Author: Big Mama

I know it’s long but I have A LOT to say

I have to say that I was amazed at all the free time I had last week when I took my little blog vacation. I had time to organize my recipes, alphabetize my spice rack, learn how to crochet and paint the doorway of our master bathroom that’s needed to be painted since we moved back in our house after the renovation five years ago. Not that I actually did any of those things, but I could have.

Instead I spent my time watching old episodes of “Friday Night Lights” and deciding what color I should paint my toenails for Easter. Oh, and I was also witness to a miracle that I’ll have to tell you about later this week. It wasn’t anything akin to the parting of the Red Sea or a pair of jeans that fit great for less than $39.99, but it was a miracle nonetheless.

This is the problem with not blogging for a week, I don’t know where to begin. My life has become a series of Post-it notes with random scribblings of things I would normally write about, but instead had to remember for another week. Now I’m looking at them five days later and they say things like “Nightcream? MaMaw?” and “Water bottles-cheap”, and I have no idea what my original thought process entailed.

I also found a page torn out of my journal that read, “Milk, whipped cream, butter, half & half, bacon, one pound cheese” and was relieved when I realized it was just a grocery list and not the idea for a post entitled “How to Make Sure Your Cardiologist is Your New Best Friend”.

So since I don’t know where to start, I’m going to start with Easter. Everything else can wait a few days but if I wait a week to talk about Easter, then it kind of becomes pointless.

Much like this entire post so far.

This has been one of those weekends that I hate to see end. As Caroline looked through her Easter basket this morning, I got big tears in my eyes when I realized we probably don’t have too many Easters left where she thinks a bunny sneaks into our house in the middle of the night to eat carrots and leave a basketful of cheap gifts.

She asked me yesterday how the Easter bunny gets in and I mumbled some lame answer about magic, while P interrupted me to tell her that a rabbit is like a mouse or a rat and can make itself small enough to squeeze through any kind of hole to get in the house. Except I believe he actually said, “The Easter bunny is like a rodent…”

That’s exactly the type of tender childhood memory I’m always looking to instill.

Anyway, we had a busy weekend. Caroline spent the night with Mimi and Bops on Friday night, so P and I opted for an exciting night at home complete with pizza delivery. After we ate our pizza, he went out to the backhouse to admire all his weaponry and I watched “Friday Night Lights”. Twice.

It’s hard to sustain this level of glamour and glitz, but we manage somehow.

On Saturday, we helped our church get set up for the Easter service and then spent the rest of the afternoon engaged in various egg trivia and relays with relatives. Relatives that we actually had to introduce ourselves to using our first and last name.

Did you know there was such a thing as egg trivia? Neither did I.

When we were on the way home from the egg trivia, Caroline piped up from the backseat and said, “Mama, I’m carsick.”

“What? You’re carsick?! Are you going to throw up?!”

I was totally prepared to tell P to pull the car over or to use the Easter basket as a receptacle. Desperate times.

“No, I’m just sick of being in the car. Carsick.”

We need to work on our semantics.

Here’s the snack Caroline left out for the rodent who was going to crawl through a small hole to get in our house.

Please note the perfect formation of the carrots. She informed me that it was a “tally formation”. I do believe we have gotten our money’s worth out of Kindergarten.

Normally I only let her have one chocolate candy bar for breakfast, but yesterday she stuffed about three Reeses eggs in her mouth before I knew what happened.

And, in what may have been the highlight of my day, check out the pigtails and bows.

She totally shot down any mention of wearing white sandals, but those bows were my Everest.

After a great church service, we came back to the house for Easter brunch with my family. The highlight, other than my baked french toast casserole, was a plastic wind-up chicken that poops Hubba Bubba bubblegum. Because we are a sophisticated group of people.

Speaking of sophisticated and refined, P spent the rest of the afternoon cleaning out the backhouse while Caroline claimed any item that was headed for the giveaway/trash bin.

Here she is with a sweet new hat, a nasty old mop, a chalkboard, a rusty rainbow chair and assorted cardboard boxes.

At some point I couldn’t bear to watch so I went inside to make deviled eggs out of all the superfluous hard-boiled eggs we had on hand. When I looked outside about thirty minutes later, this is what I saw.

She made this all by herself and put the whole thing together with Scotch tape.

With this type of skill she may be well on her way to becoming an architect. Or perhaps a shrimp boat away from being completely equipped to live on a beach along the Texas coast.

I’m not sure which.

Let’s go with architect.
Big Boo Cast: Episode 15

I’m afraid if I start writing I won’t be able to stop. I have had some serious blog withdrawal this week and have had to confront what are apparently highly narcissistic tendencies considering how much I feel the need to share every moment of my day with the internet.

The upside is I have never had so much free time. In fact, Sophie and I found time to record a podcast this afternoon, even though it meant I had to stop watching last week’s episode of “Friday Night Lights” for the third time.

In my defense, I was just trying to prepare for the season finale.

Also, I just finished watching the season finale and will probably watch it another twenty-six times between now and Monday. With a box of Kleenex nearby. Coach Taylor gets me every time and, seriously, don’t get me started on Tim Riggins.

Anyway, none of that has anything to do with the material contained in the podcast. We basically discuss food, our dislike of coconut, the origin of the water chestnut and if it is, in fact, a nut, and my quest for a maxi dress.

In other words, the usual nonsense.

You can click here to listen.

Can’t wait to be back to regular posting on Monday. I HAVE A LOT TO SAY.
Name

A couple of weeks ago, I watched Steven Curtis Chapman and his family being interviewed on “Good Morning America” and “Larry King Live”.

Honestly, part of me didn’t want to watch because the whole story has just broken my heart. The tragic death of a five-year-old girl hits really close to home when you’re the mother of a five-year-old girl.

But I watched anyway.

One thing that came up in both interviews that brought tears to my eyes each time I heard it was when Steven Curtis Chapman said someone later told him that as he was being driven away in the car to get to the hospital where his daughter had just been Life-flighted he rolled down the window and yelled to his devastated son, “Will Franklin! Your father loves you!”

I cried because it is such an incredible picture of how much a parent loves a child. That even in the midst of all that tragedy, he made sure his son knew that he was loved.

But even more than that, I cried because, for the first time, I realized that is how God loves me. How many times have I been crushed by my fears, my failures, my disappointments? How many times have I doubted, questioned, and wondered why things aren’t working out the way I want them to?

He whispered to my heart and let me know that in all those times, when I have been at my lowest points and at my highest points, He has looked at me and said, “Melanie! Your father loves you!”

This shouldn’t be a new revelation to me. But it was.

When I think back to my childhood, I don’t remember hearing much about God’s grace. I’m not saying it wasn’t being taught, it just never really sunk in. Maybe I heard one too many flannel-board Sunday school stories about Sodom and Gomorrah.

Whatever the case, I have struggled with grasping God’s mercy and grace. I struggle with how He can love me so much when I so often feel like I’ve failed. And at the heart of that is a trust issue. Do I trust that His love is stronger than my failures? Can His grace cover my flaws? Do I trust that He wants to pour out blessings on me that I don’t deserve, but He gives them anyway because that’s how much He loves me?

Two days after I watched the Chapman interview, I went in Borders to buy a new book for our beach trip. I looked around and had a couple of different choices in my hand, but then I saw “The Shack” on a display shelf. I knew it was the book I was supposed to buy.

I’d heard great things about it, but had purposely not read it because I knew the story begins with a tragedy involving a young girl. I just didn’t know if I could stand to read it.

I mean, I am the same person who spent the first six months of her daughter’s life watching only two things, “I Love the 70’s” on Vh-1 and “Little Women”. It was all my raw heart could bear.

So I put down my copy of “Such a Pretty Fat” by Jen Lancaster (which I still really want to read by the way) and bought “The Shack”.

It was the right choice. I couldn’t put it down.

At one point early on in the book, the main character experiences his first real encounter with God. And at that moment God picks him up, spins him around like a little child while shouting his name “Mackenzie Allen Phillips!”.

Tears.

After I read it I couldn’t get the image out of my head that God sees me that way, that He feels that way about me. That I am His child and He longs to hold me close the same way I long to hold Caroline close and cherish every single ounce of her, but even more so.

I’ve read Psalm 139 countless times. I know He knows my thoughts, I know He knows my words before they are on my tongue, I know He knows the numbers of hairs on my head (not as high a number as it used to be), and I know His thoughts of me outnumber the grains of sand.

I know it because I’ve heard it all my life. But I felt like in the days following the Chapman interview and reading “The Shack”, He began to really reveal to me the depths of His love for me. Not for all mankind, not for every creation, but, specifically, for me.

At church the following Sunday, I was standing during praise and worship and I felt God say to me, “I know your name. I know everything about you and I adore you. No matter what.” It’s like I could hear Him saying my name. My full name, over and over again.

Just as I was feeling that in my heart, our pastor began to speak. Guess what he said? “God knows your name. He knows everything about you.” And as he spoke those words, the worship team began to lead us in a song I’d never heard before

He knows my name
He knows my every thought
He sees each tear that falls
And hears me when I call

Is it just me or do you think God is trying to tell me something? His love for the world isn’t general. It’s not an all-encompassing “I love my creation” thing. It’s specific.

Specifically for me. Specifically for you.

In spite of who we are, in spite of how we fail, in spite of all our weaknesses.

Because, here’s the thing. He made us. He knows us. None of our shortcomings and moral failures surprise Him. God doesn’t sit in heaven saying, “Wow. I did not see that coming.”

He sits in heaven, with a deep longing to take us in His arms, spin us around and say “Melanie! Your Father loves you!”

Except He would call you by your name, not mine. Because He’s God.

And He knows your name.

“See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands.” Isaiah 49:16

This post was originally published in August of 2008.
Interaccessory Prayer

This is word-for-word the bedtime prayer offered by Caroline last night. I feel certain it is destined to become a classic along the lines of “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep”.

“Dear Jesus,

Thank you for this day and all this stuff you give us.

Please send a beautiful rainbow for us to see some time when it rains.

Thank you for my mama. We love each other so much.

(reaches up to touch my ear)

Please Jesus, don’t let her wear these earrings anymore.

Amen.”

This post was originally published in February 2008.
El pollo bailar

I am sitting in my hotel room mentally going over the events of the day and I have tears rolling down my cheeks. I’ll be honest, it’s not the first time it’s happened today.

On the flight to Miami, I listened to my iPod most of the way. The song “Captivate Us” by Watermark came on and as I listened to the lyrics I felt like I was seeing a glimpse into my week as I listened to Christy Nockels sing, “Captivate us, Lord Jesus, set our eyes on you. Devastate us with your presence falling down”.

In that moment, I prayed that God would devastate me with His presence on this trip. As much as I imagined that I wouldn’t walk away from a trip like this unchanged, a small part of me was worried that I might. What if it turns out that I’m dead inside?

Today was one of the most heartbreaking, yet joyous days I have ever experienced. We left this morning and headed to one of the Dominican’s Batey communities. These are basically Compassion projects in the midst of sugar plantations owned by large corporations. We were told that most of the residents are Haitian refugees who were lured to the DR with the promise of a better life, which hasn’t been the case. Instead they find themselves barely surviving in a country that doesn’t even recognize them as citizens. They aren’t necessarily slaves, but they aren’t free either.

As we drove into the Batey community, we were surrounded by fields full of sugar cane on every side, which gradually led to a small village where we could hear the excitement of the children before we even got off the bus.

We divided into groups and began to visit a few classrooms that are part of the Compassion project. The first class I went to was filled with kids ages 3-5 and my heart melted onto the floor right on the spot. They sang a few songs for us and we reciprocated by teaching them The Chicken Dance or as I preferred to call it in my limited Spanish vocabulary “El Pollo Bailar”.

Y’all will be glad to know that El Pollo Bailar is every bit the hit in the Dominican Republic that it is in America and that my rhythm is equally limited overseas. There are some things that cross all cultural boundaries.

After a few classroom visits, I was taken to a small classroom to meet my sponsored child named Ana Anjelica. Although I’ve sponsored a child in Uganda since the last Compassion trip, I just began to sponsor Ana prior to this trip. I was prepared that she might be a little solemn because her profile picture was so serious.

I approached Ana and with the help of a translator explained that I was her new sponsor and was so excited to meet her. I had brought a backpack filled with various things that I felt certain a six-year-old girl would like, but as I pulled them out she never cracked a smile. She was polite and answered questions that I asked through the translator but no smile, even when I pulled out my surefire ace in the hole, also known as a Ballerina Barbie.

Honestly, it would have been great if she’d jumped up and down with excitement, but I understood why she didn’t. I have no concept of what her day-to-day life is like or what it involves.

After we met, a group of us went to her house for a home visit. Her home was the worst one I’ve been in since the trip began. There weren’t even sheets used for partitions, but rather long pieces of paper from a Beauty Rest mattress ad. I introduced myself to her mother whose nickname was Chica.

Ana immediately disappeared behind one of the Beauty Rest partitions and about that time her grandmother showed up at the house. We began to talk with them and ask them questions about their life. Ana is one of three children with another one on the way. Her father is a day laborer and just goes out and looks for work every day.

This was her grandmother. She followed us all the way down the road as we left and her expression never changed.

Toward the end of the visit, I asked Chica how I could specifically pray for her family. This was her answer.

“I don’t really believe that God will answer the dreams I have for my children, but I hope they stay in school and get an education so they can have a better life.”

It broke my heart and it made me understand while Ana is such a solemn girl with a sad look in her eyes. She is being raised in an environment where there is no hope.

And here’s where I’m going to be really honest and say that I totally understand why her mother feels the way she does. All she’s ever known is poverty and difficult circumstances. Chica can’t even comprehend what a better life would look like because all she has ever known is hardship. It’s the reality that poverty goes so far beyond material things.

Honestly, it’s hard for me to reconcile it in my mind and understand why I am blessed with so much, when others have so little.
If I were in their place, would I believe that God could answer my dreams? Would I even dare to dream?

I believe as strongly as I believe anything that God is good, but sitting there in that house filled with sadness it was hard to understand all His ways.

I cried as I sat there on the little couch in Ana’s home because I wanted to offer them some kind of hope and, all of a sudden, my $32.00 a month didn’t feel like much at all.

But the thing is that as Ana’s sponsor, I have the opportunity to give her hope. By providing for her socio-economic, academic, spiritual, and physical needs, I am giving her hope for a better life with my $32.00. However, the most important thing I can do is to commit to write Ana on a regular basis to let her know that I love her, that God loves her, and that it’s okay to dream of a life beyond what she knows.

Because if I’m not telling her, then who is?

I understand that in my head, but it devastates my heart. I looked at this little girl today who is the same age as my Caroline, my smiling, laughing Caroline, and all I saw was sadness. God used it to devastate me, but He also used it to challenge me to go deeper. These Compassion kids aren’t just kids on a piece of paper or a random snapshot. They are real kids that are barely making it in this world and need every last piece of hope they can get.

And if you think you can’t make a difference, then let me tell you about Beatriz.

Beatriz was a lady we met on our second home visit and has three children, two of whom are sponsored by Compassion and she told us that she was a Compassion child from the time she was six years old until she graduated from high school. We asked her if she knew who her sponsor was and without pausing, she said, “Bill from Michigan.”

Not only that, her son Misael pulled out the letters he’s received from his Compassion sponsors named Peter and Melanie from Massachusetts. He was so proud of his letters. And even though this family didn’t necessarily have any more materially than Ana’s family, they had joy. It was a startling contrast.

Until today I had no idea how much hope these kids find in having a sponsor and how much the letters they receive mean to them. Not only do you know their name, they know yours and find hope in your words.

And for some of them, like my Ana Anjelica, you may be the only one telling them that there is more than the life they know and that God has a plan for their life.

Words have power, even when they’re written by a goofy American who does a bad version of El Pollo Bailar.

If you’d like to sponsor a child, you can go here or click on the image in my sidebar and if you already have a sponsored child, I encourage you to take the time to write them before the day is over.

And if you haven’t read all the other bloggers on this trip, you can find their posts over at Compassion Bloggers.

This post was originally published in November of 2008.
Goodbye forever, except for only a few days

I just wanted to let y’all know that I’ve decided to take this week off from the blog. Nothing’s wrong and my head is filled with so many things I want to share from the weekend, including how I was almost certain I was going to die at Domino’s Pizza in New Orleans on Friday night.

All I could think was I can’t believe it’s going to all end with a tombstone that reads, “She really wanted that $4.00 pepperoni pizza”.

But I have to say that it ended up being one of the best pepperoni pizzas I’ve ever had. I’ve always heard that near death experiences heighten all your senses and give you a renewed sense of gratitude and that’s how I felt as I devoured that pizza in Room 1203 of the Hotel Pere Marquette.

Anyway, I’ve just felt a sense of God asking me to set aside the blog this week and focus on Him. So that’s what I’m going to do.

I’ve scheduled some old posts to auto-post for the rest of the week and I will be back next Monday with all-new useless stories about whatever happens in the meantime.

Y’all have a great week.