Julie Echols Reyburn

I love to read.

Words come easy for me. Sometimes writing them. Always reading them.

I started young.

My Granny Carlisle held school for me and my cousins before we were old enough for Kindergarten. I can recall, but just barely, sitting around her kitchen table completing workbooks. One day when I was 4 years old my mom arrived to take me home, and Granny told her I was reading.

“She’s not reading,” Mom said. “She has that memorized.”

“She is reading,” Granny insisted.

I was, as Bernard Malamud might say, a “Natural.”

My proficiency for words grew as I did. When I was in the first grade (Mrs. Bellamy’s class), I joined a third-grade room (Mrs. Gaston’s class) for reading.

Saturdays and summer days included trips to the Wylam Public Library. I sat on a stool or in the floor and ran my fingers along the spines of books arranged meticulously and alphabetically by author, carefully choosing which stories I wanted to take home.

I borrowed every Bobbsey Twins book on the shelves. Other favorites included anything by Judy Blume (Freckle Juice!) or Beverly Cleary. I checked out the stories of Ramona and Beezus regularly. I had my own copy of Runaway Ralph.

My personal library also included Sweet Valley Twins and The Babysitters Club series. Those paperbacks still take up a shelf on a bookcase at my childhood home.

I was a ravenous reader in high school, carrying a book for pleasure on top of my textbooks. (The Natural by Bernard Malamud was one. Naturally.) I would bury my head in the pages until the teacher began class.

My guilty pleasure growing up was to tuck a book under my pillow at bedtime. As soon as mom and daddy went to bed (directly across the hallway from my room) I retrieved it and read into the night. If I heard one of them stir, I would slip the book back into its hiding place and pretend to be asleep.

The lamp in my room, a bright red decoration shaped to look like a pencil, stayed on all night even throughout my teenage years. I was never afraid of the dark. I just wanted to read.

I still do.

The bottom drawer of my nightstand is filled with books. I do not have to hide them under my pillow anymore or covertly read by nightlight.

Lately, my reading has felt like a retreat to my childhood. The stories I have read most recently are written for elementary readers, as I share my favorite pastime with my daughters.

Abby Kate and I are working her way through Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

Lily devoured the Harry Potter books in 2^nd grade and is now sampling new series. She and I have sailed with Peter and the Starcatchers (we are continuing this adventure into book two) and slipped into Ballet Shoes with Pauline, Petrova and Posy Fossil.

Ballet Shoes is my inspiration for this writing.

In the book, the Fossil girls are discovering their talents, or in Petrova’s case, lack thereof, on the stage. To acquire paid roles so they can help support their household, Pauline and Petrova plot to write a letter asking to be hired for a production of Shakespeare’s Richard the Third.

Time is scarce between their academic and extra-curricular lessons but recognizing a critical need for money, the girls determine to deliver their written request.

Author Noel Streatfeild writes:

“The letter which they finally took to the theater next day was the result of snatched minutes.”

Snatched minutes.

The words stung as I read them.

They are, unfortunately, my story.

Meetings. Laundry. Phone calls. Meals. Appointments. Errands. They add up to a never-ending story. I never liked that movie. Perhaps I should read the book.

Snatched minutes are how the Fossil girls produced a letter. They are how I produce life, or at least a semblance of it. But snatched minutes leave me tired, frustrated, and unfulfilled.

That is not the life God planned for me. Or for you.

Jesus assures us that He came so that we “may have life and have it in abundance.”

Google returned nearly 23,000,000 results related to that Bible verse. So, I went to a different source.

My daddy hinted at the key to an abundant life in a letter he wrote to me, postmarked November 3,1998:

            “Hope that you are using all of your potential in your seeking to achieve your goals. Usually what is left behind or not use does nobody any good. So be happy – enjoy everyday – be satisfied with what progress you have made and prepare yourself for what tomorrow may bring.”

He wrote similar words in a separate, undated letter:

            “You have a talent that can put you in places to Glorify God and give you Peace in your life if you would just apply yourself to the challenges that are before you. When in doubt, PRAY, and then wait on God to lead you.”

I found those two letters two years ago. I set them aside from the others he wrote, believing one day his words would help me step into the potential he was talking about.

I have struggled to manage my snatched minutes. They are inevitable, at least for now, to get things done in between the necessary and frivolous demands of two kids.

But the pursuit of my potential, even into snatched minutes late at night, does not leave me frustrated or unfulfilled. I’m still tired, but I’m satisfied.

I believe God put my daddy’s words in front of me again this week to give me renewed perspective.

An abundant life is not about what I have. It is about who I am becoming, and I am called to become like Christ.

I am not a “Natural” at that. But studying daddy’s letters and Jesus’ words are getting me in the game.

It’s a good thing I love to read.

“… I have come so they may have life and have it in abundance.”

(John 10:10)

Easter is an emotional holiday for me.  It is the holiday that I miss my daddy most, and oddly so because his life is quite closely woven into other celebrations.   

Daddy was born on Christmas Day and passed away on Thanksgiving Day. Factor in Father’s Day just because and it seems odd that Easter would supersede those three.

But it does.

I grew up unwrapping candy-filled, cellophane-covered baskets left by The Bunny on our fireplace hearth. I wore a new dress and white shoes to church, though often mine were Keds tennis shoes because I outgrew fancy and frills fast.

My brothers and I posed for pictures beneath a wooden plaque that advertised “The Echols Family
Dennis, Nancy, Chad, Julie & Jeremy.”

If the weather was nice, we would walk the two blocks to Easter Sunday service.

Other than service on Sunday (Daddy also attended the sunrise one) my family then didn’t observe any Easter season faith rituals. I encountered Ash Wednesday, Maundy Thursday and Good Friday observances as a young adult.

My family now – Jeff, Abby Kate, Lily and I – embrace those traditions at our church, Trinity Baptist Church in Madison, Alabama. Our ministers are intentional about honoring, and reverently so, Jesus’ last week and His journey to the cross.

The most meaningful worship opportunity for me has become the Good Friday service. It is called “Tenebrae,” which comes from the Latin for “darkness.” I have heard it called the “Service of Shadows.”

This week, my daughter Lily asked if we would “go to the one where they turn out the lights.” It hurt my heart to say “No.”

Another consequence of the Coronavirus.

I almost didn’t take the girls to Tenebrae last year.  Fridays, while Jeff was deployed, were my night off. I pajamaed up once the girls walked off the school bus in the afternoon. Dinner was drive-thru or frozen pizza.  Screen time was excessive.

It would have been easy, even preferable, to stay home that night. But the spirit of the service – arrive quiet and depart in silence – mirrored my mood so we went.

The girls spotted friends as soon as we arrived and asked to sit close. That put us very near the front pew, an uncomfortable place for a Baptist to be.  (I joke. Sort of.)

I settled in.

The order of service listed “An Offering of Prayer.”  Our pastor’s wife, Mary, reads every year the names of people listed on our church prayer sheet.

I had forgotten that part.

As Mary began to read, my heart crept into my throat. I was not emotionally prepared for this.

“Jeff Reyburn.”

Her voice cracked as she choked back tears.

My tears fell fast and heavy. I may as well have been standing beneath the cross.  I guess I sort of was.

Lily patted my shoulder, whispering “It’s OK, Mommy.”

I received the sweetest text from Mary later that night, apologizing for making me sad. She didn’t know that her emotion was exactly what I needed.

I returned her text:

            “Oh, it touched my heart! It has been a bit of a lonely afternoon and your emotion reminded me I am not alone. I prayed this afternoon for a touch of encouragement, and you were it. I am so thankful our girls can see and hear how our church is caring for us.”

I am crying again tonight as I reflect.

The paper program outlining the order of Tenebrae service lay on the corner of my desk for the duration of Jeff’s deployment. I just recently tucked it into my nightstand. I will keep it always, as a reminder that I am not alone. 

My daddy is not with me anymore. But Jesus is with me. Tenebrae, and Mary, are a promise of that.

God sends people we can hear and hug, talk to and text, cry with and connect, to remind us we are never alone.

May it always be so.

“It was now about noon, and darkness came over the whole land until three, because the sun’s light failed. The curtain of the sanctuary was split down the middle. And Jesus called out with a loud voice, “Father, into Your hands I entrust my spirit.” Saying this, He breathed His last.”

(Luke 23:44-46)

My first memory of music in our home is a stack of 8-tracks on a shelf in the closet. A player, complete with AM/FM dial, sat on top of the chest of drawers in my parents’ bedroom. The numbers lit up orange when we turned the silver knob to tune in a radio station.

I can’t say that I remember listening to many 8-track cartridges. I do, however, recall the songs from country music cassette tapes in the glove compartment of our car. We would listen to the Oak Ridge Boys (El-Vi-Ra!) and Alabama on summer road trips, usually on our way to Stone Mountain Georgia or an Atlanta Braves baseball game.

The lyrics to Alabama’s “Roll On (Eighteen Wheeler)” were curious to me as a 7-year-old cruising in the backseat. “The man upstairs was listening” was a scene I pictured literally. I don’t know when I realized the truth of that line was God answering the wife’s prayer.  

My memories of “Roll On” surfaced during my husband Jeff’s deployment to Afghanistan. He had returned overseas after two weeks at home in October for rest and recuperation.

In many ways, October was the home stretch. The hardest days were behind us: missed birthdays, “first” days and holidays. Jeff was due home in time for Christmas. 

Two more months.

I was weary.

It was exhausting to be mom, ready on a moment’s notice to comfort and calm two girls who desperately missed their daddy. There were times during Jeff’s duty I would have traded my grown-up life to be a little girl again, listening to country music in the backseat of mom and daddy’s car.

But here I was in the front seat, steering our daughters through car line and life. 

On a whim one morning I played “Roll On” through an app on my phone. As we listened, I realized the parallel we were living with the song, except our worry was a desert in Afghanistan instead of a snowbank in Illinois.

So, “Roll on” became my catch phrase for the last two months of our separation. I sang these words to push myself through the hard moments.

“Roll on highway, roll on along.
 Roll on daddy ‘til you get back home.
Roll on family, roll on crew.
Roll on momma like I asked you to do…”

I believe “the man upstairs was listening” as I and our circle prayed Jeff safely home.  And I believe He’s listening to us now as we wonder and worry “What’s next?”

Jeff & I have tickets to see Alabama in concert this summer.   If the Coronavirus clears and we actually get to go, I’ll be the fan crying when they crank up the song “Roll On (Eighteen Wheeler).”

For more reasons than one.

“Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God.”

(Philippians 4:6)

The playground was empty when I parked.  In truth, it hadn’t been full for thirty years.

The sign is faded. The concrete cracked. The paint peeling.

I grew up at this park. If I close my eyes, I can smell the corndogs cooking in the concession stand. I can taste the tang of Fun Dip on my tongue and feel the cheap plastic of the Ring Pop pinching my skin. It never did fit my ring finger.

I fell asleep on summer Saturday nights to the “ping” of metal bats striking softballs. Crowds clapping or booing from the bleachers.  Kids squealing on the monkey bars or the merry-go-round.

The merry-go-round.

We would lay on our backs, my hair dragging in the dirt, and watch the sky as it whirled at what seemed warp speed.  We would run in circles, faster and faster, then jump on as the merry-go-round spun.  When the warp speed spinning was too much – “I want to get off!” someone would scream – we would dig our heels in the dirt, grip the painted-black metal bar and pull our shoulders practically out of socket to make it stop.

I immersed myself in those memories Saturday as I stood alone at Bayview Park. I took pictures to preserve a piece of my past. I did not consider in the moment that it’s a metaphor for my now.

Restricted routines feel like a slow-motion merry-go-round today.  Despite the pace, our minds spin at warp speed.

“I want to get off!” we scream. But we tighten our grip and hold on.

Even before the Coronavirus infected our communities, we braced ourselves against hard things: politics, relationships, or money.

The hard changes. God’s Word does not.

I have carried another piece of my past in my Bible for nearly two years. It’s a Sunday School lesson, or maybe a sermon, written by my daddy. He was studying the Lord’s Prayer.

Daddy writes: (referencing ‘Give us this day our daily bread’)

• v. 11 –   This shows our dependency on God.
• This day – shows us that we need to constantly renew our desire toward Him every day.
• We can’t count on what we had yesterday to get us through today.
• It is hard for a body to go a day without the essentials, things to nourish it, and so is the same with our soul and spirit.

I would add to my daddy’s wisdom that we can’t waste our bread today worrying about whether we will have any for tomorrow.

These hard days will soon, though maybe not soon enough, become a piece of our past. A snapshot. A story.

What will we have to show?  To say?

I haven’t played at Bayview Park in 30 years. When this season of social distancing ends, maybe I will. Maybe I’ll pull my brothers onto that merry-go-round with me, and we’ll ride at warp speed, and watch the world whirl by.

“This, then, is how you should pray:
Our Father in Heaven,
hallowed be your name,
Your kingdom come,
Your will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us today our daily bread.
And forgive us our debts
as we also have forgiven our debtors.
And lead us not into temptation
but deliver us from evil.
For yours is the kingdom
and the power
and the glory forever.
Amen.

(Matthew 6: 9-13)

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)