike or my Pilates reformer machine, roll out my yoga mat for down dogs and chaturangas, and perch on my cushy pillow with my flickering candles and trickling fountain for meditation, reading, and relaxation. No one is allowed to leave their stuff (aka crap) in here. It is uncluttered, clean, simple, and just wonderful.

Another new development -- my publishing deadline for First, Brush Your Teeth has been moved to later in the spring. Two reasons for this. First, I have come to realize that the blogs will be most helpful to readers if I provide some context and retrospective narration. This will take some time to work through. Second, I decided I did not want to engage with the content of those early blogs right now. It would just be too much. Thankfully, my publisher is 100% supportive of my timeline and my goal for this book. I will begin my work after the first week of January.

So the next big news --  we are getting a puppy! If all goes as expected, we are to pick up Maisy Blu, a beautiful goldendoodle, in Texas on December 29. We have all fallen in love with her already. Oh, there will be pictures to come, believe me. For the first time in 19 years, there is no four-legged, tail-wagging creature greeting us at the door. We are ready for Maisy Blu to join us.

Before I sign off, I have to say that my heart goes out to everyone who is suffering with COVID or any COVID-related situation, including the fear that so many are gripped with in the midst of this pandemic. And my heart goes out to everyone who is suffering because of non-COVID-related conditions and circumstances. Suffering is suffering. One form doesn't matter more or less than the other.

My prayer, and I do not mean this flippantly or glibly, is that in this Christmas season, the reality of God WITH us will bring comfort, even in the midst of suffering. Most often, that comfort comes in the shape of people. May we be Jesus with skin on right now.

It's Happening!

When I started writing on December 18, 2018, my motivation was simply to keep people updated on Chandler’s condition. I quickly began to realize this was more than an update. It was my way to process each day’s emotions, thoughts and events. And I began to hear from others that somehow my processing out loud was helping them. At some point after Chandler...I still hesitate before typing the word...after Chandler died, I determined that I would write every day for the first year.

I deeply desired to honor Chandler, an aspiring writer himself, and to make him known to those who hadn’t had the privilege of meeting him. I needed a vessel to help me navigate the tumultuous waters of grief. And I needed to keep hearing from others that I was not alone, that I was surrounded by prayer, and that my words were finding their way to people who needed to hear them, my fellow travelers on this journey of grief.

I look back on those 365-plus days and ask myself, “How on earth did I do that?!” I can’t imagine writing every day now. I don’t do anything every day except brush my teeth and go to the bathroom. Chandler inspired me. When I was too physically exhausted at the end of the day to keep my eyes open, when my emotions were too raw to even pretend to attach words to them, when my fingers hovered over the keyboard waiting, hoping for a coherent message to flow through them and land on the page....every day, every day, every day, there was Chandler.

I’m not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I realized that my commitment to writing every day had become a profound desire to someday publish the year’s blogs – a book inspired by and written for and with Chandler. A book to serve as a trusted companion for others going through their own seasons of loss and grief. A few weeks ago, I wrote in my journal – “God, if just one of my deepest desires could come to pass this year, please let it be that the blogs get published.” Four days later, it happened.

 It is with tremendous gratitude, and a great big smile on my face, that I get to announce...my year of blogs is going to be published as First, Brush Your Teeth – Grief and Hope in Real Time!

I have a lot of work to do before turning in my final manuscript in January. The work itself doesn’t bother me. But here’s what snuck up on me this week ....in the next two and a half months, I will have to re-live it all. Every blog, every picture, carefully re-read and worked through to prepare for final submission.

I’m asking for your prayers through this process.  I will dive in tomorrow.

God, you see me. You know the deep desires of my heart. And this...this is just...amazing. I am profoundly grateful. And I’m afraid. Keep my heart in peace, be my strength, as I dive into this process. So many difficult emotions lie waiting in those blogs, so many painful memories, and yet also joy and hope and life. You are with me. I can do this. Amen.

On Chandler's Bench

When I drive by the corner of Via Honesto and Antonio every day on my way to work now, I glance over and see a permanent memorial to Chandler that’s taken the place of the temporary bike memorial that had stood since January 2019.

We had a small dedication gathering for Chandler’s bench a couple of Sundays ago. The plaque on the bench says, “Unafraid...you always went first,” a line from the song Chance wrote for his brother’s celebration-of-life service. Jumping off the bridge, body surfing at the Wedge, talking to the one who was alone, climbing to the top of Saddleback Mountain. Defying gravity in its ultimate form. He always went first.

I thought the best way to dedicate the space and honor Chandler would be to share how Chandler’s life, and how losing him, has inspired us to live life differently. My heart was simultaneously full of gratitude and pain as I listened to the stories, one after the other. Smiling through tears. That’s what it was.

The common thread was this – “Chandler taught me to live in the moment, really be in it...to just leave everything on the field.” When we saw Chandler live in real time, it was just Chandler being Chandler. Now that we don’t have the amusement of witnessing his life further unfold in technicolor, I think we realize that, without even meaning to, he had found a key to life.

I want Chandler to be remembered. I want his legacy to live on. The stories I heard around the memorial bench that day, as well as comments from people I’ve never even met, assure me that Chandler is still making his mark.  

Chandler lived more fully in 25 years than many people do in triple that time on earth. I think Chase expressed what all of us were feeling as we gathered around that bench – “I don’t feel bad because Chandler didn’t have more time or missed out on life. He didn’t. I feel bad for me because I don’t have more time with him.”

If you’re ever in the area of Via Honesto and Antonio, or just want to take a field trip, stop by Chandler’s bench. Bring a friend or loved one and just sit and chat, enjoy a picnic lunch. Listen. Be in the moment. Or come alone. Sit and breathe in deeply. Let the sweet air fill your lungs. Soak in the sunshine or, on the rare days it happens here in SoCal, feel the raindrops on your face. That is the moment you have. BE in it…right where God is meeting you.

That is a very Chandler thing to do....on his bench.  

CH...ANDLER

One advantage of having kids (and a husband) whose names all start with “CH” is the convenience of the birthday banner. The “HAPPY BIRTHDAY CH” was always firmly in place, attached by little gold clips, and I would add the appropriate endings as the Espinoza birthdays rolled around – June 22, 27, July 2, August 6, September 10. Today while cleaning out the garage, in the birthday party bin, I ran across ANDLER.

I wish the CH was the only thing missing. I miss the dimpled smile, the “uh, Mom,” the shirtless presence at all family gatherings, the late-night conversations that revealed the depth of conviction and contemplation in his young mind. I miss everything about Chandler...even the things that drove me nuts.

I miss his smell (Blue Sugar). I miss seeing his wardrobe choices as he would head out for a night of dancing. I miss hearing, “Hey, Mom, we’re getting together for **’s  birthday tonight.” I thought he was making it up half the time. Now I know he really did have that many friends to celebrate with.

Today Chance was over for a bit. I hugged him. And I held his face and kissed his head. I did the same to Charli. I hugged Chase later when he dropped by, but darn it, I forgot to hold his face.

It is different  now when I see them, hug them, kiss them. I know in every single cell of my being that each moment is precious. I know how it feels to ache with longing to touch my son’s warm cheek and kiss his hair. I will do it to my kids who are still here on this planet, whether they like it or not, for the rest of my days. They are my heart. How is it possible to love someone so much?

I kept the “ANDLER.” It will remain intact in the birthday party bin as long as the Espinoza birthday party bin exists.

My dear, sweet, Chandler, I would give anything to hang your “CH” –“ANDLER” banner and have you see it as you come through the front door or enter the kitchen, shirtless, on your birthday. Remember when you were turning five and we woke up in our Marriott Desert Villas rental in Palm Springs thinking it was July 2, and it was really July 1? Your birthday banner was up...and we went to Dairy Queen and celebrated as if it were your birthday all day long? Then Dad called the next morning from out of town where he was away on business to wish you “happy birthday” and I realized we celebrated the wrong day. We celebrated you all over again all day long. I can’t wait to celebrate you like that again. Where I can see your dimpled grin. I know it will happen. Someday. I love you, Chandler.

The Yoga Barn, God WITH, and Letting Go

God has always been speaking to me, has always been WITH me, in more ways than I have often been open to recognize. Historically, I have tuned in to just a handful of ways I can get the message. Now I know better. And continue to know better.

This weekend, I was reminded that God uses everything he has created to paint beautiful pictures of his love for me and to send clear messages of his presence in my life. I was privileged to spend the past couple of days in the desert with about a dozen beautiful women at The Yoga Barn Ranch. We all came together with our own unique stories and yet similar points of pain, loss, and passion.

God WITH
Something transformative happens when people bring their true selves into the conversation, moved by a genuine desire to grow, to be healthy, and to love well. Add to that...IN NATURE. This is what transpired at this weekend’s retreat. And once again, God showed up for me big time to remind me of this life-sustaining truth – I am WITH you.

Rachel, who owns and runs The Yoga Barn Ranch with her husband Mike (a trained chef who spoiled us rotten with delicious healthy meals) gave me a bracelet that says, “I will hold you in my heart until I hold you in heaven.” She has suffered the loss of two brothers. She knows. I will cherish that token of love. When it passed from Rachel’s hand to mine, it may as well have been Jesus sitting there handing me that bracelet.

Heidi, my dear friend I’ve known forever, co-lead the retreat and showed me once again, up close, what it looks like to follow your heart and see how God brings deep fulfillment and works through you to bless others.

Carrie and Alexis spoke words to me so resonant, I had to go to my lovely little space in the loft after lunch and write them down. One message was personal to me, the other personal and yet universal...

The content of your life is the curriculum for your evolution.

Did you hear that? Nothing is wasted. Another way to say it is, “God can redeem everything.” The pain, the loss, the victories, the defeats, the mistakes, the healthy relationships and the not-so-healthy, the right moves and the wrong...they all teach us something that can serve us well on our journey.

Letting Go
During one of the first sessions, we wrote down internal and external things we need to let go of. Surprisingly (NOT), all of mine were internal. The perpetually bustling arena that is the mind of Lisa Espinoza contrives stories, generates dialogues, and overthinks the mundane and the monumental at an immeasurable rate. Often, these stories and dialogues and overthinking binges lead to my own anxiety or pain or lack of ability to enjoy the moment. They hinder me from loving both myself and others. And loving well, as I’m coming to understand, really is the point.

So one of the things I chose to let go of is discounting my own desires and doubting my ability to make decisions. I was very bugged after writing it down on the paper they gave us that I combined those two things as if they were one. The writer in me just could not let it go. As it turns out, maybe they are just two sides of the same coin.

One piece of wisdom that hit home to me this weekend (thank you, Carrie) was, “Your knower knows. Follow your heart.”

I got to exercise one of my “letting go” items today after I got home from the retreat. I responded to a pending situation from my heart instead of overthinking and doubting and obsessing over what the other people involved would want. I listened to my heart and made a decision that I am at peace with. It felt good to trust myself.

God was WITH me this weekend – in delicious meals, laughter, edifying conversations, Joshua trees flourishing in the middle of a seemingly dry desert, a million stars spread out before me as I lay on a quartz-covered hill, and in sweet dogs large enough for me to ride who graced us with their presence at meals and during yoga. He was with me when Jana told me she was at Chandler’s memorial service. He was with me when I curled up on my fluffy white comforter in the loft to read and journal. He was with me when 6 am hit and I realized these yogis get up way too early for me!

He is always WITH me.

And that makes all the difference.

Dear Lord, I’m forever grateful for all the ways you meet me, all the ways you teach me, all the ways you pour your love and grace out on me. I’m grateful for the privilege of sharing a weekend with women who inspired me, every one of them, each in their own unique way. Help me in this week ahead to let go of those things that do not serve me well and to embrace the reality of your great love so that I can love others well. I know that is the point. Amen.

Heartwarming and Gut-wrenching

How can heartwarming and gut-wrenching co-exist?

I just watched a Facebook post of a friend’s little boy receiving a puppy...compliments of Make a Wish Foundation. Getting a puppy – heartwarming. From Make a Wish Foundation – gut-wrenching.

Miracles happen. And I am praying for a miracle for my friend’s son.

The point is...this is what life looks like.

This past weekend, I went to Texas with Charli to visit family and attend the dedication of a prayer garden built in honor of my nephew Mason Budro who died two months ago in a car accident. Sunday was a gorgeous day, the sky a peaceful blue with wispy white clouds decorating the horizon. The grass surrounding the prayer garden was brilliant green with an alabaster chapel in the background – like a painting of some bygone era.

It was almost enough to make you forget why you were there. But not quite enough. The darkness of grief and pain and loss were as present as the gleaming sunshine illuminating the sacred gathering.

This is what life looks like.

There are shadows and there is light. There is joy and there is sorrow. There is laughter and there are tears. There are mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers struggling to piece together a life without their loved ones. And there are compassionate human beings who step into the messiness of grief with us to be present and to listen and to create space for us to remember....and to build prayer gardens.

As I watched the parade of cars passing by my friend’s house in the Facebook post, each with a sign or some demonstration of love and support for this little guy fighting an aggressive form of cancer, I whispered through my tears, “God you are with us, and you are good.” The parade culminated with the presentation of a puppy to my friend’s son and his big sister. And in that moment, smiling and sobbing, I was grateful for all the love being poured out onto this family, and...I HATED cancer.

This is what life looks like.

If we wait to embrace and enjoy the moments that are purely positive and good and desirable, much of life will pass us by. We will be mostly enduring the present while anxiously awaiting something better tomorrow. If we are willing to acknowledge that life is messy and painful and beautiful and delightful, all at the same time, we will fully inhabit this present moment with honesty and gratitude and joy. The pain will not disappear, but the joy will give us strength to endure.

Under the Stars

A lot has happened since I last sat down to write.

I turned 56.

My baby girl graduated with well-earned honors in a COVID-influenced ceremony from Santa Margarita Catholic High School… and turned 19 years old.

I nourished my soul with a trip to Yosemite and the Sequoias with my Adventure Sisters.

We adopted a new dog — a seven-year-old basset/doxie/beagle/? mix.

My work at RSM Christian School (formerly Mission Hills Christian School) has become crazy, in a good way. In nine years as admissions director, I have never been busier this close to the start of school.

It began to dawn on me that my faith in and love for Jesus is much deeper and broader and more spacious than can ever be confined by the dogmas I have allowed to restrict a limitless, boundless God of love, compassion, creativity, and grace.

I gained a vision for one of my empty rooms.

When Chance moved out a few weeks ago, I sat in the hallway and wept, surrounded by empty, and soon-to-be-empty, rooms. As the days and weeks passed, I was able to envision that room infused with a new purpose. A space to work out with my Pilates reformer and my new stationary bike, and to practice yoga and just sit in silent meditation, free from distractions. This is the only spot in the house with a view — the hills that join themselves to the Saddleback Mountains. This is how I best connect with God. My eyes taking in the majesty of His creation. I can picture myself sitting in a cream-colored comfy chair, maybe a slouchy bean bag, facing the hills, contemplating the scripture — “I lift up my eyes to the hills…where does my help come from…my help comes from the Lord..the maker of heaven and earth. (Psalm 121:1,2).”

The last couple of days, I was reminded why the Espinozas do NOT engage in home improvement projects without charitable, patient, DIY-savvy friends present and in charge.

I had removed most of the deep blue starry, outer-space-themed wallpaper from Chance’s walls, retaining an unmarred swatch for him as a keepsake. This is the wallpaper he fell asleep surrounded by for 18 years.

Chip came in to help me move the mounted TV so I could reach the remaining bit of wallpaper in the upper right corner of the room. While unscrewing the TV from the mounting arm, the stepstool slipped, and Chip crashed to the floor, taking the wall-mounted receiver shelf with him. It was terrifying! He could have impaled himself with the foot-long screwdriver he was using, sustained a concussion from banging his head on the wall, broken a rib from the impact, or gashed his gut with the wall mount brackets that ripped from the drywall and came tumbling down with him. Instead, the only casualty was a set of sore knees that broke his fall.

On the up side, I now have to expend zero energy removing the receiver shelf to paint the wall.

Tonight I sanded Chance’s walls and then washed them down with TSP (I Googled it). Next, spackling, then painting. Not to worry. My charitable, patient, DIY-savvy friend Teri will be present to help with the painting.

As I balanced atop the yellow-and-red ladder sanding the intersection of wall and ceiling, I noticed the stars.

The glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling only extended a few feet into the middle of the room. That’s how far I could reach when I climbed into the top bunk to affix them to the ceiling of Chance and Chandler’s room when we moved into this house over 18 years ago.

Tonight as my hands reached for those stars, I thought — Chandler knows the stars. He is there. He doesn’t have to imagine as he gazes at the facsimiles from his bunk bed.

And yet…I don’t like this. I want my boys in that room. In their bunk bed. Gazing at the stars. I want to hug them and say good-night prayers with them and know that all is well with them in that moment.

If you are a young parent reading this…please, stick glow-in-the-dark stars on their ceiling. Keep the starry-outer-space themed wallpaper as long as they will let you. Encourage the messes and the Lego creations and the drums and the Play-Dough and the microscopic Polly Pocket shoes, and all of it.

And never let them go to bed without saying, “I love you.”

It all matters. So much.

Under the stars.

Empty Rooms

Empty Rooms

Had I proceeded, eyes forward, down the stairs from my bedroom to get some breakfast, everything would have been fine.  

But I glanced left.

Instead of seeing a closed bedroom door at the end of the hallway, I was confronted with the unfamiliar -- bright sunlight streaming through the French doors that lead outside from Chance’s room. Chance’s door was open.

For most of the 18 years we’ve lived here, that bedroom door has been kept closed, a sign of life going on behind it. When we first moved in and it was Chance and Chandler’s room, that door kept a curious little sister from knocking over Legos or swiping action figurines or HotWheels or otherwise interrupting the important business of big brothers. Later, we got a dog...and then another and another through the years, and that door kept them from wandering in and depositing goodies on the floor,  which seemed a quite appealing location to them. As Chance became a teenager, that closed door meant an instrument was being learned or mastered, then music was being written, and then albums were being recorded and mixed. In the first week of January, 2019, that closed door meant Chance was at work on his greatest labor of love, his most agonizing creative birthing process to date – a song for his brother’s memorial service.

I remember writing in my journal shortly after Chandler died, “I don’t want to think of someday not hearing Chance play music in his room.”

Last week, Chance moved the last of his things – his music stuff -- to his new place.

I walked down the hallway toward the empty room. I told Chip, “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all.”

Then I saw a rectangular plastic box on the floor just outside Chance’s room, the kind I used for the kids’ keepsakes. I thought it was Chance’s.

I opened it up and began looking through the first kindergarten journal. It was Chandler’s keepsake box. I slid down the wall and sat...crying.

To my right, Chance’s empty room. Behind me, Chandler’s empty room, Chase’s before that. In front of me, Charli’s empty room. Yes, she was just on a little getaway with friends, but after COVID calms down, she will be away at college. And then, just away.

 I hate empty rooms.

I love full rooms. Full of kids and their friends and their noise and their messes and their passions and their crusted dishes and their studies. 

And I love being a mom. Not just any mom. The mom of Chase, Chance, Chandler, and Charli. They are my best thing.

As I sifted through all the memories in Chandler’s box, the aching bubbled up in my soul – the longing for those simple, exhausting days when I was flanked by three little boys everywhere I went.

And now....empty rooms.

A perpetual optimist, I have to believe the open door will lead to the next good thing that my very generous, loving God desires to give me. I have to believe that the empty rooms will be filled with purpose and meaning and joy that looks different but still exists as long as I have breath in my lungs.

The open doors and the empty rooms. They are reminders that life is a continual journey marked by change. And here is my comfort and strength in the midst of all of it...

God is WITH me. I will be OK.

Do They Celebrate Birthdays?

Today Chandler would have turned 27.

Do they celebrate birthdays in heaven?

It seems like birthday celebrations would be irrelevant in heaven. Time is a construct devised to help us negotiate life on a finite plane. Since heaven is eternal, celebrating a measure of time wouldn’t be a thing, right?

But maybe “relevant” also isn’t a thing in heaven. Maybe everything good, everything that brings us joy here, continues in heaven, but on steroids. Maybe the day that a precious soul touched down on this planet, began their journey of receiving and giving love to family and friends, made their impact -- no matter how many years, days....or hours -- is celebrated in heaven. Maybe the one we are missing here somehow knows how much we love and miss them....that we remember!

Maybe.

So maybe today, Chandler’s cousin Mason walked up to Chandler and gave him a huge birthday hug (the only kind of hugs Mason knew how to give).

Last Monday, June 22, Mason joined Chandler. He was 23. When the picture of Mason and Chandler playing checkers as kids flashed across the screen during Mason’s memorial service on Friday, I struggled to grasp this new reality – that Mason and Chandler, both too young not to be here – were now together in a new world that we can never imagine this side of it.

I didn’t know today would be this hard, this heavy. My analytical nature tries to quantify and explain it. It’s not the first birthday without Chandler, it’s the second. It’s not like Mother’s Day or Thanksgiving or Christmas where we have dinner and hang out for a long time together (or play games if I have my way). It’s his birthday. Once he was an adult, Chandler had so many friends that wanted to celebrate him, we had to get in line for our turn. This usually entailed a quick bite to eat with a shirtless Chandler before kissing him goodbye as he ran off to meet some friends. For those friendships, I am deeply grateful.

Out of nowhere, the wave crashed today. It hit me hard. I watched the slideshow from his memorial service – all the images of a dimpled young man loving life and living it large. His world was big. His heart was big. His skateboard and bike tricks were big. His grin was big. His friend group was big. His impact was big. He crammed a lot of big into 25 years.

I think I was blindsided by the pain today because of Mason. Last week I saw my niece, Mason’s mom, start down a road that she would have never imagined or chosen. Grieving is so very personal and yet elements of it are universal. I know her pain. My heart breaks for her. And for Mason’s granny, my sister. Her grandkids are her pride and joy. Mason’s cousins were more like brothers. And his little sister...just so much for her to carry. They are all walking down this new road, this detour, with an invisible weight on their shoulders.

And I know that my niece will never stop missing Mason. I can’t tell her that in a year or so, she won’t feel the pain. That she won’t wake up and remember how much every cell of her being longs to hug him or plant a kiss on his cheek. All I can say is, “It won’t feel exactly like this forever.” In the beginning, those words from another mom who had lost her daughter years before were a lifeline because my constant thought was, “If it feels like this forever, how will I survive it?” Hearing from someone who knew firsthand, even though I struggled to believe it at the time, was a comfort.

So back to my original query. Do they celebrate birthdays in heaven?

We will never know until we get there. What I do know is there are people right here, right now...today...who are grateful that their lives intersected with Chandler’s, no matter how much or how little time they knew him.

Happy birthday, Chandler. I wouldn’t trade those 25 years for anything. You are always, always, always in my heart.

Don’t know what it is ‘bout that Chandler Man’s lovin’, but I like it. I love it. I want some more of it.

Lessons from 94 Years of Life--Thank You Daddy

I haven’t called to wish my Daddy a Happy Father’s Day since 2016. That’s the year he joined Mama and so many other family members and dear friends who had gone on before him.

Daddy was 94 when he died. Even until the end, his blood pressure and heart rate would have been the envy of people half his age. He still pumped weights, “took his exercises,” and walked the roughly paved roads of his Six Lakes neighborhood in the boondocks of East Texas as much as his hip would allow. He’d sustained a broken hip in his 80s that could have easily taken him out. It didn’t even come close.

He was convinced my sister and I were in cahoots to put him “in a home” permanently when we insisted he go to a physical rehab program before returning to the house that he’d purchased and lived in since right after Mama died in 1983. We knew better. There was no convincing Bill Vickery to do anything he didn’t want to do.

Yes, he was alone in the woods with the closest neighbor half a mile away. But that was his place. No amount of brochures featuring pictures of happy residents playing dominoes and enjoying buffet lunches together would convince him to consider anything other than living out his days at 8 Mockingbird Lane, Romayor, Texas.

You learn from your parents – what to do and what not to do. They teach you by their words and their actions whether they mean to or not. Here are some things I learned from a man who served our country in World War II, lived through the Great Depression, endured scorching heat and searing cold hundreds of feet above ground as an iron worker to make a living for his family, lost the love of his life to lung cancer after 22 years of marriage, and lived the rest of his years enjoying life in the Big Thicket where he was born and raised, trying in the best way he knew how to take care of his brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, and anyone he called “friend.”

Your word is your bond.
Contracts and formal agreements were necessary evils of a society in which people don’t trust one another. In his day, as he would say, “your word was your bond.” That seems right in line with the scripture in Proverbs that says, “A good reputation is of greater value than gold.” A good reputation is based largely in a person’s commitment to truth and integrity. If you say you will do it, you do it. That was a given to Daddy, and he had little tolerance for liars.

Say, “I love you.”
Daddy’s mom died when he was little. His dad was a hard, strict taskmaster. “But,” Daddy said, “I knew he loved us.” I don’t know if Aaron Vickery ever said those words, “I love you,” to his son Wilburn. I do know Daddy never failed to say them to me. Actions speak louder than words, but words matter. When words come hard and you haven’t learned that language firsthand, mustering the courage to break the cycle and say, “I love you,” is heroic.

We say, “I love you,” a lot in our family. I learned from my daddy...that’s what you do.

Hard work is good.
When I was little, I would hear Daddy get up way before sunrise, pull on his Carhartt overalls, eat a hot breakfast made with love by Mama, grab his Thermos of hot black coffee and head off to a frigid day straddling thick steel beams looming far above the ground. One time, Mama got a call from the hospital asking if she had a husband named Wilburn Vickery. He’d fallen a couple of stories from where he was working, had a concussion, and couldn’t remember anything. He recovered and kept working. One time the blade of a circular saw used for cutting steel flew off and slashed Daddy’s leg and gut so deeply, doctors were amazed he was alive. If not for his fellow iron workers holding his bleeding body up on that  beam until they could get a gurney hoisted up to get him, Daddy would have fallen to his death. After a lengthy, painful recovery, he went back to work. He never understood why able-bodied people would choose not to work. He took pride in his work and in providing for our family.

Be generous.
I am still getting mail from the organizations daddy donated to. If there was a TV commercial talking about children battling cancer, he would send money. If there were wounded veterans in need of wheelchairs, he would send money. If there was a natural disaster and people left homeless, he would send money. And, yes, he even sent money to preachers on TV. Every time I would visit, he’d pull some bills from his wallet and ask, “Do you need money, baby?” I’m sure it would take more than my ten fingers to count the number of folks he helped through the years – he just didn’t talk about it. It made him happy to help people. From early roots of poverty  to the modest income of an ironworker and, in his later years, a fixed income, Daddy proved that you don’t need to be rich to be generous.

Trust in Jesus.
Daddy and I had vastly different taste when it came to religious preferences. He thought church should be rowdy and loud and demonstrative. Growing up, I always swore when I got big (that never happened), I would go to a church like my friend Marion went to where it was calm and people didn’t yell and scream and run up and down the aisles. After Mama died and I had moved out of Texas, I would brace myself when I’d go to visit Daddy, knowing I was in for a few days of channel surfing that would alternate between classic black-and-white Westerns and TV evangelists, some of whom would have fit perfectly in the “running up and down the aisles” churches of my youth. But though our tastes and even many of our convictions were at odds, the rock-bottom core of Daddy’s faith was this –  you can trust in Jesus.  A common question, in one form or another, was, “Have you talked to Jesus about it?” I’m inclined to listen to a man who lived 94 years. That’s a lot of time to learn who you can trust.

God, thank you for my daddy – for his long, rich life and all that he taught me. Thank you most of all that I never once wondered if he loved me. That is a gift. Amen.

Lake or River?

Water is calming to me. It doesn’t much matter what form it takes. A bubbling backyard fountain or crashing waves. The smooth, glistening surface of a lake or the rippling of a river. In a pinch, I’d even take a cement (SEE-ment) pond like the Beverly Hillbillies.

Lately, I’ve really been enjoying Dove Lake, a small lake within walking distance of my home. I have been known to climb up in a nearby tree and gaze through a canopy of green leaves, legs swinging from the sturdy branch, soaking in the beauty of the sparkling sunshine dancing on the water.

The question occurred to me on one of my recent trips around the lake, “Would you rather be a lake or a river?”

Hmmmm....

Having only a rudimentary knowledge of the difference between a lake and a river, my hunch is – river.

A lake doesn’t move. It is confined within its banks. It only moves if acted upon by an outside force like wind or skipping pebbles. You could say lakes are immobile.

I don’t want to be immobile or defined by static boundaries.

A river, on the other hand, is a moving body of water. It begins at its source, maybe as a stream in the mountains or hills, and continues to move toward its mouth where it empties into another body of water – an ocean, sea, another river, or lake.

I want to be a river.

I want to continually honor my source, my Creator, who gives me life. I want to be always growing and learning as I move through the varied landscapes of my life – from the mountain to the whitewater rapids below to the tranquil stream to the place where, like the mouth of the river, I am poured out and become one with my destination.

All the learning and growing and running and pouring is not just for its own sake. Not even just for my sake. It is because when you open yourself to movement, you inspire others to move. It’s likely that when you have made significant life-enriching changes, you were moved by someone else who was a river.

One of my favorite quotes is by Maya Angelou. It is very river-like. “Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” That piece of wisdom reminds me that there’s always more space to move into. That I don’t need to be content within the comfortable confines of my small thinking, but that I can run, like the river, with purpose.

This is what the river speaks to me. I want to be a river.

On Losing D'Marcus

The void created by loss does not get filled in over time. It just changes shape. In the beginning, it is vast, deep, enveloping everything else in darkness. Its edges are jagged and raw, piercing the heart, inflicting a relentless, intense throbbing.

With time, the void gradually seems to shrink. Light shines into crevices of the abyss, and the edges seem to soften. One day you notice the throbbing has lessened. Maybe, you think, there will come a day when the throbbing will completely dissipate and only recur when you bump up against the void.

Then another loss happens. The void opens up, and all the original pain mixes with this new pain. You can’t keep them separate or even discern which is which. You feel it all – the past and the present simultaneously. Sucked into a black hole again. Darkness. Throbbing. Wave upon wave.

You’ve done this before. Maybe more than once. And you learned the hard way that the only way to get through it is to stop fighting it and allow the waves to crash down on you. When a wave subsides, you take that opportunity to give your mind and soul and body a reprieve. You turn on the TV or call a friend. You open a book or take a walk. You can’t stay there in the water just waiting for the next wave. You’ve learned this is a process. And you will get through it. A wave at a time.

Usually when I write, our little wienie dog D’Marcus is somewhere nearby. Propped up on the corner of the couch or curled up beside me in the backyard as I tap away on my keyboard. Not today.

On Saturday, we had to say goodbye to D’Marcus. Chip told us on Sunday that the day we rescued D’Marcus 11 years ago, the thought struck him, “If we adopt this dog, someday Charli is going to be heartbroken.”

And so the void bursts open. The edges sharpen. The tears fall.

Here we are again.  First, brush your teeth.

After bringing D’Marcus home from the shelter, he quickly became Charli’s shadow. To say he was enamored with her would be an understatement. When everyone else was asleep in their rooms at night, D’Marcus was planted firmly in Charli’s world, existing just to be near her.

How do you begin trying to live without your shadow? D’Marcus was with Charli when she did homework, when she walked to the refrigerator for a snack, when she went upstairs to change clothes, when she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth, when she slept, ate, showered...all of it. His favorite place to sleep at night was wrapped around her head.  An image etched forever in my memory is that little dog curled around Charli’s head as she lay in my bed recovering from a frightening neck injury, complete with a ride from the soccer field in an ambulance. He never left her side. My heart literally aches for her.

When my kids were babies and were inconsolably crying, sometimes I would drive them around in their carseats until they would eventually fall asleep and find some relief from whatever was causing them such distress. Sunday, driving home from a walk on the beach with Chase and Karen, I looked over to see Charli sleeping peacefully. The night before had held little but agony and tears. I just wanted to keep driving, to keep the pain at bay for as long as possible.

But the time comes to wake up. And the waves crash. So hard. So very, very hard. 

You couldn’t help but love D’Marcus. I can’t tell you how many people through the years have told us that if we ever got tired of him they’d take him. He was a silky soft bundle of love. The perfect remedy for a stressful day.

For all his sweetness and light, he was also a pain in the butt. True to dachshund form, he never decided that it was a good idea to go outside 100% of the time to pee. Oh, he was definitely housebroken. It’s just that he enjoyed regularly watering the leg of the pool table, Chip’s computer bag, and the living room chair. Sometimes he preferred to hike his leg in the kitchen beside the doggie door that lead right outside. The most puzzling and, quite frankly infuriating, was when he would jump up on the kitchen table and water my plant or my centerpiece filled with fruit. If you ever ate an apple from that bowl, don’t worry...I probably washed it.

He regularly greeted us with the most annoying, deafening bark every time we came home as if he had forgotten we live here.

And that dog loved toilet paper. More than once, we discovered a continuous white runway from the downstairs bathroom traveling up the staircase. It was really quite a feat on his part to somehow grab a square from the roll and pull it unbroken up the stairs. That’s in addition to his consistent habit of robbing the trash cans of toilet paper and hiding it under the table or under a bed.

As weird as it sounds, I find myself wishing I could catch of whiff of dog urine when I walk in the front door and know that D’Marcus is still here. I would exclaim with feigned disgust, as I’ve done hundreds of times, “Doggone it, D’Marcus!”

If there’s anything that becomes clear through the process of grief, it’s this – you hurt deeply because you loved deeply. You will never know the greatest joys of life if you are unwilling to experience the greatest pain. Yes, the temptation is there to close your heart and build walls, to love conservatively rather than extravagantly because you know, in the end, there may be a world of hurt. Don’t do it. The beauty and the pain mingle together, they co-exist. We see the waves ahead, and yet we choose to love.

And this is what makes us human.

37

Thirty-seven years. That’s a lifetime for some people. That is how long I’ve been married to the man who swept me off my feet at Bible college in Waxahachie, TX, on August 12, 1982. He walked into the student union building, spotted me singing around the piano with a group of freshmen, and asked if I wanted to go outside and talk. I had never seen him before, but I knew this was a special man.

My heart still skips a beat when I see him. I still love the smell of his cologne when I hug him and breathe in his scent. Like a Texan to BBQ, I’m still drawn to his wit, his intellect, and his wicked sexy smile.

Since May 21, 1983, we have lived through the lowest lows and the highest highs. We have seen each other through the death of my mom within the first two months of our marriage and the death of Chip’s dad within the first two years.

We have been so poor, we lived on Top Ramen and potatoes in our very first house in Soldotna, Alaska – a 10x50-foot mobile home perched in a trailer park. We have been so rich, we traveled to Paris and London and returned to a two-story home with multiple bedrooms and no wheels underneath.

We have been footloose and fancy-free, kid-less, enjoying late-night dinners with friends, using our last $20 to eat out at Arby’s in Fresno on the weekends because we only had each other to take care of...and because Jamocha shakes were awesome. We have taken turns staying home with the siblings while the other rushes a kid to the ER for one reason or another, missed social events because our kids’ games or school programs were more important, and have taken on extra work to help pay for sports and school and braces and all the things that go along with raising children.

We have been cheerleaders for one another as we’ve worked to earn college degrees. Having attended just one year of Bible college before getting married and moving to Alaska to be youth pastors, we were both determined to continue our education. Once kids came along, that became more challenging and required some sacrifices. We could not have accomplished our goals without mutual support. We are proud of each other.

We have sailed through seasons of bliss and feelings of being in love. We have persevered through times of wondering if we would make it to the other side...together.

We have cried together as we witnessed the birth of our four children. And we have cried together in the dark well of grief after losing one of those children.

We have learned that marriage is not about a whim or a fancy or a feeling. Marriage is a commitment to see one another through the best and the worst. It is an acknowledgment that neither will do it perfectly, but if both are willing to stay in the game, to say “I’m sorry,” and to be willing to grow, there is a good chance it will be a love story told by kids and grandkids in years to come. They will only discover when they live it themselves that it was not magic. It was devotion, commitment, prayer, grace, forgiveness, tears, chaos, compromise, bliss, ecstasy, agony, perseverance, friendship, attraction, respect, anger, honesty, and an ongoing re-deciding that continuing together is better than continuing without one another.

I love you, Chip. Thirty-seven years. And you are still the one I want to be snuggled up on the couch with.

All Grown Up...and Little

God has perfect timing. Or, maybe I should say, I like it when his timing works out for me. That’s when it really seems perfect. 

Last year at Mother’s Day, I struggled hard with my new reality – a mother of four with only three of her kids to celebrate with. Last year, I could not have done anything that required more than simply getting myself through Mother’s Day. This year, I did not have the same pit-of-the-stomach dread for weeks leading up to the day. This year, I was privileged to be asked to share the Mother’s Day message at The Bridge Church in RSM. And I did it without delving into a deep depression during the prep process or breaking down in uncontrollable sobs while speaking. Neither of those would have been abnormal or surprising. Just saying, for me, it’s progress.

I am grateful for God’s timing, that he would bless me this year -- when he knew I was ready --  with the opportunity to share a message on a day that holds so much for me. So much joy, gratitude, pain, laughter, fulfillment, tears, grief, satisfaction, and most of all...so much love.

The message I wanted to share on Mother’s Day was one of encouragement. Encouragement for moms, certainly, but also to all of us in the throes of adulting.

When we’re little, we make sure to tell everyone who asks that we are “almost” six or we are “8 AND ½.” Then we grow up. We get big and we stop adding the “1/2.” We discover that getting big comes with big responsibilities and pressures and problems. And we just want to be little again.

Jesus said in Matthew 18:3: “Unless you become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.”

This is a paradox in the kingdom of God.

How do we balance our bigness, our grown-upness, with this littleness that Jesus talks about? And how can doing so make our lives and those of the people we love richer?

That’s what I talk about in my message…All Grown Up…and Little. Click below if you’d like to watch.

God, thank you for the privilege of sharing a message at The Bridge Church this Mother’s Day. I pray that for those who listened and those who will listen, you will give them grace to live in this moment, to trust someone bigger and wiser, and to rest in your unconditional love. May they find in you a safe place to be all grown up...and little. Amen.  

What I Learned From My Mom

You know you have a cool mom when your Friday night date says, “We can just hang out at the house with your mom and watch TV.” Don’t get all hyper...it’s not because she was one of “those” moms. She was just so easy to be around, funny, and was a fantastic cook. I don’t know of anyone who didn’t love Ruth Vickery.

As I approach my 36th Mother’s Day without my mom, I’m thinking a lot about what I learned from her and asking myself how I’m doing at actually living it.

I have to give a disclaimer – I did not call my mother Mom while she was alive. That would have been just plain weird. Mind you, I’m from Texas. It was Mama and Daddy, never Mom and Dad. She and her siblings called their parents Mama and Daddy, and my daddy called his parents Mama and Daddy. That’s just the way it was.

I’m not sure at what point I began using the term Mom instead of Mama. I’m going to attribute it to peer pressure. Chip and I got married, moved to California (by way of a year in Alaska), and I gradually started talking like my Aunt Joyce who lived in California as far back as I can remember. Whenever she would come to visit us, I would ask Mama, “Why does Aunt Joyce talk funny? She sounds so plain?” This coming from a girl who regularly said “ain’t,” “fixin’ to,” and “y’all.”

Sadly, to use the word “mama” now feels as awkward as using the word “mom” would have felt growing up in Texas. I’m sure my gradual acquisition of the West Coast dialect (or lack thereof) is part of that. But I think it’s also because it’s been so long since my mama has been here. For some time after she passed, probably years, it seemed she was still close enough that for me to call her Mom would have prompted her to ask her celestial coffee-and-dominoes buddies, “Who is she talking about?”

When I sink into the memories, “mama” rises to the surface. Just like when I visit Texas or talk to my Lone Star State family members on the phone, a “y’all” or a “fixin’ to” is liable to slip out here and there.

I learned a lot about life from Mama. If I had to narrow it down to three things, here’s what I would say.

Learn to be content.
I always loved hanging out with my mom. Like I said before, she was just so easy to be around.

Most nights, she would whip up something really Texan (Rotel hot cheese dip or tomato gravy and biscuits or Frito Pie) and we’d sit in the living room and watch TV together – Fantasy Island, Love Boat, Happy Days, Hawaii 5-O. Or she would sew while I did homework.

I realize now that the reason Mama was able to be in the moment so well is because she was content with her life. There was no brooding sense of restlessness about what she should be producing or accomplishing. I never felt like there was something more important that she needed to do or somewhere she’d rather be – when we were together, she was just there.

Before I came along, my mom had been a successful executive assistant for the president of the prominent McCullough Tool company in Houston. They helped sponsor the movie The Alamo, and Mama got to meet John Wayne. She said his pants were too short but he was very polite—in case you were wondering. I never knew the mom with the sleek business suits and gold earrings. I knew the mom with the polyester pants, the knit shell tops, and the Keds sneakers with white cuffed bobby socks.  

She fully embraced what was in front of her, whatever the season of her life.

For most of my growing up years, she took care of her elderly parents who lived next door to our trailer house (it would be called a mobile home if we had a skirt around the bottom to hide the wheels and a set of steps at all three doors).  Every afternoon after my grandpa and grandma would take a nap, Mama would go over and have a cup of coffee with them. Sometimes the coffee would be accompanied by sweet treats – Mama’s homemade orange slice cookies, spice cake, or banana pudding.

She loved raking leaves, sewing, cooking, and family get-togethers. She liked crossword puzzles and could have probably finished the ones you find in airplane magazines without peeking at the back for answers – she was just that smart.

One of her favorite things was her weekly hair appointment. Washing, drying and setting your hair was reserved for professionals.  She never touched her own hair but instead slept in a silk cap, preserving the precise style created by Marla at the White Oak Beauty Shop each Friday.

She loved her red leather-covered Bible with her name engraved in gold on the front. There were lots of notes in the margins.

I don’t know if Mama was always a contented person. Maybe it was something she learned along the way. Whatever the case, I was blessed by the presence of a mom who was content with her life and, therefore, could be fully present.

Appreciate what you have.
For most of my life, we lived in the country (otherwise known as the woods or the boondocks). For a while, we had cows, so we went to the feed store quite often. Some ingenious livestock feed manufacturer decided to ditch the rough brown burlap feed sacks and instead sell their feed in soft, pretty cotton sacks featuring various prints and patterns. Mama would carefully choose the ones she thought would make the cutest dresses, and she and the other moms in our rural area would trade feed sacks based on what they wanted or needed for their projects. Some made quilts, others curtains or dresses. The possibilities were endless. I just know I was so proud to wear my cross-back jumpers with matching bloomers specially made for me by my mama out of feed sacks.

Throughout elementary and high school, she’d pick me up from school and tell me she had an idea for an outfit she wanted to make me. Sure, back then she was saving money by sewing my clothes, but she was also showing love in one of the best ways she knew how. And she was teaching me the art of appreciation — you don’t need to have what everyone else has to be happy. We’d go to the fabric store where I’d pick out a Butterick or Simplicity pattern, and then we’d search for just the right fabric to bring the pattern to life. Sometimes the fabric would pick itself if it was pretty and on sale. Even the zippers and buttons required careful consideration. She made everything with love.

When I announced I was getting married, it never crossed my mind, or Mama’s, for me to get a store-bought wedding dress. We decided on the same simple pattern she’d used for two other dresses I’d worn to my proms. But for this dress, she added rows and rows of white lace and countless tiny seed pearls sewn on by hand. In the midst of her battle with lung cancer, she insisted on making my wedding dress. This was her last labor of love for me at her sewing machine.

From the homemade clothes I wore to our single-wide mobile home in the woods to my mom’s Chevy Impala that I drove, I learned from Mama that you don’t have to own expensive things to be rich. You just have to appreciate what you have.

Show kindness whenever you can.
I saw the kindness of my mama’s heart demonstrated throughout my life. One time. in particular, stands vividly in my memory.

We lived in Whitesburg, Georgia, for a year or so when I was in 3rd grade. I went to a small brick school with wood floors and the best merry-go-round ever. Somehow, my mom ended up on the list of substitute teachers. She had never been a teacher, but it was a little country school, and my mom had won over the hearts of everyone there. So they often called her to fill in when a teacher was out sick. I loved it when Mama would substitute in my class because everyone said how nice she was, and of course, I felt pretty special being able to call the teacher “Mama.” There was a little boy in my class I will call RH. RH came to school dirty, hair disheveled, clothes and shoes looking like they’d been run over by a tractor. After a couple of times in the classroom, my mom realized that this was RH’s normal everyday appearance. She didn’t call a committee together or announce her actions so everyone could see. She just went to the store and bought groceries and took them to RH’s family. And she bought RH  a new pair of shoes and some clothes. This is what the originator of the notion “random acts of kindness” had in mind.

Lord, I am so deeply grateful for the mother you gave me. For the first 18 years of my life, I got to have one of your best.  I don’t always get it right, but I really do want to live the lessons I learned from my mom. Give me the grace to live in this moment -- content and at peace. Give me a heart of appreciation for the simplest of blessings every single day. Give me eyes to see opportunities to demonstrate kindness and the willingness to get out of my own way and just do it.  Amen.

Lessons from Layered Sourdough

Is homemade sourdough bread supposed to have layers? Like the earth with its mantle, crust, outer and inner core? Mine does. When you cut it open, it’s almost like a cross-section of where an earthquake has occurred. It’s not fluffy or round or golden, and it certainly doesn’t have the pretty score marks on top like the picture-perfect loaves crafted by professional bakers. But fresh and hot out of the oven, with enough butter (that is key), it tastes pretty darn good. It’s good enough that both loaves I’ve made have been consumed, mostly by someone other than me.

It is very much unlike me to stand for an extended time period in the kitchen, hands covered in flour, kneading dough — over and over and over, triggering a moderate case of tennis elbow. And yet, I’ve done it…twice. It occurred to me that in order to be congruent, perhaps I should also starch and iron Chip’s underwear and churn some butter. I felt like a character from Little House on the Prairie, minus the apron and the bun.

At first, I was giddy at the idea of making a sourdough starter that I would use to bake my very first amazing loaf of homemade sourdough bread. I started strong, actually enjoying the process — measuring the flour and the water into the jar the very first day and then “feeding” it every day to see it come alive and, theoretically, double in size as it became ready to bake with. When it didn’t double within a few days, I became frustrated. But I stuck with it.

A friend showed me how to use a kitchen scale to make sure my flour and water were just right when “feeding” my starter. That lasted two days. It’s quicker to dunk a measuring cup into the flour bag and throw it into the jar.

When my starter continued to flunk the “sink” test (if it floats in a glass of water, it’s ready for bread), I became so impatient, I decided to dump it into the mixing bowl, add more flour and water along with some yeast for good measure, and make bread with it anyway. It wouldn’t win any contests, but thanks to the existence of butter, the end result was OK.

Despite being shamed by folks on social media for being one of those NON-bakers who is trying to make sourdough bread only because I’m home quarantined due to the COVID-19 situation, I persevered through the tedious process — feeding, discarding (using the discard for waffles and crackers so not to waste it), attempting the float test over and over, weighing on a scale, measuring in a cup, marking the rise of the starter with a Sharpie on my mason jar. You would think I was a midwife attending a birth that lasted two weeks.

It was just too much for me. The marginally tasty loaves I produced are not enough motivation for me to babysit a jar of flour and water every day. The truth is, I am willing to feed my kids and my dogs every day. Nothing else. I am not built for activities that require prolonged, precise, measured attention to detail.

I wish I could say that my sourdough adventure taught me a lesson in patience. That if you stick in there and persevere, you will enjoy a beautiful, delightful reward in the end. My reward was not beautiful, and it required a fair amount of butter to take it anywhere near the realm of delightful.

Instead, my personal takeaways were 1) Choose adventure. You never know if you will enjoy something unless you give it a shot. 2) After you’ve given it a fair shot, be willing to say, “This isn’t for me.” And in the words of Stuart Smalley, “…that’s OK.”

I could have continued chasing a perfect (or even halfway appealing) loaf of sourdough. But I had to be honest with myself — did I enjoy the tedious process enough to endure it for a loaf of homemade sourdough? Was it worth it? If I lived on the prairie with Ma and Pa Ingalls and had to drive a horse and buggy 50 miles to the nearest town to purchase a loaf of sourdough for double my farm wages, I would have to say yes. But there’s a lady in town who bakes sourdough for a living and LOVES doing it. It’s her passion. I will give her my business and not continue attempting to accomplish something that makes me crazy. Then I can give my time to my own passions and bring to the table the best of what I can offer….which clearly isn’t a lovely loaf of sourdough.

It’s easy to focus on the destination. That is our tendency. But most of life is journey, not outcome. If we find ourselves constantly and consistently wrestling with the process, the means to the end, the journey itself, solely because there is an ideal outcome waiting for us at the end, maybe it’s time to say, “I tried this, and it’s not for me.”

And that’s OK.