Merry Christmas to Me

So, I haven't written about this as my mom reads my blog and I didn't want to spoil anything for her. But this Christmas proved the very best Christmas of all and here is why:

Darian came home from Bolivia to surprise everyone here in the States...

... and surprise everyone she did.

Darian and I? We pulled it off.

Back in October, Darian told me she wanted to come home if tickets were reasonable. And believe it or not, they were! I got her a ticket to Asheville and on December 13, she flew in at 11:30 p.m. Nobody in my family knew it except for me. Really. I deserve an award.

Now the picking her up at the airport at 11:30 part was tricky. That meant I had to leave the house to pick her up long after my bedtime without Roy being suspicious. I pondered that one for quite some time before I happened upon a plan that included Tammy Vaughan having a meltdown and needing my assistance at her house as Bob was gone to a convention.

It was a straight up lie. But? Considering the circumstances, it was justified.

And so, Sunday night at 10:00 I was hanging in the man's cave (with Roy) in my pajamas, freshly showered with wet hair--looking beautiful, of course--when the texts from Tammy started piling in. She was in the midst of emotional chaos due to a chain of events that she could not control and she was spiraling quickly, as evidenced by the frantic texts. And so, I started the conversation..."Uh-oh...Tammy's upset." Roy seemed unfazed.

A bit later..."Oh wow..."

A few seconds later..."Hey, Roy...Tammy is really upset. I think I need to go over to her house for a bit as Bob is gone to a convention."

That got his attention. He scowled. "What? You're already in your pajamas. It's after 10:00. You have work tomorrow. Can't you just call her?"

I would not be persuaded. Roy is well aware that when my feet are solidly planted?

I shall not be, I shall not be moved.  (That's a song.)

"Roy? If Tammy says she wants me to come over, and it's already 10:00 at night, clearly she needs someone there. I'm not leaving her stranded."

Thankfully, I managed to get through this with a concerned face rather than a laughing uproariously face. The only way that happened is I firmly believed it was all true. Tammy was, in fact, at least in my head, having a meltdown. She needed me. I needed to go. NOW.

Maybe I should be in Hollywood.

Anyway, I quickly changed into something a little more sightly than my pajamas and headed out the door while Roy sat in his chair stone-faced and probably a tad annoyed at my neighborliness. Meanwhile, Tammy was parked in the church parking lot. She quickly switched over to my car and off we went to the airport. Now she didn't have to join at this point, but it was, of course, far more fun having her along.

Darian came in right on time and it was so good to see her that I couldn't help but cry a bit and hug her close and beg her--at least in my head--to never ever ever ever leave our house again. Ah--was she ever a sight for sore eyes.

And so we drove her home, laughing and chatting it up while my heart swelled a thousand times bigger than it had ever been before.

She woke Roy up first. It was precious to behold. He was in bed, asleep, and I turned on the light. He opened his eyes to Darian peering down at him and he lit up like the sun, grinning ear to ear. "Tammy wasn't having a meltdown, was she?"

We sneaked back downstairs and Darian waited in the living room while Roy woke up Savana. "Savana! Hurry! Come into the living room! Quick!"

Savana does not wake up with her brain in full gear. It's more like she sleep walks in the midst of a dream and it takes her a minute to come back down to earth. And so, in her head, the house was on fire and she needed to run on tippy toes to avoid burning her feet. And so here she comes, running frantically on her tippy toes behind Roy in an "S" fashion to the living room. And then she saw her. And then she fell apart. And they hugged for what seemed forever while Savana sobbed and held Darian so closely that I wondered if Darian could breathe.

For Jace? Darian flat out pounced on him while he lay in a dead sleep in the dark. We flipped on the lamp beside his bed so that Jace could recognize the intruder who was bounding into the midst of his dreamworld. He barely opened his eyes and said, "Darian? What are you doing here?" It was a quick moment of elation but then just as quickly, he rolled over and said, "I'm so tired. Turn off the light."

That boy. He is such a mess. But oh my word does he have my heart.

And so it went. Darian went to Southern for a day to surprise her friends and her cousins. She soaked it all up and basked in the glory of all of the love that just poured out from every corner.

My mom was the last person to be surprised. We kept it from my dad and Jo as well, but Savana spilled the beans before Darian walked in and so it wasn't quite so grand. Anyway, we met Mom at Huhots in Oklahoma City and she had no idea that Darian was with us. It was the cutest thing ever watching Mom's face light up at the sight of Darian. I wish I captured it on video but, sadly, I didn't.

It has been such a merry Christmas. Everyone was so generous with gifts and our family Christmas day was absolutely perfection. Savana is my chef and she headed up a scrumptious breakfast that was divine. And then we opened gifts in our traditional way that takes quite a lot of time but we soak in every moment as it's filled with so much love and joy. And then we played table games and dined on homemade pizza later that afternoon. We finished off the day at the theater: Creed. Ah--great movie.

A few days later we had Christmas in Oklahoma and though it was short, it was perfect.

But without any doubt, the most perfect gift of all, is that Darian came home and is sleeping in her bed right now. She will leave soon--Tuesday of next week: January 5. It will break my heart to hug her goodbye. But for now? Well, my world is complete and I shall enjoy each moment because, really, that's what life is about.

Moments.

And living them, each one of them, to the best of our ability.

Merry Christmas to me.

Just for Tonight

We are officially home from a whirlwind trip to Oklahoma. It's always faster than I want it to be but this year was exceptionally fast. We arrived Wednesday evening and Dad informed me as I was walking through the door that an Oklahoma blizzard was heading their way. And so, in order to avoid the storm that promised record-setting conditions, we left early Saturday morning rather than Sunday morning as planned.

Yep. That makes for 2 entire days in Oklahoma after 1100 miles of driving one way.

That's dedication.

That's a whole lot of driving and sitting and watching the miles roll by.

But no matter. I was home. And even though it was fleeting, it was worth it.

Stories of cattle and wheat. 

Sunsets that make me stand in awe at a painted sky against an endless horizon.

My stepmom's cooking that  reinforces how I don't, in fact, have any self-control.

My mom who personifies kindness and contentment and joy at having her kids all in one place. Truly she's the most precious person I know.

My dad my dad my dad. He has my heart like none other.

When I am home, so many childhood memories come flooding in and I find myself transplanted back to my younger self...the me who delivered iced tea in a quart jar as Dad rode the tractor in the blazing hot sun; the me who drove the pickup down dirt roads, dust swirling up behind me; the me who rode Snip, our gentle but stubborn horse, for hours while daydreaming my life away and creating stories that I would bring to life on paper while lying on my bed at home.

I could go on forever with all of the snapshots that run through my mind like a kaleidoscope of memories, tumbling one on top of the other.

I love Oklahoma. But even more, I love home. It signifies the best of times, the worst of times, family, belonging, struggles and triumphs, laughter, tears, promise.

And then when I hug everyone goodbye, the tears flow. I just can't help it. In fact, just thinking about saying goodbye when I am there makes me well up with emotion. But, of course, my regular life calls and so, I pack my bags and pack up my memories, compartmentalizing them back where they belong so that I can head back to my every day normal.

We arrived home this afternoon (Sunday) at about 4:00. We drove hard yesterday as we were being chased by a storm far bigger than we cared to challenge and made it safely to Nashville. But today? Well, we found ourselves tired of the hurry and took our time leaving the motel. We were all restless and the hours rolled by in mainly silence as we were each busy in our own private worlds.

After we pulled into the driveway, we kicked into gear: unpacked the car, unpacked our suitcases, vacuumed, swept the floor and wiped down the countertops, squared away our finances, bought and put away groceries. Roy even managed to change the brakes on the car so that we are ahead of the game once our week officially kicks into gear bright and early tomorrow.

But I am not really home here in North Carolina--not quite yet. I know I will be soon as life will take hold and yank me back to the present. But for now my thoughts are with those back home who are snowed in, who are sitting in a dark living room lit by candlelight while playing Rumikube, who are dining on taco soup and cornbread--perfect fare for a cold wintry night.

For tonight, I will allow myself the luxury of being a small town Oklahoma girl.

Just for tonight.

Hope is a Four Letter Word

I am hopeful about so many things.

I am hopeful that I will see Darian again.
I am hopeful that Jace will find acceptance and happiness.
I am hopeful that we will, someday, buy a house.
I am hopeful that Savana will have a beautiful wedding that is perfect for her and Guerin.

I am hopeful that I will be around to watch the sunset this evening.
I am hopeful that this too shall pass.
I am hopeful that winter will someday turn to spring to summer to fall and winter again.

I am hopeful that our nation will rise from the ashes.
I am hopeful that Luke will find his way.
I am hopeful that grief will turn to joy.

This week I have learned something that has changed my world and that is this: sometimes we have to recognize that we aren't from the cookie cutter mold and we have to take steps accordingly. Sometimes nobody is wrong. Sometimes we have to stop squeezing and prodding in order to fit.

Sometimes we simply have to stop fighting and find a new way.

Last night I coerced Tammy into coming home with me to see my house. Lots of changes have occurred this week and my living room looks brand new. It's a much needed change...as in it should have happened about six years ago...but that's okay. Kudos, furniture for providing a place for me to sit no matter how worn you appeared!

Anyway, I took Tammy through my house and showed her the different changes I've made, and she oohed and aahed appropriately. She's a great cheerleader. No. I'm serious. She is a G-R-E-A-T cheerleader. It's one of her special gifts. So, you know, I felt like a million bucks. And that's a great way to feel.

But as always happens when we get together, we started talking about our lives and about stuff that doesn't matter and about stuff that does matter. And as she was leaving, she stopped midway down the sidewalk, turned and looked at me through the darkness. And she said:

Hope is a powerful word. It's the most powerful word of the English language. It even surpasses love. It's a reason to wake up in the morning and it's the reason that when times are tough, we can still take one more step.

She's so right.

Hope is a four letter word that turns ashes into promise, devastation into rising, regret into moving forward.

And this morning? I am filled with hope.

Turning Ashes into Beauty

When Roy and I got married, we immediately moved to Campion Academy to a small duplex that was perfect for newlyweds. We had next to nothing to our name as we both came from dorm rooms rather than apartments. In fact, our living room furniture consisted of a couch that my parents had in their early days of marriage, and two burnt orange rocking chairs that were pulled from the dumpster. But? We were young and we simply didn't care. It wasn't much but it was ours.

For bedroom furniture, we had a waterbed that Roy purchased for fifty bucks from a friend. And that's it. No dresser, no nightstand, no anything. Just a bed. But as luck would have it, when we arrived at the duplex that was now our home, an old chest of drawers happened to be in the bedroom. It wasn't much to look at. We had no idea whose it was but as the duplex was totally empty with the exception of this chest of drawers, we assumed it was ours for the taking. And so we did.

28 years later? It's still our dresser. And it has maintained its worn, haggard look through the years. And though that is a popular look these days, it is certainly not becoming with this dresser. It's purely utilitarian. And so over Thanksgiving break, Roy and I were inspired to jazz up some of our furniture: the end tables in our living room, the nightstands in our bedroom, and, of course, and the most overdue, our haggard, worn dresser.

We sanded and sanded some more, and painted, and then painted some more, and then changed out the handles and knobs to a more becoming style, and wa-laa, that haggard piece of furniture was transformed into a trendy chest of drawers that was something to behold. We're really quite proud of ourselves as we've never ventured this direction before, and now Roy and I keep asking ourselves....Really. What took us so long??

From ashes to beauty...

This has been a sobering week. The mass shooting in San Bernardino, California brought home the stark reality that we're not safe in our own homeland. We are sitting ducks to Isis who is located throughout the States in sleeping cells and we never know when or where they will strike. As of late, Isis stories have been rampant around the world as they strive to invoke fear in the hearts of regular people. They have no mercy, no kindness, no compassion. But they do have a mission and thousands have bought into it. That mission? To fulfill their prophecy of taking over the world with ethnic cleansing that will leave only 144,000 so that life can begin again as it's meant, in their minds, to be lived. And these people will go to all lengths to accomplish this mission; their own lives have no meaning.

San Bernardino is close to home. I have two nephews that live there, a plethora of friends, and my heart-friend, Jacque. We lived and taught there for 3 years. I know the highways, the schools, the grocery store. When I talk to Jacque, a brilliant teacher in the San Bernardino district, the fear is palpable.

We are in changing times and we have a problem.

Last night before we went to sleep, Roy and I lay in bed quietly talking for quite awhile, as we often do on Friday nights. It's our catchup time after a busy week of schedules and packed lunches and errands during the moments in between. And I said to Roy, It makes me rethink everything--going to the mall, going out to eat, going to the grocery store. These past couple of days I look for the exits, and stage a plan as I am entering the doors.

I know I am not alone.

But stories of heroism are rising from the ashes. San Bernardino is coming together and standing up #sanbernardinostrong. Families are torn apart and devastation abounds, especially for those families and friends of the 14 lives that were senselessly taken. Those murderers have left carnage and wreckage in their wake. It makes no sense and it's crippling. But the human spirit? It's rising. It is rising from the ashes and it's holding hands and moving onward and upward. The human spirit will not be broken.

Isis numbers somewhere between 20,000-30,000, according to news reports. The world population? 7 billion. Isis operates with terror and fear and force. But they do not make up this world. They don't control our minds. They only have power if we give it to them.

I am not saying that we will not affected by their cruelty; they could very well strike in our own communities.

But when we stop living? They win. When we lose confidence in humanity, they gain victory. Of course we need to be cautious; we need to be aware. That's the reality of 2015 in America. But as for me? My focus will remain that life is to be savored; life is to be lived and enjoyed. Moments are precious diamonds, sometimes  in the midst of ashes.

The lights of my Christmas tree are blinking. It's still dark outside, and the blinking lights are a beautiful contrast to the cold world that is just outside my front window. Savana's wedding dress arrived and we made plans to pick it up today. She will try it on to ensure it fits perfectly, twirling magically in front of the mirror as tears will, most likely, roll down my cheeks as I stare in awe at this precious girl that stands before me. It's amazing to me, really, how she has grown from this chubby, slobbery cherub into this confident, driven woman. And when I see her in that dress, it all floods over me like a storm with conflicting emotion and bursting pride.

Jace has a party this evening--a lock-in--and a birthday party tomorrow that he has looked forward to for weeks. On Monday we have a faculty Christmas party and the food will be delectable; laughter will abound.

It's Christmas time here and for our family, that means anticipation of our own family traditions and traveling to Oklahoma and the joy of being surrounded by those I love the most in this world.

The sun will set, and the sky will blaze with color.

The mountains, bare, will continue to rise towards the sky.

And us? Our nation?  Well, we will rise too. We will find beauty in the ashes.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Growing up, I had a lot of nicknames. My grandpa Nick called me "Womp" because, I guess, when I was really little and didn't get my way, I would throw myself on the floor and cry. Grandpa would chuckle at me and say, "There she goes--womping on the floor again" and thus Womp was born. As I got older, that name grew to Wompolias--certainly not a name to wear like a crown, but my name nonetheless, at least where my grandpa and sister Lori were concerned.

At school? Vonda-Honda vroom vroom. Yeah. I got that a lot.

And my dad called me Ben. Nobody really knows where the name Ben came from as Dad called me Ben from my earliest memories. I have heard a variety of explanations, but the one that stands out is that Dad always wanted a boy and so he called me Ben as I was the last kid, the last child to crush his dream of a son.

Some days, Dad called me "Bender my Friender". That went over really well when I was in 7th grade or so--you know, that age where everybody hates me and everything I do is stupid and... we are all pretty much obsessed with ourselves, thinking that when we walk into a room, everybody stops and stares when the truth is (and you finally recognize this truth when you hit your early to mid 20's--somewhere in there) --...nobody notices. Not really, anyway.

During those early teen years, I can remember being at a basketball game, ready to head for home, surrounded by my teammates, and Dad would say, "Ready to go, Bender my Friender?" and I would cringe. "Daaaad!!!", I would say quietly, so that only he could hear, my eyes widening in that way we all do when we try to get across "The Message." But of course, Dad was undaunted.

Now that I have a 13 year old, I totally get it.

Dad never called me Vonda. In fact, when he did, it sounded strange, like a foreign word that I wasn't quite sure of its meaning. And even when I reached adulthood, married, started having children...Dad still called me Ben. And the truth is, I always  treasured that name. It spoke love to me, it spoke tenderness. It spoke of a connection between Dad and me. When I told others my dad called me Ben, they looked at me with questioning eyes...Why? But no matter. It was my name and, especially as I grew older,  I wore it with pride.

But somewhere over the last few years, my name officially transitioned to Vonda. I'm not sure when it happened, or even why it happened. Maybe it's just the natural progression of how life rolls. But for whatever reason, "Ben" got lost in a sea of years that rolled one on top of the other.  Sometimes, I've wondered about that-- in those moments where I just miss my dad.

Today is Thanksgiving. It's been a perfect kind of day really. The only "dark" spot was missing my sister Tami and her clan and, of course, Darian. But it was just a hiccup year and so, those of us who remained (our four, my nephew Jared, and Fiancé) did a mighty fine job of kicking into gear and helping out in the kitchen, eating more than our fair share of Thanksgiving fare, and ending the day with some raucous games around the dining room table.

But this morning, before I headed downstairs to peel potatoes and throw together a green bean casserole while mixing the dough for the rolls, I picked up my phone and took a minute to draft a text to my dad. I told him I loved him, that of all the dads in the world I'm so glad he's mine. And I am. Oh my word...I so am.

We ate dinner around the table, each of us stating the things that we are most grateful for this year: that we will soon have a son-in-law whom we all so dearly love, that sweet Jare came to visit, that Savana and Guer are almost done with school, that Jace is doing well in school, and the list continues. And then afterwards, as we all suffered from a food coma, we went our separate directions for awhile to have a couple of hours of quiet time.

And somewhere in there, I picked up my phone, noticed I had a text.

A text that was the exclamation point to my day.

A text that warmed my heart, that spoke volumes in just two little words:

"Thanks Ben."                                                

Shades of Gray

Lately Isis has been on the news as they have struck terror around the world with their senseless attacks that decimate lives, families, communities. I am sure we have all wondered where they will strike again. Will it be our nation? our community? our family?

Will it be me?

Not too long ago, someone posted an article on Facebook about this reporter that interviewed young men who had been captured that were part of Isis and were awaiting their own trials that would, undoubtedly, result in their own deaths. These men, for the most part, had wives, a minimum of two young children, and homes. They had families; they knew love and devotion. When asked why they joined Isis and spent their lives murdering innocent people, they responded that they were hungry; Isis offered security. They were scared; Isis offered community. They were splintered and fractured after the US came in and dethroned Hussein; Isis offered belonging. The details didn't matter. What mattered was securing their families and creating peace for their own.

Don't get me wrong. I am not sympathizing with nor supporting Isis. Their brutality is abominable and, in my black or white opinion on this matter, must be wiped out. No compromise, no mercy.

But sometimes, when I look deeper--as in this case of this interview, I am amazed at the humanity of it all. These ruthless killers are devoted to family. Most likely they celebrate holidays, laugh with their children, hug their wives, watch the sunrise in awe.

How can that be?

Their senseless acts are evil, sheer darkness.

But life is filled with shades of gray.

Sometimes I wonder....if we could take all of the hatred and anger and violence in this world and roll it up in a ball, how large would it be? And then if we could take all of the beauty and love and kindness and wonder of this world and roll it up in a ball, how large would IT be? Would they be similar in size? Would the ball of hatred far surpass the ball of love? Or would it be the other way around?

While acts of terror and violence and rage are splashed all over the headlines,  average people walk the streets searching for hurting and helpless animals so that they can rehabilitate them and find them homes. Strangers take in children who are neglected and abused. Some stop and help the elderly or the handicapped load their groceries in their cars.

Some people ...
play in the rain, twirling with joy as raindrops fall on their cheeks,
play music and sing while they cook dinner for their loved ones,
run shelters for the homeless,
visit those in prison,
take a meal to the lonely or the sick,
offer a smile to the stranger they pass on the street,
take time for their aging parents,
offer encouraging words,
read inspiring words,
and some people embrace those who are different than themselves.

In my opinion? The ball made up of love and beauty and kindness is far bigger, far more meaningful.

Often I hear talk about how life has become so dark and that our world is on the verge of destruction. And granted, I do think with all of our nuclear weapons and acts of terror that could strike our water supply and such, we do stand on a precipice. But I don't think, personally, that it is because humanity has become so evil; I think it's because of the power we now hold in our hands. When I consider the days of Rome where stadiums were packed for the purpose of watching gladiators fight to the death...that isn't exactly an rose-colored view of the hearts of mankind.

Life has always been a conflict of love versus hate. I am not convinced that humanity has changed. From the beginning of time we've had the choice...

to choose kindness or choose to bitterness;
to choose to focus on how one has been wronged or to stand in awe at the wonder of a sunset;
to gossip and tear down or to offer words of encouragement and empathy;
to spread good will and community or to ostracize and belittle;
to accept with open arms or to reject simply because we don't understand.

That's Important to Me

When I first got home yesterday, I had many intentions, all involving kicking up my feet and filling up on the things I love: Netlix, journaling, reading, creating. Maybe a cup of hot tea by my side, or a cool glass of water to sip on throughout the evening.

But none of that happened.

As I cuddled up on the couch for  this much anticipated "adventure," I first checked my email, and immediately saw an email from my sister, Tami. She had sent me a link to a blog entitled This Life I Live, written by Rory Feeks about his life with Joey Feeks, his wife of 13 years. They are a well-known country duo in the music world right outside of Nashville.

I was immediately entrenched and started at the very beginning: January 2014, and worked my way through to November, 2015. The blog is gut wrenching, fascinating, real. It's a testimony to a beautiful life filled with simple things, family, love. In case any of you choose to read it yourselves, I won't give anything away. Suffice it to say, it is a tender, heart wrenching testimony, embedded with videos and songs they sing together that bring meaning to the content of the particular blog.

I started around 7:00 and put my iPad away at about 9:30, utterly drenched in life with the Feeks. It stuck with me all night, and all morning on this Veterans Day.

This morning I listened to one of their songs: That's Important to Me. It shows their life on their Tennessee farm where they live simply with no tv, no smart phones, cows, chickens, and their dog. She makes home cooked foods in their kitchen and watches the fireflies in the evening on their swing. It's filled with reminders of what is truly important in this life we live.

And it got me thinking about what's important to me. Sometimes, life turns into such a rat race, each day blurring into the next, and it's easy to get caught up in pointless worries such as others' opinions, others' lives, finances, petty arguments, petty ideas.

Sometimes we all need reminders that life is about love, simplicity, family, meaningful relationships, butterflies, art, a warm home, our pets, bursting flowers, towering mountains, crashing waves.

Sometimes we need to remember that it's more important to give of ourselves to those who are less fortunate than we are, that we are all connected, we are all one, doing the best we can on this planet where life can throw curveballs that are brutal in unspeakable ways.

Recently I was at work early one morning on a dark, cold, rainy day. I went into our little kitchenette that has a window that looks directly out to a little park area, the main street, and the courthouse on the other side. I noticed a growing circle of people huddled around a little woman sitting on a park bench with her head in her hands. It was clear the people surrounding her--all strangers by the looks of things--were concerned. One covered her with his umbrella while another scrambled for her phone. Shortly after, the EMTs arrived and placed her on a gurney, and headed off, sirens wailing.

I noticed the woman had her purse, was dressed in a skirt and jacket, and was clearly out for a day of purpose.

And now? Well, now who knows. Maybe she's fine and home resting from a scare.

But maybe she's not. I'll never know.

But what I do know is that life holds no promises. Each day is a gift and when we focus on the stress and the unfairness of it all and the negative cycles that run rampant through our heads, we trade beauty for cheap living; we trade negativity for joy.

I want to live deliberately, to ease the pain for others, to create more smiles  than frowns. I want to focus on laughter, mashed potatoes, the woven woods right outside my sliding glass door. I need more walks down Holcombe Cove Road where I can't help but look up.

I want to live what's important to me.

Rory's blog