Julie Echols Reyburn

I’m sad about Toby Keith. Sadder than I expected to be. I like his music and own a couple of his CDs. I never saw him in concert. It seems a shallow fandom if you can even call it that. But his death has dominated my conversation the past couple of days so I guess his impact runs deeper than I thought.

I spent my teen-aged summers with the cool of country music in a literal and figurative sense. During those hot and humid months I stayed inside, enjoying the A/C and CMT. Country music was “in” again with the likes of Garth Brooks and Faith Hill.

My daddy left a list of chores for my brothers and me when school was out. One of mine was to iron clothes. I would set up the ironing board in front of our living room TV and watch country music videos, singing along as I pressed collars, creased pants and fixed them onto clothes hangers. Thirty years later, those video images are still vivid. I have a random but distinct memory of my cousin Lori driving us to school in her white Toyota Paseo with “Should Have Been a Cowboy” playing on the local radio station, WZZK with hosts Patti and Dollar Bill.

My favorite Toby Keith tunes are the patriotic ones. I can’t listen to “American Soldier” without crying.  After dinner Tuesday night Jeff and I found a video for “Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue” and let (made) AK and Lily listen. We talked about the “sucker punch” and how that song expressed what so many in our country felt. We were living every emotion imaginable, anger included. The video of concertgoers and troops pumping fists into the air and shout-singing the words captured the spirit of that moment in history. Not everyone liked the lyrics, including the very public view of ABC News Anchor Peter Jennings. We told the girls that was OK too because in America we’re allowed different opinions.

Jeff and I have reminisced through videos and songs but one in particular has stayed with me for a couple of days. It’s one I hadn’t seen until my friend Lee sent it to me. The song is titled “Don’t Let the Old Man In” and was inspired by a conversation Toby had with actor Clint Eastwood. The performance I watched was from the People’s Choice Country Music Awards last September.

As Toby sings, the cameras cut to his wife. She’s singing gently from her seat in the audience and wiping tears from her eyes. You can almost feel the weight of his cancer battle. Did they know he was at the end? Did they accept that this would be one of his final curtain calls?

I’ve heard and read a lot of tributes to Toby Keith from my friends who were devoted fans, from country music stars, celebrities, and from radio announcers as I sat in car line to pick up my daughters from school:

Legend.
Maverick.
Icon.
Patriot.

My favorites are:

Loyal husband.
Proud father.
Friend.

Most of us are not going to be remembered for moments in the spotlight the way Toby Keith has been memorialized this week. That doesn’t mean our lives are wasted.

I’m writing a book about my daddy and his legacy of faith. The only stage he ever took was a creaky wooden platform set up in our church fellowship hall for a “country supper” in the late 80s. Daddy entertained the crowd with a comical performance of Johnny Cash’s “Folsom Prison Blues” complete with a giant cardboard guitar and toy choo-choo train.

Music may not have been his jam but mom tells me daddy had a sharp talent for baseball. He made the high school team but didn’t get to play because his parents couldn’t afford the uniforms. His worth was never celebrated with sports stats or chart toppers. Still, he was successful in his own right. His achievements look like this:

Labored in coal mines to provide for his family.
Cheered his kids at ballgames and band concerts.
Mailed cards to friends who were lonely or sick.
Cared for his quadriplegic brother.

Overwhelmingly daddy is remembered for the way he prayed for people, sometimes long and loud at church but mostly in quiet at our kitchen table. His legacy isn’t applauded in the public eye but that doesn’t diminish its worth. Not only did daddy leave his mark on this world, he made an impact for the next one.

I’m sad about Toby Keith. Still, I can’t help but smile when I remember. His music will forever take me back home to simple summers and singing along in front of our living room TV.

And to a life with my daddy still in it.

The last time I was nervous about a new year was when 2007 turned to 2008. Jeff and I, party people that we are, were sitting at our kitchen table playing board games with a couple of friends. A tiered serving tray decorated one end of the table, offering what was left of our homemade Christmas candy. The living room TV was turned to Dick Clark’s New Year’s Rockin’ Eve. Ryan Seacrest was the host and had pitched to Fergie on the west coast where Natasha Bedingfield was performing her hit song “Unwritten.”

The lyrics interrupted any ideas I had for the next word I wanted to spell. “Staring at the blank page before me” hit too close to home. I was facing my own blank page and it didn’t exude the hope or possibility the song intended to inspire. I didn’t want a new chapter or a new year. I had my daddy in all of the old ones. He had died just 5 weeks earlier. I wasn’t ready to move on.

Every year since 2007 I’ve experienced a season of sadness leading up to the day daddy passed away in November. Somehow, I didn’t feel the loss as deeply this year. I think, at least in part, it’s because I’ve spent time writing stories about him and some of the things he taught me. Putting my memories into words kept him close and made my loss seem less so.

But grief is an unpredictable foe and it eventually caught up with me. December was hard. Daddy was born on Christmas Day and while the holiday isn’t usually a black hole, this year I felt a palpable void. I missed his physical presence so strongly that there were moments I expected to turn around and see him. It was an emotional month.

Daddy warned me more than once about getting swept up in my emotions. At first he would simply say I shouldn’t wear my heart on my sleeve. As I got older he wrote me a letter and amended that advice, cautioning me not to be controlled by my emotions:

“I hope and pray that your faith is strong enough to keep your spiritual feet on Holy Ground during the emotional times…. Our lives should not be held hostage by our weak emotions but by our faith that we get from God’s word.”  

For most of my life I let my emotions influence my actions. I come by it honest. My Myers-Briggs result in college showed a unanimous “F” (feeling) personality. I scored zero points for “T” (thinking). Whether age or life experience, I’ve figured out a balance between the two. I’ve learned it’s important to pause between what I feel “right now” and how I want to react to it. In my weak moments, my faith – and my daddy’s – gives me the strength to stand.

Faith helps me face this new year with more confidence than I felt in 2007. It is one of God’s greatest gifts to me. Our pastor talked about gifts and blessings a few weeks ago. He even paused his sermon so we could quietly count our own. I opened the little notebook I keep tucked inside my Bible and began to write. The bold bullet points below are what I wrote in the pew, in order as my blessings came to mind. I made time later to write down specific reasons why these people and things mean so much to me.

*

1) My daddy’s faith – It is impossible for me to sit in a church pew and not think about my daddy in some way, his burgundy Bible balanced on his knee or his fist tapping the back of the pew (sometimes a beat behind) as he sang hymns. I have his Bible now. There’s a list of people he prayed for, dates written beside verses and, in a few cases, the name of the person who preached. If my brothers or I read scripture he made note of that, too. I love having a tangible piece of his faith, something I can touch. 

2) A committed husband – I’m chauffeur-in-chief in our family, driving our daughters to school, appointments and picking them up from practices. My job is flexible and allows it; Jeff’s schedule is more rigid. It’s hectic sometimes! A couple of weeks ago Jeff called as usual to let me know he was headed home from work. I asked which of our girls would be easier for him to grab and he answered, “Whatever you need me to do.”  It was a small gesture but knowing he was ready to make life easier for me was an incredible comfort and energy boost. I’m grateful to have a spouse who shows up in big and little ways.

3) Kids I enjoy – Have you ever had to leave the room when one of your kids misbehaved because you knew you needed to correct or discipline but what you really want to do was laugh? My daughters are witty so it happens here quite a lot. They are also smart, creative and they care about others.

4) Teachers and administrators who love my girls – Lily was picked to play a game at a pep rally this past fall. One of the assistant principals recorded videos and sent them to me. Abby Kate, who is terrified of mice, played with a classmate’s pet rat in their gifted class one day. Her teacher texted me pictures. (She knew I wouldn’t believe it without evidence!) Abby Kate and Lily spend more time at school than at home so I hold a deep gratitude for the people who watch over them when I cannot.

5) New friendships – I made new friends last year when I joined a Facebook group for memoir writers. They encourage me and keep me accountable for my goals. I’ve enjoyed our connection. (I’m thankful for my old friends, too!)

6) Comfortable finances – Jeff and I are careful spenders but we are not opposed to an impromptu stop by Buc-ee’s for an ICEE or a beaver-themed snack. I’m thankful that we have money to enjoy.

7) Books – I indulged my love for books in 2023 by joining a year-long reading challenge. Each month the bookstore sponsoring the challenge listed a specific type of book to choose such as one with a color in the title or one set on an island. The prompts introduced me to books I may not have chosen on my own, and it gave me a greater appreciation for the freedom I have to read, learn and be entertained.

8) Answered prayers – I am thankful for my “Ebenezers” – places in my life where I can return to see God’s faithfulness to me and my family.

9) Fun brothers – My brothers Chad and Jeremy make life a lot of fun. Four years ago, Lego released a line of Harry Potter-themed mini-figures. My favorite character, Dobby, was included. Chad has a knack for identifying Lego minis while they are still in the wrapper, and not only found Dobby but mailed him to me special delivery. The envelope and sticky note still make me smile, and Dobby is proudly displayed on my desk. Jeremy texted us a fun flashback this Christmas. These handmade ornaments decorated our family tree for years and now they hang on his. “For the record,” he typed. “These two are still racing down the garland every year.”

10) A mom who loves and gives generously – Lily’s new favorite book series is Keeper of the Lost Cities. She bought the first book after Christmas and read it in a day. We couldn’t find the second book at any of our local stores. A bookstore just outside Birmingham had it in stock so my mom went out of her way to pick it up so that Lily would have it when we visited her a couple days later. Mom never hesitates to help when someone needs it, and she’s especially quick when her kids and grandkids call.

*

Emotions swirl when a new year starts, sort of like the confetti that rains over New York City at midnight on New Year’s Eve. It’s easy to get caught up in our feelings. But as my daddy advised, we should be careful they don’t control us. For now, I choose to be content. Naming the good things in my life is a place to start.

What are you thankful for today? Can you list ten things? Two? Twenty? Take a moment to reflect and see where you find God’s faithfulness. Consider your gifts, blessings, and the most important things in your life. That list may guide your goals for 2024. I hope you will feel God’s presence with each step and that you’ll find confidence to face the blank page before you.

“Remember that the Lord your God led you on the entire journey…”

(Deuteronomy 8:2)

(Note: This writing originally posted to Facebook on October 4, 2022 in memory of Mrs. Loretta Lynn)

Somewhere in our house, stuffed and stored in a box or trunk, is a white sweatshirt my daddy bought for me when I was in the 6th grade. On the front, written in sparkly black puffy paint, are the words “I’m a Coal Miner’s Daughter” inspired by Loretta Lynn’s signature song. My name is spelled in the same paint across the back of the shirt, a silvery-white sequin, an imitation diamond, dots the letter “i.”

Coal Miner’s Daughter was playing on the radio just before the girls climbed into the car after school today, a tribute to Loretta Lynn and her influence on country music. I paused the song until AK and Lily were settled so they could hear Loretta Lynn’s story. They are, after all, a coal miner’s granddaughters. We talked about Mrs. Lynn’s life and a little bit about mine.

I did not grow up poor, though there were times when the miners went on strike that I suspected my parents had to pinch a few pennies. I remember my daddy working hard, rising before the sun to labor underground.

One time when I was in high school my car would not start so, after work, daddy set out to repair it. Very late, maybe even close to midnight, I heard my car crank and leave the driveway as daddy test drove it around the block. Satisfied it was safe for me to drive again, he came inside to sleep only to wake a few short hours later for work in the coal mines.

I teared up a little bit as the radio played the last lines of Coal Miner’s Daughter:

“Well a lot of things have changed since a way back then
And it’s so good to be back home again
Not much left but the floor, nothing lives here anymore
Except the memory of a coal miner’s daughter.”

I love going home. Our house is still standing and Mom is still there, along with a lot of memories this coal miner’s daughter holds dear.

This quote appeared among many on my Facebook feed today. I sure do love it though not as well as the words to her signature song.

From one coal miner’s daughter to another, rest and be at peace, Mrs. Lynn.

(Note: This writing was originally posted to Facebook on September 11, 2023 in memory of my friend Wade.)

My 9/11 tribute is different this year because it’s not about 9/11 at all. It’s for my high school classmate and friend, Wade.

Wade would have turned 24 years old on September 11, 2001. He died two days earlier, September 9, 2001, because of an undiagnosed heart condition.

I didn’t know Wade very well, really. We didn’t cross paths until 10^th grade when we started Minor High School. We had 6^th period Geometry together. I didn’t have any friends in that class so I carried a book to read until the bell rang and while our teacher, Ms. Parker, took attendance. My seat was in the front and I would notice Wade join his friends in the row of desks against the wall on the far side of the room. He wore a denim color-block, button down shirt a lot. Isn’t it funny the things we remember?

Junior year we had three classes together: 3^rd period History with Coach Pridmore, 5^th period English with Mr. Purcell and 6^th period Algebra II with Mrs. Thomaston. During football season, Wade walked into History class singing Rocky Top. He was a big fan of the Tennessee Vols.  He carried more confidence than I remember in 10^th grade Geometry, not cocky but there was a sureness in his stride that year. I noticed him more, maybe because we shared so many classes but more likely because I thought he was cute. I admittedly had a crush, at least as much as a girl in the band could like a boy on the football team.

We had only one class together our senior year, 1^st period Economics/Government taught by Mr. Handley and Mr. Jackson, but our lockers were close. We started to speak in the hallways. From my seat in the flute section on Friday nights, I watched Wade play and lead during football games. He was a good quarterback and teammate. I interviewed him for the school newspaper as the team advanced towards the regional play-offs. He told me about the towel he’d worn during games for three years and of his lucky shoe. The toe was split open so he wrapped it with tape instead of throwing the pair away. I met him at the exit gate after games, to give him a hug and tell him he played well.

Wade returned the favor when I participated in the Homecoming Pageant. Anyone who knew me then – and even now – knows I am not a glamour girl but my daddy wanted me to enter the pageant so I did. I wore a beaded gown, my hair in curls and more makeup than my face has ever seen. Wade was one of the escorts and as he arrived backstage I hobbled to him in my high heels and fastened my fingers in a death grip around his elbow. He was waiting center stage when I finished my walk and as he escorted me off stage he told me I did a good job. I laugh about it now because he was pretty much congratulating me for not falling but in that moment his words and his arm were my lifeline.

The last time I saw Wade was at our high school graduation in May 1995. Rain forced the ceremony from the football field to a local church. Anticipating chaos as graduation ended, I mentioned to my family that I wanted a picture with Wade. My brother Chad intercepted him as he was leaving. When Wade and I posed my daddy looked at Wade and joked, “This picture might look better if you were turned the other way.” We all laughed, and that’s the smile you see on Wade’s face in our graduation picture. (Thank you, Daddy.)

I was sitting in church with my mom and dad when I found out Wade had died. Social media didn’t have the reach then that it does now. I’d moved to Troy and later on to Huntsville and lost touch with most of my high school crowd. My friend Jessica, who’d married Wade’s cousin, scooted through the pews to tell me. As the congregation sang Beulah Land, I cried. I wept for my classmate I hadn’t seen in six years, for a boy I barely knew but deeply adored.

Weeks later on another visit home I visited the cemetery. A worker showed me on a map where Wade was buried and how to get there. My hands shook and my heart pounded as I drove the narrow road to his gravesite. His headstone had not been placed. I knelt at the dirt, prayed, and cried again. In 2013, near his birthday and the start of football season, I returned to leave a note and cross at his grave. A few days later Facebook notified me of a new message. It was from Wade’s mom:

“… I found your card and cross on his marker and it filled my heart with joy and my eyes to know he is still remembered…”

Mrs. Shirley and I have kept in touch over the past 10 years. I’ve mailed her pictures, shared words that Wade wrote to me, and told stories I remember from high school. I messaged her Saturday night as I watched football, thinking of Wade because I knew it was the anniversary of the day he died. She responded right away and said, “This is the exact moment I received ‘the call.’”

I did not know Wade very well, really. I think now that our fledgling friendship was meant not for the hallways of Minor High School but to cross years and miles to comfort his mom in the years she’s lived since he died, 22 years now, almost as many without him as she had with him.

So, maybe this remembrance of Wade is an appropriate tribute to 9/11 after all, a nudge that the small moments mean something, there’s significance in an arm to hold when we feel like we’re going to fall, and we should always, always tell the people we love how much we care for them.

There’s a scene at the end of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire (I like these movie words better than the book) in which the students are gathered for an assembly and learn how their friend and classmate Cedric Diggory died. In all the years I’ve read or watched Harry Potter and all the occasions I’ve missed Wade I’d never considered the ways Cedric and Wade are alike. Professor Dumbledore’s eulogy of Cedric – which brings me to tears every time I watch – is a fitting way to remember Wade:

“Today we acknowledge a really terrible loss. Cedric Diggory was as you all know, exceptionally hard working, intricately fair minded, and most importantly a fierce, fierce friend… In light of recent events, the bonds of friendship we made this year will be more important than ever. Remember that and Cedric Diggory will not have died in vain. You remember that, and we’ll celebrate a boy who was kind and honest and brave and true right to the very end.”

I asked Wade during that interview with the school paper what he wanted to be remembered for at Minor. I never considered that the question of legacy for his life would be answered so young.

“A leader on and off the field,” he answered. “That I picked up my teammates.”           

Touchdown, Wade.
We remember that and so much more.

Wade Joseph Woodfin
September 9, 1977- September 9, 2001

Note: This writing was originally posted to Facebook on September 25, 2022 in honor of National Daughters Day.

I’m gonna flip the script on National Daughters Day (goodness knows AK and Lily get enough attention) and share a special moment about being a daughter.

My daddy looks almost mad in the picture as he walked me down the aisle on my wedding day, and if he had been healthy that might have been a fact. He probably would have refused to give me away. He was fiercely protective of me until he couldn’t be anymore.

But daddy wasn’t mad. He was thinking. He had been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s Disease and was trying very, very hard here to remember what he was supposed to do.

Before the church doors opened, Daddy repeated over and over under his breath, “Her mother and I. Her mother and I…” He knew what he was supposed to say. He also knew he might not remember the words.

Every October – and sometimes as early as August – my spirit begins to grieve. It’s like my subconscious knows what’s coming. The anniversary of daddy’s death. This November will mark 15 years without him.

I have wondered more than usual lately about the bond he would have shared with my daughters. No doubt he would have loved them fiercely too.

I’m so glad to be Dennis Echols’ daughter. And I can’t wait to hug him again.

If you could give one piece of advice to a student at the start of this school year, what would you tell them?

My mother will be surprised to co-star in this story (Hi, Mom!) for a couple of reasons. First, she leaned on daddy to lead us. Also, she probably doesn’t remember the phone call I’m about to tell you about.

I did not date in high school. At all. Not even once. My senior prom date was a boy named Skip who I’d known my whole life. My social life, or lack of, is a story for another day except to say it changed when I moved away to college.

Within my first week of classes at Troy State University in 1995, several boys seemed to like me, from chatting me up to straight out asking me on a date. I called my mom on her company’s toll-free phone number (we didn’t have cell phones back then and long-distance calls, as my daddy so often reminded me, cost too much money.) With surprise and apprehension in my voice, I told mom about all the boys and that I didn’t know who I liked or what I should do. Mom, however, knew exactly what I should do.

“Go out with every one of them,” she said.

I did not expect her to say that, though I figured out pretty quickly what she meant. Dating boys, and maybe lots of them, was the only way I was going to find “the one.” (Spoiler alert: I didn’t meet “the one” for another 10 years.)

“Date them all!” is not the advice I’d offer to a college kid today, and now I see why mom leaned on daddy to lead us.

Daddy mailed a lot of letters to me through my college years. One of the wisest things he said to me is written in a letter not at the start of freshman year but at the end.  I had applied to be a Trojan Ambassador; these were students who hosted campus events, helped with recruitment and gave tours to prospective students and their parents. I didn’t feel I’d answered well in the interview and braced for rejection. I was legitimately shocked when I opened the envelope with the list of Ambassadors inside. My name was next to last, but it was on the list.

Daddy was bursting with pride when I called to tell him I was selected. He sent me a card of congratulations and included this gentle reminder:

“God is putting you in places to be a witness for Him.”

Daddy was always pointing me to God and still is. His words resonate both in my personal pursuits and through my parenting.

Lily was selected for the middle school cheer squad last spring. I’m still marveling at the reality that my back-row-baby is a cheerleader. Lily has never sought the spotlight, she usually prefers to keep quiet, so when she told me she wanted to try-out I had my doubts.

She practiced hard and constant at home. If she asked my opinion (I also cheered in middle school) I obliged but mostly I kept quiet (I wasn’t good enough to make the high school squad.) My contribution was not to coach her. My part in her try-out was to pray.  So I prayed the clearest thing I could think of, and I shared it with Lily:

“I am praying that if being a cheerleader can develop you into a leader at East and put you in a position to be a positive influence, that you will make it.”

While I don’t believe God is in the bargaining business, I want to honor the intention of my prayer and help Lily grow into a leader. So, I tell her the same thing my daddy told me:

“God is putting you in places to be a witness for Him.”

“Witness” is a church word I grew up with. I don’t know that it holds the same weight or worth in today’s world. This is what it means to me now and what I want Lily and Abby Kate to consider when God puts them in places to be a witness for Him:

Are they honoring the talents He’s given?
Are they showing kindness and helping people?
Are they giving Him generous and sincere thanks?

One of the most popular scriptures offered to students, especially at the start of a new stage, is Proverbs 3:5-6.

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct your paths.” (Proverbs 3:5-6 NKJV)

Yes, God can guide our way to places where we can be a witness for Him, but He’s not supposed to do all the work. We have a calling, too.

Trust Him.
Lean on Him.
Acknowledge Him.

Whether they are first string on the football field or sitting next to the new kid at the lunchroom table, we can teach our kids to honor God in the places where He leads them. It’s what my daddy did for me and what I want to pass on to my daughters.

As for my mom, well, I’ll amend her words and say to my girls, “Get to know a lot of different people. You never know who you might meet.”   

“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct your paths.” (Proverbs 3: 5-6)

New King James Version

January doesn’t feel fresh to me. Pieces of the past year nag me all month long: graded papers from my girls’ backpacks, expired coupons and holiday sales ads, lingering Christmas scraps I overlooked during un-decorating.  Empty Lego boxes are stacked in our dining room (I managed just today to relocate the assembled works upstairs), the corner of the living room where our Christmas tree stood is still empty (I haven’t yet dragged the armchair back to its place) and a rogue Elf on the Shelf accessory mocks me from the bar in the kitchen. I have to use a stepladder to reach its storage bin and I just don’t have that kind of energy or ambition right now.

It’s not just post-Christmas chaos. Laundry, folded and not, covers our couch and recliner. There are enough dust bunnies and well, I’ll just say it, dirt on my floors to mold an impressive work of art if I was creatively inclined. “Sweep floors” is number five on my list of things to do today. We’ll have to see if I cross numbers 1-4 first.

Whatever chaos I live in the weeks after Christmas is of my own making. The last seven days of 2022 I slept late, took naps and spent my waking hours immobile, watching football or reading the illustrated Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Sleeping, reading and general laziness are hard habits to break when the January sky is a gloomy gray and the temperature outside requires fleece-lined leggings. (Jeans are too complicated with holiday pounds hanging around.) So, I procrastinate or make piles to put away later… maybe when it’s time to spring clean.

What is about January anyway? The new year sells itself as the Super Bowl of fresh starts, swaggering onto the calendar dressed in confidence and confetti, full of pomp and the promise of possibility. It’s the only midnight guest we welcome with a party, and since I like to sleep I have to wonder: why do we give January 1 dibs on our success? Why do we let one day determine what we want to accomplish and when?

I don’t have a single success story that’s been written in January. When I decided to lose weight five years ago, I started in August. I launched my website and began to write regularly in May three years ago. I’ve (mostly) maintained both. January isn’t a magic month for habits and consistency, yet out of custom or tradition we allow it to convince us we need to be better or do better right now. On your mark! Get set! Go!

Parenting pulls us into the same pitfall. We splurge our money, energy and attention on the “big” days. Gender reveals and first birthday parties. The start of Kindergarten and end of high school. Sweet 16 cakes and college acceptances. Don’t misunderstand me; these are precious, once-in-a-lifetime milestones. But what about the days in between? We live an exceptional amount of ordinary days yet somehow, those slip by without notice or fanfare. In fact, the ordinary days shape our kids in ways we can’t always see.

Two years ago (in October, not January!) Jeff and I decided it was time to buy a new car as our family had outgrown the one I’d driven for more than 10 years. We picked a roomy SUV and started to map the inaugural Reyburn Family Road Trip, destination the Grand Canyon. For 10 days we explored the beauty of Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. It was without question or debate the best vacation we’ve ever experienced. Still, it was only 10 days out of 365. Not every day can hold that kind of adventure unless we win the lottery and even then it’s not likely because Jeff and I are happiest when we’re at home.

We’ve passed that preference on to our girls. They’re happy to go and do but are also content to enjoy lazy days at home. One Wednesday night at church, Lily and her friends designed a construction paper quilt. Each child was asked to draw something about their family that was important to them. Lily’s quilt square showed off two things: a car and a bowl of popcorn. The car probably makes sense to you; it represents the road trip(s) we’ve taken. The popcorn? Well, that’s her usual after-school snack.

Popcorn became the preferred snack during COVID when our schools were closed. Every afternoon around 3:00, we piled into Abby Kate’s room to read a chapter from a Harry Potter book. It was an easy and fun way to interrupt their screen time without complaint. I narrated the tales of Harry and his friends at Hogwarts while Abby Kate and Lily munched popcorn and M&Ms. At a time when the world was uncertain, their snack was not. Its continuity created comfort, a cadence they could rely on. Storytime stopped when school re-opened but the girls continued to ask for a popcorn snack (with M&Ms, of course) when they walked in the door. Three years later, popcorn still fills their stomach after school. The rhythm nourishes their souls. Years from now, when they have families of their own, I hope they will smell popcorn and think of home.  

The calendar flipped to February last week (finally!) I wasn’t sad for January to be finished. The sun is hanging around longer and, at least for a few days, the weather will be comfortable. My motivation is gaining, if only because the sun is illuminating all that dirt I still need to sweep. I suspect as the temperature warms up, I will too. Spring Break will be here in a blink with summer hot on its heels. But you know what? Tuesday will be here tomorrow. And Tuesday matters, too. There are no insignificant days, even the ones spent at home.

Maybe it’s impractical to expect every day to feel fresh. Some mornings we want to ignore the alarm and trash our to-do list. So when you wake up to one of those days, decide what matters the most and then just do that. Every day doesn’t have to be an action-packed adventure. But if we give every day its due, we are certain to find a small piece of purpose no matter what day is on the calendar.

We might enjoy a little bit of fun, too.

“Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom.“
(Psalm 90:12)

My childhood Christmas tree was not glamorous. It would not have been showcased among the pages of any lifestyle magazine or in the program line-up for HGTV. Its fluffed, artificial branches were not adorned with fancy, color-coordinated décor but with a random assortment of ordinary ornaments that I like to call… cozy. Each one spoke of a vacation we took, an activity my brothers and I enjoyed or a Christmastime classroom craft. There was a replica of the U.S. Capitol building from my sixth grade trip to Washington D.C., a porcelain redheaded cheerleader representing my junior high school years, and a Santa Claus made of colored felt and googly eyes when I was in elementary school.

I loved that tree. Many mornings before school started I would plug in its lights and sit in the glow, sipping a mug of hot tea – sweet tea made sweeter with evaporated milk. Every year we added new ornaments: a cross-stitched snowman wearing braces when I was in the 7^th grade and had my own tinsel grin, the Troy State University logo when my big brother started college, and a corner piece of letterhead from ABC 33/40 News, which mom placed in a plastic red frame the year I was hired to work there as an associate producer.

Our tree found its 15 minutes of fame on ABC 33/40 in 1999 during the television station’s Christmas special. A reporter was looking for a homegrown holiday story to tell and the decorations our tree held fit the theme she wanted. I have a copy of that story, stored somewhere in my house on an aging VHS tape. It hasn’t played in years except in my mind. The very last line of the story I run on repeat:

 “As our family grows, so does our tree,” my daddy said.

The tree I decorate now with my husband and our daughters is a lot like the one I adored growing up. It is filled with ornaments from our travels, tributes to our girls, and a few of the trinkets that hung on my childhood tree, including that Santa Claus I crafted from felt in the fourth grade.

There is one ornament on our tree that is not a story of life but of death. My daddy’s death. He passed away on Thanksgiving Day in 2007. A couple of weeks later, my church held a service of grief and remembrance to honor loved ones we had lost and comfort the families who miss them. As we left the sanctuary that day, our ministers gifted a handmade white cross to remind us of God’s love, presence and peace. I hang that cross on our Christmas tree every year, the second ornament of the season.

The first ornament we hang is a happier reflection. It is the “first gift of Christmas” as depicted in the popular children’s book and movie, The Polar Express. Jeff and I watched it in theaters when it released in 2004. Before our date, I passed a Hallmark store at Madison Square Mall in Huntsville, Alabama and saw atop a display table the red and white striped box holding the shiny, silver bell. On a whim, I purchased the bell. I paid $12.95 +tax.

The price turned out to be a steal. The movie was such a hit that the bell sold out in stores. As parents scrambled to find a bell for their kids, the cost soared on eBay as high as $150. Jeff told me to sell it – and he wasn’t kidding! But I didn’t sell it and every year I feign insult as we recount the story while decorating our tree. Before I even pulled the bell from its striped box this year, Abby Kate started to recite the memory and we teased Jeff (again!) for trying to trade our beautiful bell for a quick buck.

Over the years our family has added dozens of ornaments alongside the bell and the cross: a snowman family of four with each of our names hand-painted, a colorful ball illustrated with camels that Jeff purchased in Qatar the year he was deployed, even a bright yellow ceramic disc bearing the image of a beaver which I picked up during our opening day trip to the Buc-ee’s gas station near our home.

“As our family grows, so does our tree,” my daddy said.

And so do our stories. We unpack them every year along with our ornaments. I hope my life, for my daughters’ sake, is a reflection of our Christmas tree, filled with tender stories about people I love and quirky moments that bring warmth and laughter. Stories of “Remember the time we…?” worthy to share through generations.

Christmas illuminates the best parts of us: an altruistic spirit of giving, a renewed and confident faith, a heartfelt longing for family. As you celebrate the last moments of Christmas 2022, even as you pack away decorations, I hope you will invite moments of reflection. Look to the cross. Listen for the bells. Linger at the Nativity in January and in June. The wonder of our Savior should not be confined to one day in December. He is present with us every day.

“For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace”

(Isaiah 9:6).

What stories do your Christmas traditions tell?
What does the rhythm of your life say about you?
How can you preserve special memories not just for the holiday but every day?

Did you see the picture last week of the young coal miner at a college basketball game with his son? His face was masked in coal dust and he was still wearing his work clothes. Famed Kentucky basketball coach John Calipari shared the photo with a touching note about his family ties to coal mining, and the story quickly spread across the internet.

I felt an immediate affection for this miner. He reminded me of my daddy. My daddy was also a coal miner, and once showed up to my brother’s high school baseball game covered in coal dust. He sat quietly alone on the bleachers, a focused attention on his face as he watched the team play. I can’t recall much about that day but I remember daddy was there even though he was dirty.

Daddy was always showing up for my brothers and me (though usually he had time to shower and change clothes.) He rarely missed a ballgame or a band performance, even when 6 day work weeks were his usual.

The months between my freshman and sophomore years of college in 1996 I served as a summer missionary to Harrodsburg, Kentucky. My missions partner Tina and I led Vacation Bible School classes and Backyard Bible Clubs at a different church each week. None of the churches had VBS or BYBC scheduled the week of July 4^th so Tina and I were off duty those days. Tina’s family made plans to visit her so I asked daddy if he and mom could come to see me. I was disappointed when daddy said he couldn’t take time away from work. I began to pray that God would make a way. 

A few days later I got the news I hoped to hear… sort of.  Daddy had broken his ankle while working in the coal mines. It was his left ankle. Which meant he could still drive with his right foot. And drive he did – 6 hours and nearly 400 miles – to show up for me.

My daddy and the coal miner from Kentucky have inspired me to think about the ways I show up for my children. It can be complicated for my teenager who mostly likes to be alone. Abby Kate, who is 13-years-old, got some disappointing news a couple of weeks ago that caused her to break into tears. I sat on the bed beside her as she sobbed, “I just want to be alone!”

“OK,” I answered, still sitting. “I’ll only stay a minute.”

I stayed (and I stayed quiet) and between her choked cries she began to confide why this particular letdown mattered so much to her. After 10 minutes she said, “I’m better now and I’m ready to be by myself.”

Sitting down was showing up.

I’m fortunate to have a job that allows me to drive my kids to school and pick them up in the afternoon. I’ve noticed something as the students file out of the 6^th grade hallway towards the car line loading zone. They have to turn right to get where they’re supposed to be picked up, but inevitably the kids walk out of the building and they look to the left. They’re looking for us, moms, because they care if we show up.

Car line is showing up.
Washing laundry is showing up.
Saying “I love you” is showing up.

The little boy in Kentucky probably doesn’t realize the way his daddy showed up for him at the Kentucky scrimmage game. He may not know the hard work and danger his dad shoulders while working underground. I didn’t understand my daddy’s sacrifice when I was young but I do now. Maybe because I no longer have my daddy (he died in 2007) or maybe because I have two daughters of my own.

Our sacrifices are significant no matter who sees them. The love and care we demonstrate to our kids doesn’t have to be caught on camera and shared with the world because we aren’t showing up for the world. We’re showing up for our children, whether it’s sitting courtside at a basketball game covered in coal dust or around the kitchen table eating dinner clean and comfortable.

One of the letters my daddy mailed to me while I was serving in Kentucky – what I call a Postmarked Prayer – reads:

            “A child will remember the love you give them more than anything else. Keep loving them.”

Daddy was talking to me about the boys and girls I was meeting on mission. He may never have considered the impact those words would have on the way I want to raise his granddaughters.

I don’t always get it right. I’m impatient with their moods and messes and sometimes my irritation speaks louder than my love. But each day is a new day to show up for them, and I hope that’s the mom they will remember.

“Don’t you see that children are God’s best gift? The fruit of the womb his generous legacy?”

(Psalm 137: 3)
The Message

Did you know there’s a national competition for people who shell purple hull peas? I didn’t until our pastor shared a picture of the championship contestants as part of a Sunday morning sermon. At his mention of purple hull peas, my daughters looked at me with their eyes and mouths open in surprise, the way kids do when the preacher is talking about something they know. They have shelled purple hull peas.

I would venture that almost anyone who’s grown up in the south has shelled peas and snapped beans with their mother or grandmother.  My mom spent hours during the summer months, snapping and rinsing, scooping and canning: purple hull and black-eyed peas, pole and green and lima beans. Squash and okra she washed, cut, and stored in the freezer. It was enough work that she planned her summer vacation around it.

The volume of my mom’s work may seem contrary to the idea our pastor presented around purple hull peas as an example of slow living. Peas were almost always shelled on the front porch, and front porch sitting was about as slow as you could get when I was a girl. There was no email to answer or texts to check. If the phone rang it was for relaxed conversation. Often, passersby would see us rocking in chairs on the porch and park their car on the side of the road to talk.

Times have changed, haven’t they?

Instead of the front porch, my family gathered around the kitchen table one afternoon so Jeff and I could teach our girls how to shell purple hull peas. We didn’t buy a bushel as my parents did, just a small basket from our local farmer’s market. The girls talked and giggled as they shelled and inspected each pea; they were particularly fascinated with the tiny ones.

“No pea is too small to be in the world,” AK said as she saw Lily remove a pea she had placed in the communal “keep” bowl.

“No! It was brown,” Lily explained as she moved the bruised pea to the stack of hulls to compost.

Sorting the good peas from the inedible is the practical lesson in shelling peas but we can learn other things through this labor: the value of working with our hands, stewardship when we have an abundance and, as Abby Kate recognized, that small things matter. We can also take a cue from my pastor and see permission to slow down and seek simple. Shelling peas may not become a regular example for us but we can relax our pace through other activities. In our house, slow and simple looks like laying down with Lily at bedtime to share a chapter in her book. It’s a weekend movie night when Abby Kate pulls a blanket over her legs and lays her head on my shoulder. It’s laughing together at the dinner table as we indulge homemade cheeseburgers.  

The same table where the girls shelled peas in the summer is now home base for homework. Abby Kate and Lily hunch over computers and calculators, completing middle school math and science assignments. I watch them work and realize their childhood is fading a little faster than I’d like, sort of like the sunsets do when autumn begins to arrive.

When I feel a shift in seasons, whether on the calendar or in my kids, my faith directs me to Ecclesiastes and the Bible’s guidance that there is a time for everything:

“There is a time for everything,
            and a season for every activity under the heavens:
a time to be born and a time to die,
             a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
             a time to tear down and a time to build,
     a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
    a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
     a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
     a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
   a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.”

Ecclesiastes 3: 1-8

I have known the delight of giving birth to my daughters and carried the grief of burying my daddy. I have spent time in friendship and walked away when that time was up. I have generously spread joy and selfishly held it tight. I weep and laugh, search and give up, keep and throw away almost every day it seems.

My daddy wrote in a card to me many years ago “May God keep you in His providential care.” What a gift to know He has and He will!  Whatever the circumstance I can say with confidence that God is near to me, and He is near to you, too. From purple hulls to pumpkin spice, through toddlers and teenagers, He is a constant presence along the winding path and the same God through all of our seasons.