30

(wow! where has this month gone?
i meant to write this piece a long time ago, but somehow have not gotten a chance to catch my breath until now. kind of ironic, i guess...but here it goes.)

i turned 30 this month. and i have contemplated where these last ten years have gone.
spanning two states, four cities, and five loves.

i left home bound for college a new woman and found out i was still very much a little girl.

i laughed with roomies, fought with roomies, moved in and out.

i lived in small worlds and dreamed very big dreams.

i failed algebra, twice, but some how still somehow managed to get my gpa up to passing with sheer determination.

i watched the blinking lights in the distance and cried into the window hoping he would not see me, my hand resting on the seat beside me, just in case.

i broke.

i read the prophet.

i moved on.

a new state, a new start, a new life.

i lauged with roomies, i fought with roomies, we worked things out.

i walked to the quad and sipped coffee in the piazza.

i went to the shakespeare festival in the courtyard.

i walked to the clb.

i heard my hearts yearning sung in a few emo lines. "lead my skeptic sight, to the table and the light."--JEW

he went to new york without me.

i let go.

we let the big ole texas sky grow smaller behind us and we all put down roots in the magnolia state.

i lost my ole bad fox.

i swam an endless summer away with friends.

i walked to the cafeteria and we laughed at each other's stories.

i passed contemporary math.

i drove to atlanta and saw tony hawk pull a 900.

i sat at gravity and we contemplated our journies.

i dreamed of the next chapters my life would take.

i walked across the stage and in an instant it was over.

i listened to james taylor sing his songs directly to me.

i started anew in the berg.

i mothered my little brood of jay birds at the preschool.

i visited my little brother at southern.

i laughed with roomies, i fought with roomies, i moved back to jackson.

i hosted a party for the rockwell's and the illinois'.

i walked to the park with dusty and may and scott.

i punked wes.

i went to "the hat".

i fell for a broken heart.

i watched my dandy slip away.

i moved back in with mom and dad.

scott and molly finally left for nc after several last night's in town.

i drove to new orleans, and destin and duke.

i stayed up all night and went ice skating in the morning.

a new "little brother" moved in.

i wore many hats.

i loved a little boy genious.

i played pirate games and almost made a movie.

i got a precious puppy.

i taught bible and art and enlglish and journalism.

i pulled my hair out.

i bought a house.

i loved a broken heart until he broke mine.

i flew to europe.

i lisened to music in an irish pub, laughed with a young scot,laid on the beaches of the ligurian sea, and stood on the streets of rome.

i came home better, but broken still.

i wondered where it all had gone.

i moved on again.

i sorted books and sorted it all out.

i grew.

i began to heal.

i laughed with thunder.

i prayed with debbie and linda.

i shared a car.

i smiled at my siblings smiling faces.

i cried tears of joy.

i laughed and laughed until it hurt.

i went to church with may.

i went to church with jacob.

i cried with minda.

i laughed with minda.

i learned the meaning of the word sister.

i drove out to deer field and fixed suppers and tucked in my little loved ones.

i fell again for a broken heart.

i drove around clinton with leslie.

i tried to fix him and failed.

i broke again but my "brother" saved me.

i drove to the berg.

i watched as my evie saw her reward for the first time.

i broke with boo.

i started over yet again, and here i am...

...on the first day of my "next ten years", i received a precious and thoughtful gift from my dearest friend. heh. i just realized it, but its something that will maybe help keep me on a straighter path.

i am hopeful that the next ten years will be just as full.

even to overflowing...

what should i call ya?...

names are one of my most favorite things in the whole world.

whenever a baby is born the first thing i want to know is what they named the child.

sometimes we have to hold our heads high and wear the name we have been given proudly because it is in honor of someone else.

i am named after my aunt's imaginary friend/play name 'jayna anna'. i love it!

i love carrying my anthony last name proudly, but i will most surely take my husband's last name when i marry. i believe this is a woman's great privelidge and gift to her husband to honor his family in this way.

names stay with us!

they are important in the Bible too. lists after lists of names that have stood the test of time. greats like adam, sara, hannah, jacob, david, mary, matthew, mark, luke, john, paul, and my favorite, samuel.

Proverbs 22:1 says,
A good name is more desirable than great riches; to be esteemed is better than silver or gold.

what a precious thing that who we are known as can be eternal. what responsibility to parents! and yet sometimes it doesn't matter what our parents name us, our actions, our surroundings, the people in our lives ultimatley name us. and maybe that is more closely what this verse speaks to.

in Genesis 2:20 it says
So the man gave names to all the livestock, the birds of the air and all the beasts of the field. But for Adam no suitable helper was found.
in other words, he was not just walking around haphazardly assiging random words to the animals. he was spending time with each one, getting to know them, their behaviors, and then naming them, and still no suitable help mate was found. (but thats another blog.)

my point is names mean something.

and yet, sometimes, the name just doesn't quite fit.

in native american culture the custom is to wait until the child is a few years old to name them in order to see what name is most befitting. you watch as the child develops his or her own personalities or accomplishes a task, and you then name them.

i once heard actor/comedian paul reiser joke that we could not do that in modern american culture. "we would introduce our kids," he quipped, "and say this is my son 'allergic to nuts' and my daughter, 'falls of tricycle'."

and yet we do give each other names.


some of us are just nick namers. we can't help it. its in our blood it seems to assign a name to the ones we love other than the name they have been given.

this too is biblical. jacob to israel. simon to peter. saul to paul.


you know you are loved in my family if we have given you a nickname. matter. manner. katie boo. alley. angle. blade. ya-cub. thunder. robby heart. (im just scrolling through my phone here.)

in our family if you know us three kids well, you might not call us by our given names at all, but rather jay, may and boo. if you know us really well, you might even call us jay jay, merna and boo boo.

my little cousin christopher, who i call chritter, or chrit (he is actually in my phone this way) calls me jay jay, so does his mom and his brother, scott but his other brother, wes, calls me jayna burger. and it all makes my heart smile everytime.

i call my aunt vicki, chrit's mom, kicki, stemming back from childhood when 'v's were too hard to say.

her husband, tom prather, will forever be t.p., because my daddy, tommy anthony, is t.a. and having two tom's (which tom is what my mimi, dad's mom, calls daddy, even though the rest of the world calls him tommy) at thanksgiving has proven to be too much. (confused yet?)

t.p. and kicki's oldest son scott is scotty potty because, sorry, sometimes childhood names just stick, but fortunetely now that he has married molly, sometimes we call them mott and scolly. im not sure which is which actually, is scott, mott or scolly? anyway i guess either is better than scotty potty.

his brother wes has been wesopher to me even before christopher came along. maybe thats why i can't call chrit, christoher. (wait..im just getting started.)

my cousin anthony is a.t. even though he is anthony gene, im not sure where that one came about.

his brother tim is tim-o.

his sister cynthia is c.c.

his mom, paula is aunt polly, ok that one is not too far fetched but..

her sister, my aunt janie, is actually named sara coday hatchett. ???

and her husband, ron, is my uncle big.

and we come by it rightly! (you ready for this?)

my grandfather, mom's dad, whom we all called daddy duke, ( or d. duke or the old bad fox) had eight kids in his family. and no one went by thier given names.

only aunt jeanie whose real name was carmen jean went by anything close.

my grandfather's real name was merl raleigh coday, but they called him duke. except his sister kate called him gick and his sister doe called him bummy. and my grandmother called him dick.( i don't know.)

his daddy, my great, great grandfather, was B. (which stood for Boogerman!)

uncle harold was pete, or wheels, or or woobie, depending on who was talking.

his wife, aunt blanche, was the one who called him pete and he called her trellis.

aunt doe's real name is effie lea.

uncle shag's real name is daniel.

aunt kate's real name is hazel.

and they often called unlce reed, drake.

to this day my mother has no clue what unlce c.'s real name was. she says when she asked her daddy he would just say c. (perhaps, no one knew!)

cousin denny they called hammer or goog, and his brother, phil, was shug.

crazy! and yet, i love it!!

momma says she thinks a lot of those names came from an old book that they read as children.

aren't names a funny, wonderful thing!

i also have a story to tell about a little boy from mississippi who was known as 'squirt', who went off to war as 'al' and came home 'tony'. :)
(but that too is another blog for another day.)

today, i am thinking about how we are known. how a name can shape us. how it can make us smile, take us back, change us, how it can last forever.

i remember a story that we heard as children in this series called the kingdom stories that i can't find online anywhere. it was kind of like a c.s. lewis story (who by the way everyone called jack.) in that it was sort of a parable for the gospel story. it was a story about one that they called scar boy, because of the fires he had endured, and how he ultimatley stood up to the evil one after the savior had changed his name.

"come here, scar boy!" the evil one shouted.
"my name is hero," he said.

and i don't remember any other line.
only that one. and i tear up to this day because sometimes, what our maker will one day call us is the name that matters most.

they say, don't judge a book by its cover, but can you judge a man by how he is called?

be careful! i think sometimes, you can!

poem of the day...

I'm ceded, I ’ve stopped being theirs;
The name they dropped upon my face
With water, in the country church,
Is finished using now,
And they can put it with my dolls,
My childhood, and the string of spools
I ’ve finished threading too.

Baptized before without the choice,
But this time consciously, of grace
Unto supremest name,
Called to my full, the crescent dropped,
Existence’s whole arc filled up
With one small diadem.

My second rank, too small the first,
Crowned, crowing on my father’s breast,
A half unconscious queen;
But this time, adequate, erect,
With will to choose or to reject,
And I choose—just a throne.
--e.d.

its hard sometimes..

Sometimes its hard being the little brother.
I am learning this as i am the nannie for three precious kiddos. Madilynn age 4, Ben age 2 1/2 and Nathan age 10 months.
All sweet children. All so eager to grow and learn and laugh and love.
I guess i relate the most to Maddy. As the big sister in my family i know what it is to feel a sense of superiority. To always be the "teacher", the "mommy", the "boss".
But as i said i am finding out that it is hard sometimes to be younger. to be too little.
To have to watch the door close as daddy takes sister on a big kid outing.
To have to practice staying in the lines with your crayons while bigger hands get to use scissors and markers.
To be told by the "mommy" to go play with your cars when all you are trying to do is rock your baby to sleep.
I'm learning to watch closely. To monitor the very same behavior that i am sure that i once exhibited as a big sis.
Its hard sometimes to be the big sister, too.
To have to share the toys that once were all your own.
To have to wait patiently for your turn while little hands work slower than you.
To grow and learn and laugh and love...with someone else.
This last weekend my little brother and i spent the whole day together.
We went to eat at the bottling company and then had cupcakes at the new sweet shop. We spent the whole day talking,reminiscing about texas and planning for our futures. What a precious day!
It so much easier sometimes to fight. When you know someone so well, when you know all the buttons to push, sometimes love has to be a choice. A beautiful choice.
This week my little brother has had to face some difficult things on his own without the watchful eye of big sis. And maybe this is best, cause the "boss" has a few choice words that she would like to say to a certain someone.
I know that he will handle the whole situation the way that he has all along. Like a man full of grace and integrity.
Madilynn is pretending to be the "mommy" as i write these thoughts down on a piece of blue construction paper. Ben is the "baby" and he is crying this sweet little play cry.
Sometimes its hard to share our lives together. But moments like the one i am watching between Madilynn and Ben, like the ones i had with Boo this weekend, these are the moments that we can step back and say, its worth it.

a sanctified imagination

My grandmother, Mimi, likes to tell the story of the man with the long white beard and black suit who hung in the frame beside her stairs. He was a traveling medicine man who did magic tricks she tells us. He happened one day upon my great, great, great grandparents farm in Winona looking for work. He told them he was from Scotland, his name was Sharron and he turned out to be a hard worker, too. Soon he was married to the couples daughter and my great grandmother, Linda Sharron, was born. And this is Mimi’s favorite part to tell, and mine to hear her tell, he would saw her in half as the final trick in his show!
We have told that story of the Scotch Medicine Man now in our family for generations, only problem is our cousin, who is now studying in Scotland, has looked up the family history and can find no record of any of it being true. Oh, he was a medicine man, and a magician, that part is true, and he cut Great Mother in half! Ha! But how did this “Scotch” man come to Winona and happen upon the little farm? It’s a mystery we may never know. This is just what I imagine….

The Scotch Coin

He didn’t have much to live for now, he thought. He looked around the almost empty bar and took a seat in the back corner away from the other customers. He had never been to a place like this on his own but he had been with his father. When he was younger his father had always left him at the cabin alone when he went out. They lived just outside of Greensboro in rural Webster county Mississippi in a log cabin, which was really more like a shack, that his father had built after he escaped from jail. His mother had left him when he was just under a year old. She put the corner of his gown under the old rocker on the porch so that he could not crawl away and left a note telling the old outlaw that she was sorry but a family from Jackson was going to pay her room and board to care for their six children and since the promise of eating everyday was more than he could give her she was going to take them up on their offer. They would not, however, allow her to bring her own son and since he looked just like the old outlaw did, she had no problem leaving him there along with the memory of her life in the cabin. By no means was he ever a decent man. In fact, it was rumored that he was one who started the fire in the old Webster County Jail, but she had been the only good thing that had ever happened to him. He could hardly stand to look at the boy after she was gone and so the child spent many nights alone in the cabin with the shadows and the noises from the woods.

Only recently, since he had turned sixteen, had his father let him go anywhere with him.
“You are a man now, Son.” He said and turned out this meant his father thought he was old enough to accompany him to establishments like this one to help him cheat at poker. The two came up with a scheme whereby the boy would sit in a back corner of the bar somewhere where he could see one of the players hands and then he would go through a series of symbols and signs that the two had come up with in order to tell his father what cards the other player was holding. A tapping foot meant clubs and the number of taps was the number on the cards. Fingers drumming on the table meant spades. He’d flick his cigarette for diamonds. For hearts he lined the rim of his glass with his index finger. A jack was a pat to the head, a queen a touch of the heart, and king a nod and an ace a smile. It was a pretty good routine and since his father had never carried him with him anywhere before no one even knew that the two were related. The boy quite enjoyed it, not that he necessarily thought it was honest, but what did he care? His father was spending time with him and it was exciting to be so clandestine.

The two did quite well. His father always lost a few hands in the beginning just to throw off the other players and then the boy would come in. Sit in the back. Order a glass of whisky and begin to roll a cigarette. By the third or fourth hand he would have begun the routine and before midnight his father would be winning. For several months the winning was good. All the food and whisky the two could want. The boy loved it. Never before had he felt such excitement for life. It was fun pretending not to know his father, giving the bar tenders and other patrons fake names and of course watching his father smile at him and pat him on the back. It seemed as if his father, too, was more alive than he had been in years.

One night they took some of their winnings and went to a show. A magician from New York named The Great O’Brien was in Greensboro. He traveled from town to town with his cart full of wares and goods. He’d roll his cart into town and perform tricks and sell miracle potions and for only a cent you could come to his big show at the theater at night. He did all sorts of magic, selling things to audience members as he performed, a pair of shoes that would make you taller, a drink that would make a bald man’s hair grow, a cream that if rubbed on the nose each night would prevent the common cold. And for his final act he would cut a woman in half with a saw and then put her back together again! The boy was amazed. And he loved how the man sounded when he spoke. He was from Scotland, he said, migrated to New York on a big ship and all the goods were authentic miracle cures from Europe. The boy and his father bought a one cent piece for just ten cents that would bring luck to any man who kept it hidden in his pocket. And it seemed to work! That night the boy and his father won more money than either of them could spend. It seemed that the Scotch coin was just the trick that the two needed.

The next night the boy made sure that the coin was in his pocket and then he headed to the saloon where his father had been losing on purpose for about the last hour. They had gotten into the routine good when one of the players stood up abruptly and threw his chair just over the boys head. It smashed into pieces, the boys heart nearly jumped out of chest.

“Who is that?” The man questioned, and pointed his finger sharply at the boy. His father tried to look alarmed and confused but the boy could see the deceitfulness in his eyes and he hoped that the man pointing his finger at him could not.

“I have no idea who that boy is.” His father lied.

“You rotten sack of lies! He cheats for you! I have sat here all night watching him. And now, now you tell me that you take my money honestly!” The man screamed. The boys father could not find words. He stumbled out of his chair and before he could recover the man pulled out a gun and shot him. Dead in the chest. The man took the money from the boy’s father’s pockets and aimed the gun at the boy’s head.
“If you ever try to take me again, Boy, I’ll shoot you too!” He warned and left the bar without even the blink of an eye. The bartender, the only other person in the room, was hiding behind the bar and the boy, not knowing what to do and still scared that the man would come back for him, took off running. He thought at first of running back to their cabin in the woods but afraid that the man would find him he just kept on going.

He ran all night it seemed, stopping only for moments at a time to rest and then he would run again. When he could run no longer he laid down on the cool grass floor of the forest and slept between visions of what he had witnessed.

He wasn’t sure where to go when he awoke the next morning. A thought like a knife to the heart struck him. What if the man went to the police with his description. He had to leave town, maybe even skip to the next county, but what would he do? Where would he go? Just then the old horse drawn cart the magician from Scotland owned rolled by and much to his surprise it stopped.

“Where are ye headed, Lad?” the Scot shouted down to him from the carriage.
“Anywhere. I guess.” He replied. “ Anywhere away from here.”
“Hop on” The magician said and he waved the boy up. The boy obeyed half afraid the man might cut him in half if he didn’t.
“What’s your name, Lad?”
“Tom.” The boy lied.
“Well, Tom, from now on your name is Shay Sharron and you are my assistant. I brought you over with me from Scotland, you understand.” O’Brien said.
“I, I don’t know if I can learn a proper Scottish accent,” the boy stuttered.
O’Brien smiled and in southern Mississippi drawl he whispered, “Yes you can!”

For the next several weeks the two camped out in the woods of Warren County. All the while O’Brien teaching the boy his tricks, his cons and his way of speaking. He taught him that a good magician has the audience looking one way while the trick is actually done the other. He taught him how to read your audience and sell your goods accordingly. If there are a lot of women in the crowd for example your magic potion becomes miracle wrinkle cream but if there are more men it is guaranteed to grow fuller mustaches. He even taught the boy to curl his feet up in the box at just the right moment before O’Brien cut the box in half.
The boy enjoyed the time in the woods with O’Brien and soon he was almost as skilled as the old con man himself. He had, after all, been a con man for quite sometime at the saloons with his father. He thought about his father sometimes. He had not been the greatest father to him, in fact, he had been down right rotten for most of the boy’s life. But the last several months that they had spent together had been fun. He felt terrible if he thought about how he just left him there at the saloon. He couldn’t let himself think about it and so most nights he just practiced the tricks that O’Brien had taught him and tried to put the memory of his father and his father’s killer out of his mind.
When O’Brien was certain that the boy he now called Shay was ready the two left the home that they had made in the woods and headed for Montgomery county. The scenery in the small towns that they came to was not unlike the scenery that they had just left. Cotton fields and dirt roads as far as the eye could see dotted with the occasional town square seemed to make up most of this part of the country. But each town that they pulled into was another chance for O’Brien and Shay to play their little game with the town’s people and the boy was loving every minute of it.

One night after the pair had taken a few towns for more than a few bucks they rolled into the little town of Winona just as the sun was going down. O’Brien was asleep in the back of the wagon and the boy was driving the horses. As he pulled onto the main street he could see the little shops in the distance. There was a dry goods store, a place that sold hardware and farming equipment and a ladies dress shop. As he pulled closer he was a lone figure on the street walking away from the dress shop. A girl. She must have been about his age, maybe a few years younger. But she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He followed her as she turned down the old dirt road that ran behind town. She noticed the old creaking cart behind her and looked back. They boy lost his breath to look into her eyes.
“Mam.” He recovered with a nod. She gave him a sharp look and cut across the cotton field to get off the road and away from the strange boy and his odd cart that had been following her but the boy pulled back on the reigns and halted the horses. He watched her walk all the way across the field. Her dress was red and it stood out juxtaposed against the white blanket of Mississippi snow. Her long hair bounced as she walked and the boy could not take his eyes off of her. When he could see her no longer he turned and pulled back the curtain to peek into the cart. O’Brien was still fast asleep in the back. The boy slapped the reigns and got the cart moving again. He would keep on going. No town where an angel like the one he had just witnessed lived should be taken by con men.

When O’Brien awoke the next morning the boy told him that Winona was a nothing town with not much to speak of and that he had instead driven all night to Vaiden. There was no reason for O’Brien to doubt the boy and so he set up like always and the two began to prepare their con. A large crowd gathered quickly as happened quite frequently and soon the game was on. It was going well and the towns people were sucked into the scheme quite easily. O’Brien was selling a miracle medicine that promised to cure anything and Shay was testifying about how the dark liquid when taken twice daily had healed his lame leg when all of the sudden a familiar voice came shouting out over the crowd.
“You!”
Shay looked up with a fear that was driven so deeply into his heart that he thought it would stop. It was the man who had shot his father. O’Brien, not knowing who the man was, said “Yes sir, can I put you down for a bottle of the miracle cure?”
“You!” the man shouted again and he pointed again at the boy. Shay pulled his hat down over his eyes and tried to pretend he did not recognize the man, but the persistence in the man’s fingertip aimed straight at him just as the gun had been before made his face grow hot and his palms begin to sweat. The man began to walk toward the make shift stage and the town’s people cleared a path for him eager to see the new show that was developing before their eyes.
O’Brien leaned into Shay’s ear. “Who is this guy?”
“I don’t know.” He lied but the con man could see through his protégé’s deceit.
“I thought I told you that the next time you tried to take me you would die, Boy!” The man was shouting and reaching into his pocket.
“Now hold on just a minute there!” The local sheriff stepped in calming the man, “This is a respectable town. Not like the town full of criminals over in Greensboro you come from. Now I don’t know who you think this boy is or isn’t , but you had better just calm down or be expected to leave.” Reluctantly the man walked away and O’Brien and his assistant were able to hide out at a local hotel until nightfall.

The boy told his story, the whole story , to O’Brien and the two decided that it was probably best to head back to the cart under the guise of night, pack up their things and be on the way. When they got back to the cart, just to be safe, O’Brien pulled a pistol from his trunk and stuffed it beneath his belt. They boy realized how serious a situation the two could be in and he felt sorry that he had brought his magician friend into harm’s way. Just as the two were almost finished with their packing and the boy had all but forgotten the danger that they were in a dark figure emerged from behind the cart.

“I told you if you ever tried to take me again, Boy, I’d kill you.” The figure whispered. The boy froze with fear but O’Brien reached his for pistol. He shot but the man shot too and then he shot again. Before the boy knew what was happening he felt like he had been kicked by a mule in the chest and he was laying on the ground beside his friend. It was dark but he could see a black pool forming beneath O’Brien’s head. He laid there for a moment. Was he dead too? He could see the man who had killed his father, who had killed the magician squinting into the dark night expecting his work, trying to see if they were both in fact dead. They boy lay silent and did not move and the man turned to walk away. The boy reached for his chest were he had been shot but there was no blood. He didn’t understand. He reached into his shirt pocket and there he found the Scotch Coin with a bullet lodged into it. At that very moment it hit him, this was American currency. It could not have come from Scotland it looked just like the coins he and his father had cheated the pokers players out of and just like the coins that he and O’Brien had conned from the town’s people, except now it really had brought him luck. He sat up all but forgetting about the killer in amazement at his discovery and the man turned quickly back around . Thinking that they both were dead he was slow to react and the boy reached without thinking and grabbed O’Brien’s gun. Before he could even blink he had shot the weapon and the man was lying on the ground.

That night was even more restless than the night he had spent running from the man who shot his father. He drug O’Brien’s body to the woods and buried him. He would not leave his friend the way he had left his father. He did not quite know the words to say in order to honor the Mississippi “Scotch” man who had taken him in and so he just stood silently for a long while over the grave that he had dug. He also buried the other man. He had no respect for the ill tempered outlaw who had shot his father, his friend and whom he himself had killed, but he feared being found out to be both a thief and a murderer.

He drove all night in the cart thinking. He thought about the little cabin in the woods were he had lived with his father, but decided that he had better not go back to that town full of criminals. It had been no good to him and there were too many memories there. He thought about his father. He never really knew him, he realized and he felt sorry for this. O’Brien had been more like a father to him. But now they both were gone. He drove until the sun had come up and as he was pulling into the next town he thought that maybe he had better go into the local saloon and have a drink. He was sitting in the back corner thinking about his father, about how wrong it was for them to have cheated like they did. At least O’Brien entertained the people he thought. He may not have really given them exactly what they were promised but they were smiling when they left and they had seen a good show. It was a good show, he thought. He had so enjoyed being Shay Sharron. He never wanted to be associated with his old life in Greensboro again. And that’s when he decided that it did not have to end. Of course, he would do things a little differently. No more selling miracle cures that didn’t work. He would just do the magic. He could get a job, an honest job, maybe as a farm hand to earn his meals and put on the show just for a little extra and for the fun of it. And who knew, maybe he would even learn a little about actual medicine and really help people cure what ailed them. He would have to still pretend to be Shay, though, that part he would keep up. Just a little white lie, after all he had gotten so good at the accent. And so off he went with the cart, his lucky scotch coin and a new dream bound for Winona and the girl in the red dress he could not get out of his head.

trick or treat...

we just finished passing out a whole basket full of candy to literally hundreds of kids at mom and dad's house in poplarville tonight. they come in to go trick or treating by truckloads from all of the neighboring communities and have such fun.

i heard this week that the tradition of trick or treating started in the u.s. to cut down on the number of pranks pulled on all hallows eve; instead someone came up with the brilliant plan to give out "treats" to keep the kids from "tricking" the whole town. hence the famous,"trick or treat!"

i dressed schmi up in a spider costume i found at the local consignment shop and she got many compliments! i have to admit, she was adorable!

we had lots of fairies and pirates, pumpkins and puppy dogs, butterflies and monsters. the little girls eyes danced as they walked timidly up to us in their snow white and cinderella gowns and the little boys couldn't keep the grins off of their faces as they demanded candy behind masked super hero faces.

even the parents got into the act. what fun to see mothers proudly holding up lady bugs and poodles! fathers dressed in funny wigs to make little ones laugh and carried bags to the door apologetically for sleeping ones who had long since passed out for the night.

we had our fair share of scary creatures also and i think that is fun too. i remember reading in Nevada Barr's non fiction work about her life how important she thought it was for all of us, even little ones, to have one night where we have to face down our fears. not that i think its ok to just go around scaring little kids unnecessarily, that's not what i mean at all. its just that i think it can be really wonderful to have chances in our lives to look uncertainty in the eye and stare it down. perhaps our fairy wings or our super man muscles will help us, or so we hope. its a good feeling to let your heart race sometimes, to feel the blood pumping through your veins and keep on walking, to be someone else for one night, someone who maybe has the courage to the face the fears we may not have in everyday life.

and there is just something magical about walking down an otherwise dark and scary, moonlit street holding your fathers hand. knowing that he is protecting you from the older kids up ahead in scary costumes. knowing that he knows the timid one behind the mask who is tyring hard to be brave.

i think sometimes the things we dressed as when we were children are really not masks at all, but mirrors. the princesses just want to feel pretty. the monsters just want to feel empowered. the heroes just want to feel purpose and mission. if only we could dress ourselves in our passions, as well as our fears in order to stare down them both. aren't they the same things when you really think about it? i know sometimes when the road seems to stretch ahead of me and God pulls back the veil just a bit for me to see the next step, i get so excited, but also, so scared.

this week my very best friend bought a house and it got me thinking about life and uncertainty. about how hard it can sometimes be to grow up, but how we have to make those big decisons none the less. and about the things in my own life that i fear. but that i am also passionate about. sometimes its easier to wish we could go back to the days where we can throw on the muscles and masks when its time to make those tough decisions.

its never easy to decide to walk down dark and scary streets when we don't know for sure whats up ahead.
trick? or treat?
but i have to remind myself, the Father is there holding my hand. He knows my timid heart and the ache its felt. He knows the fears that no one else knows. and He is the reason that i can be brave. after all He has made the way so that we can walk with no fear. as His children we have nothing to fear. even death itself has been conquered by Him, and so why would we fear our very lives?

as i look up at Halloween's full moon tonight i am reminded that ultimately it reflects our Lord, and i pray that i might reflect him too.

POEM OF THE DAY:

AFRAID? Of whom am I afraid?
Not death; for who is he?
The porter of my father’s lodge
As much abasheth me.

Of life? ‘T were odd I fear a thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or more existences
At Deity’s decree.

--e.d.

a sparrow and a jay...

its a funny thing the words we throw around. like invisible balls bouncing all over the place, in and out, up and down. we duck, or swerve or ignore them completely, but every now and again one hits us square in the face.

when i first heard the word i was just a babe myself, too young even to understand what was really happening. momma has told me stories, of course, of how i was so excited. how i played alone in my wading pool that summer and cried because no one was with me to play with. how she had to explain to me that when the baby did come it would be her baby and not mine. even before she was born i tried to boss her, "well when my baby comes!" "no, jayna lea, its my baby." but i think i still thought she was mine. you can see it in my eyes in pictures.

i remember colorado. sleeping together in the big bed. how she would never keep her mittens on in the snow. how she looked sitting up there on our horse, flame, as daddy held her. my cuddle bunny. my banana incident accomplice. (you will have to ask someone who knows.)my snow angel.

i remember meridian.how we spent endless nights skating at the gym. how we played endless days on the swing set. how once i tried to move to my "own room". momma tried so hard to make a comfortable bed in the laundry room for me so i could have my own place in our small three bedroom house, when i begged her, but i only lasted one night. we had to move everything back in the morning.my play mate. my bravery. my security blanket.

i remember the carousel horse wallpaper in little rock. how we felt so special. like princesses in our castle. how we would whisper across the room to each other from our twin beds. i remember how responsible i felt for her. how i hurt when she hurt. how hard it was to watch her grow and leave me for her own independence. my shadow. my secret keeper. my giggle buddy.

even when we had seperate rooms i snuck into her bed at night. i was such a chicken and she always made me feel safe even though she is younger. we stayed up late sneaking around and watching mtv. we had slumber parties at the obriens. we took pictures and thought we were models. my confidence. my counterpart. my safe.

in texas there were enough rooms for each of us to have our own, but most of the time we shared anyway. we grew. we talked on the phone to boys. made up fashion trends. we snuck outside to talk to talyor and ryan. we passed each other notes in the hall at school. we were queens of the youth group. my bff. my partner in crime. my cheerleader.

i remember i cried when she went off to school. sure i had gone two years earlier, but only 45 min away. she always was the brave one. i know crosby thought i was crazy, but i cried the whole way home to belton the night she left, bound for daddy's alma mater in mississippi. when he broke my heart later that semester it was her call that made me decide to go back to school and get my grades pulled up to passing so i could transfer and have the courage to leave him behind. she took me in. shared her life with me. her dorm room. her friends. my strength. my savior. my light at the end of a dark tunnel.

and so began the long years we would spend in ole clinton. who would have guessed? but would we have planned it any better? all the frustration. all the sharing. all the ups and downs. and we both are better off for it. my roomie. my co worker. my helper.

and now its so surreal. dreams of memphis and hattiesburg and new beginnings that we know are God ordained, and yet, there is this sense of loss.

our whole lives everyone has told us that we are just like evie and mimi, different as night and day. but it was mimi who was there for evie until the bitter end. who would not leave her side. and when i think about it, where would the day be without the cool whipsering hush of the night's steady calm and where would the night be without the faithful rays of day's persistant promise?

in sarah ruhl's version of eurydice, she says that the word father is like the word tree. i think that is so true. but sunday on my drive down it hit me square in the face, something i have told her before. i may not know what is next for me and she may feel the same way too. we may not fully understand the years that have preceded today but one thing i know to be true. she is like the word bird to me. my nest. my feathers. my flight. my sister. and few words are greater.

smoke and ashes...

passions.
in the greek orthodox faith the word passion has more of a negative connotation. i have been told they believe that it is a powerful word that carries such strong meaning that it should almost not be used.
i can understand this. we throw words around all the time.
i love chocolate.
i love my momma.
i hate sin.
i hate broccoli.
really? the same word?
its kinda the same thing with passion.
its like you can say all day long you are passionate about something, but what do you do on a daily basis?

ive been thinking a lot lately about my passions.

i have these crazy dreams i sometimes dream...

like, i watch the trailer for whip it, drew barryomore's new movie about roller derby, and i think, i could do that! i used to rollerblade almost everyday keeping up with and sometimes even beating the boys. i have the scars to prove it~ and i look super cute in knee highs. heh.
i also have this crazy idea about auditioning for a bit part in a play or musical of some kind. i mean, even if it was just a small role, how cool would it be to say you sang in the little orphan chorus line of annie? or you were one of the nuns in the sound of music?
i also have this secret dream to be some sort of jazzy, bluesy, singer in a band like kitty, daisy and lewis, she and him or elizabeth and the catapults. singing lead while the guys in my band wail on a guitar and pound the keyboard. we would have so much soul you'd hardly be able to stand it!

i have lots of things i really like to do..
and some of them i am even decently good at.

knitting. ive made like a dozen scarves, a couple of coin purses and have a half knitted little red riding hood cape i am working on for the winter. i even have a name for my line, knit-witty.

painting.its something i have always liked to do. very abstract of course. no real mona lisa's or anything. just fun.

sewing. ok i sort of suck at this. but i still really like the idea of it and i have a few shirts that i have actually finished that are wearable.


but, are these my passions or just things to pass my time with?

ben taylor, son of james taylor and carly simon, has a voice just like his dad. you've probably heard him and just thought it was james. you hear him sing a line clear and smooth with that effortless grace his father has and you know instantly. its as if the genes were so strong that unintentionally his father passed down this gift and just like with james, you can hear instantly what his passion is. (i know someone else i think this about.)


but i guess for some of us, no matter how old we are or where we have been, its harder to figure out what our passions are.

i was talking to a good friend the other day about what she would do if she changed jobs. she's had the same job, and done very well at it, for 20 plus years, but its not necessarily her passion.


they say you should ask yourself what would you do if you won ten million in the lottery and then whatever your answer is thats what you should do with your life. i guess that sort of works.

this week the house that momma and daddy lived in when they were in raymond burned to the ground. its so strange, but it almost hurt as bad as if we were still living there. my best friend in high school had the home his daddy built burn his sophomore year and they lost everything. i remember him saying with tears in his eyes that it had struck him that all they had left were the things they had given away. i will never forget that.

i think maybe that is a better way to think about what is it that you are passionate about? what if you lost everything,not just material possessions, but everything, and all you had left were the things you had somehow managed to give away?

it reminds me of hannah in the bible and how she finally figured out that sometimes we can't obtain the desires of hearts until we get it straight and realize that ultimately nothing is our own and all must be given up to the Lord.

i guess sometimes providing for our family, putting food on the table, paying for schools, etc.. becomes our priority, but still, i think we all have something lying just beneath the surface. if we pushed back the grime that has covered our weary and laboring souls there is something there that we were created to do, something that an all knowing and intentioned father put within us as a gift to be passionate about.

so i guess what i am saying is that i am praying to finally obtain the desires of my heart. ive got things, sure, that are fun that i take up my time with, and thats ok, but im ready to live daily like i was created with purpose. at the end of the day i want to come home saying i gave of my self in such a way that if it all went up in smoke tomorrow, there'd be something still that i left behind.

today i am listening to:
ben taylor-deeper than gravity--digest
she and him--volume one-why do you let me stay here

today i am watching:
glee

today i am reading:
1 samuel 1:1-2:11

poem of the day:
Paradise is that old mansion
Many owned before-
Occupied by each an instant
Then reversed the Door-
Bliss is frugal of her Leases
Adam taught her Thrift
Bankrupt once through his excesses.
--e.d.