Julie Echols Reyburn

I was searching Tuesday night.

Searching through my cell phone.
Searching through scripture.
Searching through a neon notebook dated 1992.

I sat at our kitchen table, searching for God to inspire words.

And He did.

On the side of a Chick-Fil-A cup, no less.

The cup invited me to “Sit and sip awhile.”

I smiled and decided to snap a picture (because that’s what we do, right?)

Through the lens, I saw what I was searching for.

The cross.

I drank it in.

The truth is, I don’t sit well. 

I sit and scroll.
I sit and read.
I sit and watch.

With a Chick-Fil-A cup, I sit and sip.

It’s hard to only sit.

I scarcely indulged a few quiet moments with my cup and the cross, then returned to that 1992 neon notebook.

My daddy’s familiar handwriting fills the light blue lines. You know what he wrote?

Sit.

OK, not exactly. (But wouldn’t that have been cool?!)

His actual words are “God will only prepare you if you let Him.”

Sometimes that means we must sit.

Like me, daddy was searching when he wrote those words and these:

“I knew that there were things that God wanted me to do but I was not prepared to do them. So to make a long story short I started study the Book of Philippians and got my answer to the prayer I prayed. The answer came in Chap. 3:10.”

“My goal is to know Him and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of his sufferings, being conformed to his death.” (Philippians 3:10)

Daddy was reminded, and through a neon notebook reminded me, that to know what God wants us to do, we must know God.

And how do we know God?

We sit.

We sit and study.
We sit and pray.
We sit and listen.

We sit and sip.

Many blue lines later in his notes, daddy penciled something else to ponder:

What are we willing to give up that we can go further in the knowledge of Jesus?

I can search through my cell phone.
I can search through scripture.
I can search through a neon notebook dated 1992.

But I won’t find the answer until I take time to sit.

Maybe with a cup. Always with the cross.

“My goal is to know Him and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of his sufferings, being conformed to his death.”

(Philippians 3:10)

I feel grossly unqualified to identify as a military wife, especially today.

Jeff has served most of his duty safely stateside. Even when he was overseas, I accepted it was only for 10 months. Temporary. Not a career combat commitment.

I do not know the heartbreak this day brings to families whose loved ones died in service to America.

Jeff came home.

So, someone else is writing for me today.

My daughter Abby Kate beautifully expresses the meaning of Memorial Day in an essay she wrote for school last year. Her words earned her the experience of laying the wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier during her 5th grade field trip in October 2019.

Abby Kate writes:

I would be honored to participate in the tomb of the unknown solder wreath laying ceremony. I am part of a military family. Also, I love history.

My daddy is in Afghanistan serving our country and protecting it. He is in the Navy Reserves. I am sad he is gone, and hope he comes home safely and in one piece. Some soldiers get killed and don’t get to come home. Their families are sad and upset. This ceremony is a way for us to pay our respects.

• 

• 

I have liked learning about history since I was a little kid. History helps us understand our world. I have a lot of books about Washington, D.C. Seeing the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier and getting to help with a wreath would make me feel like I am part of history.

My grandfather was also in the military. He was a marine. He died in 2007 before I was born. He loved America. I will feel like my poppa is still here when I stand by the tomb.

I am excited about our trip to Washington, D.C. It will be special to see places I have pictures of and read about. I will have fun learning more about our country.

After Arlington, we visited the Smithsonian Museums and that is where I took the picture shown above. It still brings tears to my eyes.

We owe a great debt to the men and women who did not make it out of uniform.

And that is what this day is all about.

“David said about him: “I saw the Lord always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken. Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices; my body also will live in hope, because you will not abandon me to the grave…”

(Acts 2:25-27)

An app called Wordscapes is a source of fun for our family.

The game is a high-tech crossword but instead of clues, you get a circle of letters to sort into the squares.

Lily and Jeff have played it for more than a year. It connected them during his deployment to Afghanistan. She liked to compete to see who could work each level most quickly.

Abby Kate likes to play, too. Now, she prefers Jeff to work the puzzle first then she copies his correct answers so she can score maximum points.

Cheater cheater pumpkin eater.

As they score points, they earn stars. When they earn enough stars, the app reveals mystery pictures, most often of animals the girls find adorable.

Lately, both girls only work the daily puzzle with Jeff’s “assistance.”

Strategy is involved. To score premiere points on the daily puzzle, you must fill the squares in sequence.  A butterfly prompts players towards which word to complete next.

As I watched the game, I had a thought: wouldn’t it be nice if a cartoon butterfly also prompted us down our path in life? Directing the steps we should take next?

The idea reminded me of chapter 5 in the book “The Next Right Thing” written by Emily P. Freeman. The chapter is titled “Look for Arrows.”

She writes:

“God often gives a faint vision of things before they ever come to be. It’s not a full form, more of a shadow, not focused or clear. It doesn’t come with steps or money or sure things, but it does come with hope.  And hope is what keeps you going in the fog. Instead of those black-and-white answers we tend to love so much, what if we began to look for arrows instead?

Arrows.

My daddy said to me something similar when I was in college. I had returned from a fulfilling summer as a student missionary in Kentucky and, channeling energy and adrenaline, wondered if I should switch my career pursuit from broadcast journalism to children’s ministry.

Daddy cautioned me.

“Julie doll,” he said. “All you’ve ever talked about is being a journalist. Don’t close that door until God does.”

I graduated Troy State University in 1999. With my degree in Broadcast Journalism.

Daddy was right, though not in the ways you might expect.

I can tell you with confidence, 21 years later, that God never intended journalism to be my career. Broadcast journalism was only an arrow.

The snapshot of its trajectory is this:

My TSU-TV experience connected me in 1999 to a news manager at ABC 33/40 in Birmingham, Alabama who was a Troy State alumnus. Working there, I met a news reporter who tagged me in 2001 to apply for a news producer job at WAFF 48 in Huntsville, Alabama. And working there, I met a news anchor who, operating her own non-profit, hired me to work for her Kids to Love Foundation in 2007.

Oh, and she and her husband introduced me to my husband.

Insert emoji heart.

It turns out the arrow I followed – broadcast journalism – was never pointing me to a profession. It was pointing me to people.

If my daddy hadn’t counseled me against an emotional-and-adrenaline charged career change, I might have missed a life I love and the love of my life.  

Jeff and I have been married for 13 years. We have two delightful daughters whose worst current character flaw is that they are lazy at online word games.

Following an arrow, and my daddy’s advice, put me on target for the life God intended for me.

So, when your life feels like a crossword with scant clues, I encourage you to look for an arrow instead of longing for an answer.

My daddy encouraged me in this letter (two years after that career conversation) postmarked September 15, 1998:

“Pray a lots. Worry over nothing. Be thank(ful) for everything. (Especially me.)

Prayer is a good place to begin. And, when in doubt, maybe ask a dad.

They’re good at answers, both online and in life.

“Thy Word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.”

(Psalm 119:105)

I walk on the fringes of a writing community called hope*writers, participating occasionally in their offerings to hone my writing skills.

They posted a write-something-every-day challenge to Instagram last week, in which participants were to use specific word prompts.

This is what I wrote last Monday for the hope*writers word prompt “rewrite.”

(Originally posted to Instagram on Monday, May 10th.)

Monday.

It’s got a bad rep.

Alarm clocks. Schedules. Responsibilities.

The morning forces us to move from what we want to do (weekends) to what we have to do (work.)

What if Monday was motivation instead of aggravation?

Superficially, we know the value of Monday.

Dieting? I’ll start Monday.
Gym? I’ll go Monday.
Organizing? Creating? Forgiving?

Monday.

My week actually starts fresh on Fridays. I lost 40 pounds in 2017 with WW (formerly Weight Watchers). Friday is the day my points, or the way I track the foods I eat, reset.  There is new resolve with a fresh slate; a new menu of good choices to be made.

It’s a reason to love Fridays, other than the obvious.

But we don’t have to wait until Monday or Friday or any distinct day to start something. To pursue something. To finish something.

Finding a new start feels complicated in this season. We’re sitting on go but unsure when we’re allowed to actually begin.

Why not now?

Don’t let this season of pause overshadow the promise of possibility.

We are the author of our stories. We decide what they will say. And we can rewrite any day.  

Including, maybe even especially, Monday.

“This is the day the Lord has made; we will rejoice and be glad in it.”

(Psalm 118:24)

I found this decorative plate at a little market store in Madison, Alabama where individual vendors sell their crafts and wares through various display booths. The black-on-white words immediately struck my memory.

“Where have I heard this?”

My brain stormed movies and music it had catalogued over my 41 years. It did not take long for James Earl Jones’ booming voice to manifest in my mind as Mufasa, the Lion King.

“Remember who you are,” Mufasa’s spirit-cloud urged his son, Simba, who was struggling to embrace his identity and destiny as the next Lion King.

Devoted Disney fan as I am, I knew I had to have this plate. Or did I? I’m a recovering impulse buyer and have sincerely tried to curb spending on the spur of the moment. Which begs the question: why was I shopping this store to begin with? I digress.

My mom was with me, and in her Mufasa-esque wisdom said, “You’ll regret it if you don’t get it.” The plate was priced $5.00. I’d paid much more for things I liked far less.

I was sold.

The plate’s black-and-white color scheme perfectly complements our kitchen. It is on proud display, but not just because I have a penchant for decorating or a whimsical love of Disney.

I want my daughters to know their Circle of Life.

Mufasa reminds me of my daddy. My big brother Chad and I experienced most often his stern side:

“Zazu, take Nala home. I need to have a chat with my son.”

My baby brother Jeremy shared a more light-hearted bond:

“Because nobody messes with your dad.”

Cue their playful pouncing.

Chad and I weren’t disciplined differently because we got into trouble. Jeremy was more mischievous than Chad and I combined. For us, daddy was simply father first, friend seldom.  That role reversed somehow as Jeremy grew, though Mom will tell you Daddy “knew how to get Jeremy’s attention.”

Like Simba, my brothers and I were denied a relationship with our dad as adults. Our loss was not at the hands of an evil uncle, but the devastating early-onset Alzheimer’s disease.

I look at that plate and, by order of descendants, don’t know who I am. Daddy’s death and complicated family ties make it difficult to trace our Echols family tree. But I can put a finger on the root of my faith, and that seed was definitively planted by my daddy.

Daddy prayed a lot and he prayed long. If he was called on to pray at church, it was a good idea to sit comfortably before he started because the odds were he would take a while. And I can still see him hunched at our kitchen table on Saturday nights, praying and preparing to teach the men’s Bible class in Sunday School the next day.

At daddy’s funeral, the preacher said one of the most hopeful things I have ever heard; that my daddy’s prayers for my brothers and me “are stored in Heaven.”   God spoke to me in that remark and it has stayed with me these 13 years, assuring me that my daddy’s prayers are still interceding.

My daughters may not know much about their ancestors, but their faith roots are easy to find. They are planted in the prayers my daddy uttered for me and, I believe, for the granddaughters he never met.  

Mufasa’s plea to Simba is not unlike my daddy’s prayers.

“Remember who you are…” Mufasa roars as the wind carries away his cloud.  “…Remember…”

Simba followed his dad in that moment and found his belonging. I’m trying to follow my daddy, so that every time my girls glance that black-and white-plate on our kitchen wall, they, too, will remember who they are.

“The effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much.”

(James 5:16)

My relationship with my mom is best captured in a lecture, um, letter from my daddy during my college years.

I have searched my piles of correspondence and cannot find the actual note, but it read something like this:

“Write letters. NO MORE PHONE CALLS.”

Then he detailed what he deemed an outrageous long-distance phone bill.

Oops.

I must have talked to mom a lot.

It seems she and I were often involved in low-key conspiracies against daddy. 

We shopped often on Saturdays. Since I have two brothers, it was usually just mom and me.

Parisian in Five Points West (Birmingham) was one of our favorite places. We would browse and, occasionally, she would buy me a new outfit with instruction to “get the credit card bill from the post office box before your daddy sees it.”

We would hide the clothes in my closet for a couple of weeks. When I finally wore the outfit and daddy asked where it came from, I would reply (with a fledgling degree of honesty) “Oh, I’ve had this.”

Shopping secrets weren’t our only shenanigans, particularly at Parisian.

Once, my mom (and my Aunt Sue) agreed to chaperone a few of us teen-age girls as we camped outside the store overnight to purchase tickets to see the New Kids on the Block in concert. (There was a Ticketmaster outlet in the basement, near gift wrap.)

Anyone familiar with the Five Points West area of Birmingham then knows it was not really a safe place to be after dark.

Policemen patrolled the parking lot where we sat or slept on the sidewalk. One of the officers told us if there was danger, we should bang the storefront windows to activate the store alarm and alert 911.

It’s amazing the things moms will do for their daughters.

My mom did all the things for me and my brothers. She packed lunches, cooked dinners, baked birthday cakes, sewed Halloween costumes (and even some clothes for me).

She does those things for her grandkids now.

There is only one thing I can think of that my mom didn’t do when I was a kid.

She didn’t go with us to church on Sunday nights.

We would return home from service shortly after 7:00pm to find her sitting in the recliner, watching television.

The kitchen was dark, except for a light above the sink. The table and stove had been cleared of Sunday dinner. The dishes were washed. Daddy’s lunchbox was partially packed with his favorite Little Debbie snack cakes.

I learned many years later, through question or conversation, that Sunday night was the one hour a week she kept for herself.

One hour a week.

I began to understand her want for Sunday night seclusion when I became a mom. Quiet moments are hard to come by with two kids. And she had three.

When I called yesterday to ask how her Mother’s Day had been, she replied, “Too quiet.”

The years will eventually give us what we want, I guess.  The trouble is, we may not want it anymore.

Another lesson learned from mom.

Mom always said God created her to be a mother and grandmother. I know that’s true because she’s the best one I know.

I hope I can love my daughters the way she has loved me.

But if mine ever make crazy requests, like camping outside for concert tickets in a sketchy part of town, I’m gonna tell them to call her.

“She watches over the activities of her household and is never idle. Her sons rise up and call her blessed.”

(Proverbs 31: 27-28)

I have written this story 100 times in my head. I’ve never written it out loud.

I’ve barely spoken it.

How God led us to the house we built because He knew we needed Creekside Elementary School.

How Creekside Elementary School established a sensory room in its Special Education department the very year Abby Kate enrolled.

How the sensory room, and the teacher in charge of it, made it possible for Abby Kate to not only finish elementary school but to flourish while she was there.

Abby Kate finished fifth grade on May 1st. The year did not end as I hoped.

She was robbed of a lot of lasts. 

Field Day. Awards Day. An actual last day.

But Abby Kate’s elementary school days didn’t start as I expected either.

Heartbreaking Behavior Charts.
Wearying Parent/Teacher Talks.
Overwhelming IEP Procedures.

I have a picture of her, taken September 6, 2015. She’d been in Kindergarten for a month.

“We’ve had a hard week,” the Facebook caption reads. “Today we twirl in the rain.”

I remember that Friday. I was waiting on the school bus to arrive so we could drive to Birmingham to visit my mom for a three-day weekend. My phone rang and it was Abby Kate’s teacher.   

I recall only one comment from that conversation:

“She doesn’t have to be here, you know,” the teacher said.

She wasn’t mean. She wasn’t rude. There was never a question whether she wanted Abby Kate in her classroom.

I think she was extending solace.

Abby Kate was 5 years old and, with a May birthday, she was a young 5.

She didn’t have to be there.

Except she did. 

Abby Kate met or exceeded academic benchmarks. But she was struggling, inexplicably in my and Jeff’s eyes, with appropriate social behaviors.

I was called to the school a lot.

A lot.

The pivotal phone call, ironically, began with “Abby Kate is fine…”

There’s always a “but.”

Abby Kate had run, entirely by accident, into a wall. She bumped her head and a knot had swollen near her hairline.  The nurse believed she was fine.

But…

I went to the school. Just in case.

Of course, Abby Kate was fine.  So, my talk with the assistant principal turned to the next day’s IEP (Individualized Education Plan) meeting for Abby Kate’s speech articulation.

If I had other questions, Mrs. Adams said, this meeting would be my opportunity.

Seven of us crowded into a tiny room the next day to discuss Abby Kate’s speech needs.

At the end of the meeting, when asked if I had questions, I could barely choke out the words.

“Something’s not right…” I trailed off.

I was crying. Her teacher was crying.

Our tears did not fall on deaf ears.

When the observations and evaluations were finally (finally!) complete (it took months!) we gathered in a slightly larger room to set a plan in place.

I will never, ever forget Mrs. Adams’ words.

“She’s going to be fine,” she said.

I believed her with my whole heart.

And she was right.

Abby Kate’s Kindergarten start is summed up in an envelope, filled with 5×7 behavior charts. There’s a lot of red on those charts.

A lot.

Her 5^th grade finish is full of accolades: A/B Honor Roll, Jr. Beta Club, Superhero Award, Creekside Chief Leader, Scholars Bowl, Drama Club.

She’s worked hard. And she’s earned every one.

Abby Kate will carry her IEP into middle school. She will carry Creekside through life.

I owe a great debt to the teachers, administrators and aides who have instructed, advocated and, above all, loved her well.

There is a Bible verse I pray for Abby Kate. It is a familiar scripture. I hold onto it tight because I believe it to be true for her in ways I don’t yet know.

“I praise you because I have been remarkably and wonderfully made… all my days were written in Your book and planned before a single one of them began.” (Psalm 139: 14, 16)

Not a single step in Abby Kate’s journey has caught our God off guard. He delights in the details of our lives. If we look closely, we can see Him connecting dots to direct our steps.

Abby Kate has a lot of life in her, and a lot of life ahead of her. 

Her story is still to be written, but not by me.

Abby Kate is the one who will write it. And I have no doubt she will write it out loud.

(Psalm 139. All of it.)

I don’t know if I have hope or denial.

I’m a bright side, silver lining, glass half-full personality. Optimism almost always tints a rose-colored outlook.

It’s probably annoying.

My natural cheer usually channels hope, but in these uncertain times, when information I don’t want may very well be imminent, I could just as comfortably duck into denial.

But so far, so good. Or at least so good enough.

I work for a non-profit organization that is considered an essential service. Kids to Love meets the needs of foster children. While most of our tasks have been accomplished through the internet, we gather at the office on Thursdays to pass food boxes to local foster families. I’ve enjoyed the on-site camaraderie with my co-workers.

When I leave work on those days, I make a one-stop grocery shop before I return home.

Work. Shopping. Home.

It feels normal, minus the masks.

My husband and kids are my truest tribe, and I find immense contentment sheltered in place with them. Texts, phone calls and six-feet apart sidewalk chats have sustained my (shrinking) extroverted streak.

We socially distanced around a firepit last Friday night to share S’mores with friends. When the girls climbed into the car to leave our house, Lily said “We haven’t been in here in forever!” I guess when you’re 8 years old, 4 weeks feels like forever.

So, for the first time in forever, we opened up the gates, or at least the garage door. The girls may as well have been riding a magic carpet, experiencing a whole new world.  (I told you. Devotion to Disney runs deep.)

As a mom, I’m only as happy as my unhappiest kid. Thankfully, I have pretty happy kids. Friday night, seeing friends in person instead of on a screen, they were ecstatic.

Their enthusiasm poured into the weekend.

Abby Kate cranked Carrie Underwood music and danced through the living room Saturday morning, wearing her Bluetooth headphones and belting out “I am invincible, unbreakable…”  

And, for the most part, she has been. She is blissfully unaware (as she should be) that her world could collapse with one news conference.

She’s counting on Governor Kay Ivey to make things right this Thursday.  I’m tiptoeing around reality, setting expectations that Alabama may not open for business, and even if it does it won’t be in the ways Abby Kate wants.

One summer camp was cancelled last week. The second one is still to be decided. And the idea that school could scrub next year is enough to park a dark cloud even over my sunny self.

I don’t know if I have hope or denial.

The word “hope” came to me in an unexpected way earlier this month. My artist friend Misty mailed me a lovely, handmade postcard. “Hope” is inked on the front. Her note on the back offered it as art for my fridge.

But hope, especially this version, belongs in a frame.

I believe “hope” has become one of the most wasted words in our language.

“I hope it doesn’t rain today.”
“I hope (insert favorite team here) wins the game.”
“I hope the WiFi is working.”

Those expressions don’t convey the kind of depth and endurance the word deserves. The kind of hope I’m clinging to right now.

I have loved this definition of hope ever since I read it 2 years ago. It is from the book “5 Habits of a Woman Who Doesn’t Quit” written by Nicki Koziarz.

            “Hope is not a wish; it’s a holy confidence that faith will give us the strength to push through every hard and trying circumstance.”

Genuine hope, that holy confidence, commands reverence. That’s why it is so closely connected to our faith.

They work together.

The children’s choir at our church, before the Coronavirus struck, was practicing their spring musical: O Chicken of Little Faith.

It has been weeks since they’ve rehearsed. Still, the lyrics have lingered. At dinner last week, Lily began to sing:

           “Now faith is confidence in what we hope for-
            And faith is assurance about what we don’t see.
            You see we trust that what’s before us our God knows.
            And in ev’rything we trust our God is in control.”

Perhaps a performance was not the purpose of their practices. Perhaps the play was preparing them for this season they are living.

I don’t know if I have hope or denial.

I can’t imagine a world without entertainment, relationship and connection in our usual ways.

Denial.

But I’m confident that whatever life looks like on the flip side of the Coronavirus, we will be OK.

And that gives me hope.

“Let us hold unwavering to the hope we profess, for He who promised is faithful.”

(Hebrews 10:23)