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The first two weeks of Coronavirus quarantine did not drastically disrupt the natural rhythm of our family. I can’t articulate why except to say we are home almost always anyway.

We have never engaged our daughters in social activities outside of church or school.  There’s a reason, and one day I will tell that story, but it’s not relevant for this writing. 

To compensate, our home and the kids’ contributions to it are fairly relaxed. Our playroom looks like the North Pole exploded.  Bedtime is “ish” on the weekends. We eat pizza and chicken nuggets and macaroni and cheese, well, a lot.

I want home to be fun.

I make movie nights extra-special with a smorgasbord of snacks: air-popped popcorn, M&Ms and cotton candy.  I decorate the house to reflect a movie title or theme. Friends have commented on my social media pictures, and I joke that if I’m going to hold the girls hostage at home I had better keep them happy.

As I tucked my oldest, Abby Kate, into bed one night this week I told her we would drive to Birmingham soon to see my mom. She loves Bidee’s house (cable TV!) so I was surprised when her finger drew a pretend tear down her face and she said “But I don’t want to leave our precious house.”

She is clearly social distancing just fine.

Bidee’s house, the home where I grew up, was fairly relaxed, too. My brothers and I had to make our beds and keep reasonably clean rooms. But outside of summer, we didn’t have regular chores.

We weren’t rich (coal miner’s daughter, remember?) but Christmas and birthdays brought pretty good presents. Our screen time was Super Mario Brothers on the original Nintendo game system. The 7-foot-long G.I. Joe U.S.S. Flagg aircraft carrier took up half of our playroom and, before tomboy completely took hold, I had a substantial Strawberry Shortcake collection. (I was never a Barbie girl in the Barbie world.)

Home was fun.

We learned today growing Coronavirus concerns will keep schools closed. We will be home a lot longer. I don’t know what to do except to keep creating fun.

And if or when the natural rhythm of our family is finally disrupted, I will remind myself that this world is not my home.

“For this world is not our permanent home; we are looking forward to a home yet to come. Therefore let us offer through Jesus a continual sacrifice of praise to God, proclaiming our allegiance to His name. And don’t forget to do good and share with those in need. These are the sacrifices that please God.”

(Hebrews 13: 14-16)

My daddy spent most of his adult life covered in black coal dust.
Yes, I am a coal miner’s daughter.

Daddy worked 29 years in coal mines owned by U.S. Steel.  Six days a week he would rise before the sun, my mom waking with him.  As he stepped into his Liberty overalls and steel-toed boots, mom cooked him breakfast; bacon, fried eggs and toast or biscuits and gravy. He kissed her good-bye at the backdoor, loaded into his pick-up truck and drove to Oak Grove, Alabama where he spent his day in the damp, dark underground.

When he returned in the late afternoon, he was coated head-to-toe in coal dust.  He would leave his lunchbox and Coleman water jug on the deck, hang his keys on the first hook mounted to our kitchen wall, and walk to his bathroom to shower. We called it his bathroom because none of us, my mom, brothers or I, used it much; maybe because it was tiny, and maybe because we didn’t want to wear coal dust, too.

For all those years working in the mines my daddy’s legacy to me is not measured in coal dust.  Rather, it’s written in pink ink on page five of my baby book. 

He scribed these pastel-laden words in 1977: 

Every family in the world,
Needs at least one girl.
Our girl, we will love truly,
Her name will be Julie.

A second set of pastel letters also exhibits my daddy’s affection for me. I unpack it every spring with the rest of my Easter décor.  My name is crafted in hand painted wooden letters – light pink, blue, yellow and green – bookended by a bunny and a butterfly, and mounted on a 12 inch by 2 inch kelly green board.

Daddy noticed that nameplate at a souvenir shop in Stone Mountain, Georgia where we vacationed almost every summer. I was probably 10-years-old. 

“Julie” was on display for a create-your-own souvenir cart that allowed customers to spell any word they wanted.   Daddy asked if he could buy the already-assembled make of my name and they let him. 

The color scheme completely clashed with the bright red, blue and yellow hearts that decorated my bedroom. Matching didn’t matter. It was my name, and in an era of personalized pencils, bicycle plates, and other paraphernalia I was happy to have it.

The poem and plaque daddy gifted to me, though cherished, are not the proudest presence of my name.  That honor belongs to my original last name.

Daddy’s last name. Echols. 

Echols represents my roots. It links me to the legacy my daddy left for me, and one I hope to pass along to my daughters.

I created this blog as a baby step towards a larger and longer journey God is leading me on.  At the advice of an author, I sought to set up a website with my first and last name. Juliereyburn.com was unavailable, and rightfully so because I am not Julie Reyburn.

I am Julie Echols Reyburn. 

My roots run deep into the coal mines. They also carry me to Jesus’ cross. 

Because of my daddy, I am rooted and established in love. As I am inspired by his legacy of faith, my desire is to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ.

And I’ll pass that to my daughters, too.

“And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power together with all the saints, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge – that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullnesss of God. Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work with us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen.

(Ephesians 3:17-21)