Wallflowers

Ever been to a dance? 

Have you ever endured that sweet agony in the weeks ahead of hoping and praying that special boy would take notice of you and ask you to go to prom with him?

Or homecoming?

I was fortunate.  I had those experiences when I was a schoolgirl.  Unfortunately, I was so down on myself that I never was able to let go and have fun.

I couldn't really believe that the boy was just interested in taking me out and having a fun time.

I couldn't really believe that I was pretty enough or interesting enough for that kind of attention.

Isn't it terrible what we as girls miss out on because we cannot get out of our own heads?

Sometimes at my church we sing a song that was written by a guy named Paul Wilbur.  It's called "Dance With Me" and the whole song is taken directly out of the Song of Solomon.  I love that song.

This past Sunday we were using it as part of our worship time and I heard the Lord speak to me and remind me of those awkward times when I was a girl.  He showed me that sometimes, I still think of myself as having two left feet, or being too fat, or too old, or whatever excuse I can think of to put up walls between He and me.

Still.

After all these years and all the grace He has shown me, I still look at myself as not good enough.  And you know what?  I'm NOT good enough.  Which should be a freeing thought.

He doesn't love me because I'm pretty.

He doesn't sing over me because I'm sexy.

He doesn't rescue me because I'm thin.

He doesn't save me every day because I'm young.

He doesn't redeem me because I'm a good person.

He. Does. Not. Need. Me.

I have absolutely nothing to offer in this relationship, and yet...here we are.  He has exchanged my ashes for His beauty.  He has given me His strength in exchange for handing Him my fear.  He has granted me gladness for all of my mourning, and He has kept every tear I have ever shed.

So in light of this...what is stopping me?  Nothing that I am has stopped Him or caused Him to back up and say,"Whoa...hold on there sister...let's rethink this thing."

Let me repeat that for you.  Nothing that I am, or have been, or will be, has stopped Jesus from loving me.

Y'all. 

What a Saviour. 

Ladies...let me encourage you...I don't have this thing all figured out.  It's mind boggling to me as to why the Creator of the universe would ever bother with me...but He has.  And I'm guessing He has cast His glance your way a time or two as well.  Am I right?

We have been invited to the party of the Ages.  Ladies what are we waiting for?  We don't have time to be wallflowers. 

Let's dance.

Livin' Large At Mimi's House

I could alternately title this post...Never Give Butterbean Control Of The Spoon.

For what you're about to see...I'm sorry.  I couldn't help it.  It's been discovered that Butterbean likes bananas.

So...I gave her some.

And she ate them.

Butterbean: Hey Mimi...could I have the spoon back please?
Me: Ummm...no you're not doing so great with it.  I think you managed to get some up MY nose.

Butterbean: Ha ha ha...that's funny Mimi.  Now, give me the spoon.

Me: Look, your mom is supposed to be here soon and I don't even know if this is legal or not...

Butterbean: Mimi...don't make me do the face...

Me: What face? I don't know what you're talking about! *nervous chuckle, looking nonchalant*

Butterbean: *long dramatic sigh*

Butterbean: THIS FACE!!!

Me: *muttering to myself* Must resist...must clean baby before K gets here and bans me from babysitting...must...stay...strong...

Butterbean: Ok then...how's about a little hug?
Me: *sigh* I'm not going to survive the first year am I?

Butterbean: NOPE!

Help meee.

(Oh and by the way...please disregard the cushions, blankies and assorted whatnot in the background.  I live a real life in a real house.  Thanks y'all!)

Friday Fixin's

I'm running a little late today because I wasn't sure what I'd talk about today.  Then I decided on a topic, but my thoughts aren't organized and I'm rambling and typing on the fly.

All that to say...this post may or may not make sense.

If you'd like to read a blog written by a real writer...well then I'm sorry but this is not the place for you.  I'm a Mimi with access to the internet.  That's about it.  That's the whole enchilada.

So.

As you may or may not know, on Fridays I like to talk about ways we minister Christ to our littles and grand-littles.  So far we've talked about drool, singing, gnawing on toes, bible reading, growing teeth and living the life of Christ as a daily example.

Not necessarily in that order.

One element I think that lots of Christians take for granted is prayer.

Such a simple act...yet so powerful. 

Since Butterbean made her appearance, I've found myself praying more than I ever have before.  I wake up in the middle of the night praying...and Sweet Vidalia Onions that is not a practice I'm overly fond of.  Because Mimi likes her sleep y'all.  Yes ma'am.

And in those bleary, groggy, comatose a.m. hours, I do tend to wonder if any of it does any good.  I mean, no use losing perfectly good REM cycles for no reason right?  Of what purpose are all these words spoken so urgently in the darkness? 

I'm reminded of Paul's words to the Ephesians. 

Our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places.

I don't know why I wake up sometimes with Butterbean's name on my lips.  Maybe it's stress.  Maybe it's anxiety.  Maybe it's just that I think about her a lot.

Or maybe...there are things going on.  Things I can't see, or hear, or taste, or touch, or smell.  Things I can't fight with charm or my talent or my good looks.  (Not that I have those things, but if I did...)

Maybe, just maybe, there are some battles that can only be fought with prayer. 

Or maybe I'm just a living my life a little too much on the wack-a-doodle-doo side.

I don't know.  I do know that my Papaw thought I was worth a little sleeplessness. 

And if I was worth it (gosh think about that...that's a whole nother Oprah show right there...somebody thought we were worth praying for...wow) surely my little Butterbean is worth it.  A zillion times more worth it.

What about you?  Do you take the praying for granted and think maybe it's a little overrated?  Or do you pray, pray, pray and pray some more?

Here's a thought...can I pray for you today?  Do you have a need?  You don't have to say specifics if you don't want...but if you could use a little help today...let's lift each other up shall we?  Feel free to leave your request in the comments section and let's "have a little talk with Jesus."

(Sorry.  I'm Southern.  It just comes out.)

  

The Voice

I don't know if I've mentioned this or not, but I help out a little on our praise team at church.  I'm not Christina Aguilera...but I'll do in a pinch.

I really enjoy singing to God.  It's one of the ways He uses to connect with me in the depths of my deep.

(I realize that last sentence sounds maybe a little pretentious or esoteric or stupid or some other big fancy word...I apologize.)

(But it's true.)

Naturally, I also love to sing to Butterbean.  She's sort of a captive audience right now since she doesn't know how to escape crawl yet.  It's a total win win.

She came to visit Tuesday evening (squee!) and I had the fun task of getting her to go to sleep.  Back in the day say, oh, 3 or 4 weeks ago...she was really easy to go to sleep and she was a great napper.  Lately she's been somewhat of a...shall we say...*insert air quotes here* challenge.

It appears that looking at the back of her eyelids has suddenly become unappealing to her.

So she and I went to the bedroom and we rocked and I sang and she listened and drooled and chewed on her blankie and played with her toes, and I sang some more, and she would lay her head on my chest and rock with me.  But the sleeping part?  Nopey.

Finally, after singing every Willie Nelson song I could think of (not really.  Sorry.  Big n Rich just sort of popped out...eww) and 14 repeats of "Great Is Thy Faithfulness" she finally (have I said that already?) closed her eyes.

Y'all...it was a good thing because I was sung OUT.  I was so desperate I almost started singing The Barney Song.  And given the amount of loathing I have for that show (not because it's BAD but because my daughter made me watch it over. and over. and over.) I feel sure I would not have been able to get through that without needing copious amounts of alcohol Christian and Spirit-filled therapy afterwards.

My husband and daughter were in the living room when I came out and my husband says, "Gosh babe, I was feeling so sorry for you.  That was a LOT of singing."

My voice.  It carries.

And you know what I say to that?  A big fat "whatever."  In fact, I think now that maybe 'Bean wasn't being ornery. She just liked my singing. 

A lot.

So Christina girl...you listenin'?  Be glad that I'm a Mimi.  Be very glad.

Because if ever I was to show up on your stage honey, it would be on like Donkey Kong.

'Cause Mimi can throw down some Barney.

Yes ma'am.

Bread Continued

Since receiving Ara's letter, I've been mulling over her decision to reach for the bread.

Children often see through things so clearly don't they? 

She had already chosen new clothes (being a girl...that's pretty much a given right?) so there were obviously other choices available to her.  Maybe some toys or candy, but she didn't choose those.

She chose what would give her sustenance.

I can't say that I would have done the same.  I would have gone for the candy or a Barbie doll.

Can I be a bit transparent with you here friend?  Can I say to you what is really wrecking me right now?

I have been blessed with so much that the sustenance...the true substance that gives me life...has become boring in my eyes.  My heart tends to wander to the glitzy, the shiny, the empty.  I have not learned how to be content.  My heart starves because I don't choose life and I am often left wanting more.

But there's never enough to fill that wanting.

Isn't that the way of it?  Isn't that what Eve's problem was?  She was fed by the Holy, and clothed in the Eternal, but it wasn't enough.  She wasn't content in her heart and she was drawn away.

Oh boy.

How is it that one pushes a button on the internet, thinking she's going to help be the hands and feet of the Saviour...and then ends up being the one who is being saved?

It is the mystery of grace.

Jesus, in a world of Ding-Dongs and Ho-Hos...help me to choose bread.

(If you would like to learn more about Compassion International, or are interested in sponsoring a child, please click on the link to the side of this post.  Thank you in advance!)

Bread

Opening the mailbox, I see the envelope with the familiar blue logo on it.  Like that scene in "A Christmas Story" where Ralphie gets his decoder pin in the mail, I excitedly grab the envelope, grabbing and squeezing to try to get a sense if it's a letter from one of my babies, or just a notice.

Today's a good day.

It's a letter. 

For a little over a year now, my husband and I have been sponsoring kids through Compassion International.  We have a boy in Ecuador and a girl in the Phillipines.

I hurry into the house, ripping open the envelope as I walk.  I throw my keys down on my dining room table and plop down in one of the chairs to read.  It's a letter from my Filipino baby's mama.  Ara just turned 6 years old in January so her handwriting skills are still developing.  Her mama writes to me for her, with the help of one of Compassion's volunteer interpreters.

"Thank you so much," she writes, "for Ara's birthday present.  She was so excited to go to the Compassion store and pick out her birthday gifts.  She chose a new dress, underwear, shoes, and bread."

Bread?

I read the sentence again.  There it is...I was right the first time.  Bread.  For her birthday.

At the top of the page are little drawings scrawled by little brown fingers.  Little baby hands that should be plunging gleefully into a chocolate cake with thick pink frosting and tearing into birthday presents covered with Barbie wrapping paper.

Instead, she's reaching for bread.

My husband comes in and the words come fast and hot.  "She chose bread!" I say...my voice thick with tears.  My husband comes and reads the letter.  Silently he shakes his head.  He looks away, eyes shiny and gives thanks once more to God for what we have been blessed with.

I hang the letter on the refrigerator which is full of food, some of it wasting away.

My heart is wrecked.  I turn away and do the only thing I can do at the moment.

I pray.

(If you would like to learn more about Compassion International, or are interested in sponsoring a child, feel free to click on the button to the side of this post.  Thank you in advance!)

If The Tiara Fits...

In my family, there's a story we like to tell about my daughter.  She was in the second grade when her daddy noticed banners announcing sign-ups for youth softball.

And oh, how his eyes lit up and lo, the excitement was palpable when he asked his young progeny if she'd like to try playing softball.  She energetically nodded her head and although I knew she was really in it for the uniform, I agreed to let her play.

(I must interject here that I am not what you would call a sedate fan who quietly enjoys sporting events and doesn't speak above her "inside voice."  I'm a bit "appreciative" you might say and somewhat... "expressive.")

(I think the term I'm looking for here is LOUD.)

K played second base and one bright sunny saturday I was "appreciating" the game when I noticed my sweet princess running onto the field and her shoelaces (cleatlaces???) were untied.  With a stage whisper at the same decibel level of 747 preparing for take-off, I got her attention and told her to tie her shoes.  To which she put her hands on her hips and said, "I CAN'T!!!! I'VE GOT MY GLOVE ON!"

She had what you might call a touch of the melodrama.  And while I have ABSOLUTELY NO IDEA where she got that from, I do believe she may have passed it on.

To Butterbean.

Y'all might have noticed that yesterday was Father's Day.  'Bean and her mama and daddy came over for a late lunch after church and let's just say somebody needed a nap.

Her mama laid her down on my bed and walked out and closed the door.  (2nd interjection: I must admit ..this always amazes me when she does this.  Because the crying and the whimpering? It melts me.  I am powerless to resist, but her?  Ice in her veins y'all...ice in her veins. *shiver*)

We sat in the dining room and listened in awe at the sounds coming from my bedroom.  I could have sworn someone was in there strangling a chicken, but no...it was my sweet Butterbean doing her best to squeeze out some tears so people would pity her.

Finally she managed to reasonably mimic a true cry and I couldn't take it anymore.  I peeped in on her and her dedication to her performance rivaled anything Sally Fields has ever even thought about doing.

She was laying in the middle of the bed flat on her back.  Her arms were straight down at her sides and her legs were up in the air.  Her eyes were squinched shut in concentration and she would take a breath and squawk.  Take a breath and squawk harder.

I must have made a sound because suddenly her eyes popped open and when she saw me she was all "UH-OH..THE JIG'S UP!!" and then, "QUICK!!! LOOK CUTE!!!"

And the display of grins and gurgles and fluttering of the eyes I was treated to almost ended me. 

I scraped my heart up off the floor and caved in to the merciless onslaught.

Then I started gathering up dust rags and planning out the trophy case.  Because when she wins the Oscar y'all...Mimi wants to be prepared.