Empty Arms

Starting in the last few months of the 20th century, I began an every-other-year tradition of bringing new life into the Potter Palace. Rachel was the first in October 1999. Her sister Sara joined us two years later in October 2001. Gavin arrived nearly 20 months later in June 2003, and that did it for any additions of the human variety.

My husband loves to tell the story of how the obstetrician, quite, um, impressed, with how quickly I was delivering, remarked aloud, "This is Number Three, huh?" to which I wasted nary a second replying, "This is Number Last! How quickly can you TIE MY TUBES??"

I've wondered how that comment must have sounded to those in attendance at the blessed event. If it came across at all, even a tiny little bit, that I was unhappy about the arrival of our first and only son, well, let me just set the record straight right now and say that was certainly not the case at all. Rachel had begged mercilessly for months on end for a baby brother, and we were just thrilled beyond words that the Lord God Almighty had heard the prayers of that child and granted her heart's desire. It's just that I KNOW MY LIMITS. And I'm pretty sure it was TWO. Three was really pushing it, and at 35 I knew my baby-making days NEEDED to come to an end.

But, I digress. In 2005, the desire to nurture a little one overtook me once again, and I satisfied that need with Chloe, a newborn kitten who meowed for HOURS on end the first few nights we had her. In a sleep-deprived 2 a.m. moment of insanity, I finally moved her, bed, litter box and all, into my closet, placed a ticking clock next to her and threw a towel against the bottom of the closed door to contain any stray kitty anguish that might try to drift into the bedroom ... and finally slept, hopeful that the kitten would outgrow her need to cry all night faster than my babies had.

When another odd year began this past January, I braced myself for the familiar yearnings that I was sure would eventually come. I tried to tell myself that my life is full to overflowing: 1 husband + 3 kids under the age of 8 + 1 dog + 1 cat + 1 full-time job + far more hobbies and extracurricular activities than I have time to manage = INSANITY. The semiannual tradition I'd begun would simply HAVE to be laid to rest this year, I told myself.

But that was before I met Henry.

A few Sundays ago, Chief Potter called while he was out on patrol and announced that he was "bringing something home". Now if living with this man for nearly 12 years has taught me anything at all, it is that 99.9% of the time, the phrase "bringing something home" does NOT mean he's arranged takeout for dinner or that he's planning to surprise me with a new piece of jewelry. Nosiree Bob, it means he's found another stray, and I've got to get on the horn and do my best to find a home ... quickly.

I had only moments to prepare the children for the new puppy's arrival, and when Chief pulled into the driveway, I reminded them several times NOT to get attached, because "We're NOT keeping the puppy!"

He was the cutest little brown furrball ever, and within a couple of days, the puppy had been named twice. The kids called him Brownie, and I named him Henry. They finally agreed to call him Brown Henry which really suited him just fine. He was quite amenable to being carted around by kids (ours and the neighbors) all day long and didn't even seem to mind when they jumped with him on the trampoline. (I had a fit over that one, oh yes I did).

I was certain that someone was going to report him missing sooner or later and tried my best to NOT get attached, but somewhere around the third or fourth day, I had to admit that I was hopelessly in love with the little thing. I gave myself over to the desire to love something tiny and decided that maybe just one more pet wouldn't be such a bad thing. Just sitting and cradling him in my arms as I worked at my computer filled me with a joy I didn't even know I had missed.

Five days after Henry joined us, Chief took him to the vet for his first check up and shots, and he was declared to be in good health. That was on Friday.

Three days later, I came in from an outing with the girls, took one look at Chief and knew something was terribly wrong.

He shooed the girls from the room before whispering, "Something's wrong with Henry. Really wrong."

I stepped out onto the deck and there was my little guy shaking, lethargic, and his nose dripping mucus. We called the emergency vet hospital to get their advice and briefly considered taking him in that evening. After watching him for a little while, we decided that he could wait to see the regular vet the following morning.

At the crack of dawn the next day, I quickly got kids dressed and loaded in the car with little baggies of cereal thrown together for a breakfast-on-the run, and we drove over to the vet clinic. Who knows what prompted me to leave the kids in the car (something I NEVER do unless I am just going in some place very quickly and will be able to keep my eyes on the car the entire time), but on this particular morning I did exactly that. They had their cereal and juice to keep them occupied for a few minutes, and I figured I would just drop Henry off and come back later to pick him up.

He shivered in my arms as we waited in the reception area. Whether it was fear or the illness I wasn't sure, but I held him a little closer and told him everything was going to be okay.

An assistant came out and took Henry to an exam room where the vet checked him out privately for a few minutes while I paced and prayed. I was finally summoned to join him, and when I saw him on the exam table, I suddenly knew why I'd felt so strongly about leaving the children in the truck: Henry wouldn't be going home with us. Not that day. Not ever. He was one very sick puppy. And that was a sight my three youngsters did not need to witness.

As we waited for the doctor to come back into the room, I watched Henry's eyes start to roll backward and his body stiffen. The seizures came every few minutes or so, and I would hold him closely and speak softly until they passed.

The vet confirmed what Chiefand I had suspected: Distemper. He was reluctant to tell me that I needed to have Henry euthanized, but when I asked him what he would do in my situation, he finally admitted that there was only a very slim chance that the little guy could pull through and that putting him to sleep was the most humane choice.

I was given a few last moments to love on him during which time one office assistent brought in a box of Kleenex and another stuck her head in to see if I needed anything. When the moment came and the needle was gently placed under his skin, I cradled his soft brown head in my hands and whispered my thanks into his ear. "Thank you for picking us. Thank you for the last 10 days. Thank you for the love you showed us and for what you would have meant to our family if things had worked out differently. I'm really sorry that they didn't." And with that, the shaking stopped and his eyes closed for the last time. I removed his little red collar and kissed him on top of his furry brown head one more time before heading to the car.

"Where's Henry?" a chorus of voices piped from the back seat.

"He's staying here for awhile," I answered. Not altogether a lie, I told myself.

I'd been through enough trauma for one day. The Chief could handle it from here.

Food and Fun and Way Too Much Sun

Four summers ago shortly after the birth of my youngest, somebody in my husband's clan got the wonderful idea to get everyone together at the family lake house in Oklahoma ... all on the same weekend. They obviously didn't think through the ramifications of inviting THIS branch of the Potter Family Tree, what with our THREE children under the age of FOUR. It was a dreadful pain to pack up two toddlers and a newborn and all the accessories that go therewith (pack-n-play, diaper bags, portable swing, etc.), but when it was all said and done, everyone had a great time - and here's the amazing part - THEY INVITED US BACK FOR THE NEXT SUMMER!!

Here we are four years later (WITH NO INFANTS!!!) continuing the tradition, and I have to tell you, it just gets to be more fun every year. There are no "in-laws" at these weekend food-and-water fests ... everybody's just family.

Each year, the ladies of the family commemorate the weekend in a unique way. One year it was with pink light-up flip flops. The next year it was pink sunglasses. This year we all had matching pink T-shirts sporting our new logo: "The Potter Perfect Pontoon Party Weekend." Cute, huh?

A few highlights for your viewing enjoyment:








I only wish that I'd gotten pictures of the massive spread of food, because the amazing potluck is such an integral part of our fun. We really only eat one meal while we're there. It starts on Friday afternoon and doesn't end until the last person leaves. No one is allowed to talk about dieting, carbs, calories, fat grams or anything else related to health and nutrition.

You're starting to understand why we only do this once a year, right?

Gratitude

I watched you today as you took our five-year-old daughter's hand and she pulled you excitedly into line to ride Power Keg ... again.

You didn't know it, but I was watching you sit with Gavin, enjoying a cold drink on a hot afternoon while you waited for the rest of us to finish a ride.

I saw how patient you were as you filled their plates in the buffet line at lunch ... while I gabbed away on my phone behind you, unable to end an important conversation.

I've listened with admiration so many times as you've instructed the children in how to do their chores properly and watched as you've shown them just one more time how to make their beds. Or vacuum the floors. Or straighten their closets.

You probably had no idea I was watching. And listening. But I was.

And each time, I offered up another prayer of gratitude for the wonderful gift God has given our family in you. I'm blessed beyond measure, Chief, to be able to call you my husband, and the kiddos to be able to call you their daddy, their Johnson 12 Potter, Big Ol' Good Guy, Daddy Ally, and Black Bart.

Happy Father's Day! You're doing a fabulous job!

Why does this make me feel better?

Okay, maybe it's sadistic of me, but when I read this tonight, I just had to smile laugh my head off. Since I was first introduced to Beth Moore's Bible studies and videos in 1999, she has been to me the epitome of the perfect, polished Southern lady. Always gracious, always charming, always knowing the right thing to say and never forgetting to ask how your mama's doing. Never with a hair out of place or wearing the wrong shade of lipstick and never, ever breaking a sweat. At least not in public. Never missing a quiet time and always with fresh revelations from heaven from the most everyday occurrences.

That's just how I've imagined her to be and so much more.

Imagine my shock and surprise tonight to read that -- gasp! -- she has bad days sometimes, too. And -- gasp! -- that time of the month sometimes turns her into a wicked witch, too. And -- triple gasp! -- she and Keith occasionally disagree fight with each other.

I laugh not because I find humor in her day gone awry but because we all can completely relate. And because (admit it) it's so reassuring to know that underneath the perfectly coifed hair and matched lipstick and polish, we're all just women. And sometimes just making it through the day can challenge even the most spiritual among us.

Raising Godly Girls

I ran across this article by Ingrid Schlueter from Slice of Laodicea today and it raises some good points about the choices we as Christian parents are making in the raising of our daughters.

" ... many Christian girls live in a fashion that is hard to distinguish from the world. Smaller families have meant less of an opportunity for girls to learn how to be mothers. Rather than girls growing up being tutored by watching their mothers care for home and family, girls are more likely to grow up while mom works outside the home. Like secular middle-class counterparts, Christian homes and families center their lives around their kids' activities. Chances for a young girl to help care for the home or be a consistent help to her mother are few and far between. Life is often about keeping the kids happy while valuable lessons are lost in the scheduling shuffle. "

"So how should Christian girls differ from the unsaved counterparts? Their entire worldview should be different. This means that exposing girls to a lot of secular television, including the Disney Channel, warps their perspective on what it is to be a young lady ... The entertainment we allow in our homes must comport with what the children are learning from Scripture or the message is canceled out."

If you have a young lady (or two) living in your home, Schlueter's article, entitled "It's 911 Time for Christian Girlhood" is worthwhile reading. You can read it in its entirety here.

Adjusting

It happened again tonight. For the first time in a month or so.

I was walking through a Wal-Mart I don't normally shop, one that has undergone a fairly major "overhaul" in the last month or so, looking for the fabric department. My oldest is in a school play tomorrow, and I needed some red felt to make ladybug spots for a black shirt she'll be wearing.

After several minutes of wandering, it slowly began to occur to me that in the renovation, this Wal-Mart had completely eliminated its fabric department. And yarn. And all things crafty. I was dumbfounded. Sure, we have a Hancock's and Hobby Lobby nearby. And yes, the quality of their merchandise is much higher than anything you could ever find on Wal-Mart's shelves. But, where in the world will I go the next time I'm staying up until the roosters crow trying to finish a baby afghan and lose my crochet hook? Or need just one more skein of white cotton thread to complete a project? Really! I can't even imagine not being able to make a 2 a.m. run to Wally World for thread.

My mother and I have whiled away many happy hours over the years sitting in Wal-Mart leafing through the Vogue and Simplicity pattern books while sipping Coke Icee's.

It upset and surprised me to the degree that I reached for my phone. "Mom's gonna be so upset!" I thought ... and then, once again, the realization that has broadsided me a million times since September 10th.

Adjusting to the sudden loss of someone dear to you is a lot like being given a pair of really small shoes and being told you have to leave them on your feet for the rest of your life. There's never any lessening of the pain. The shoes don't get bigger, nor do your feet get smaller. You may learn to block out the pain, but it is always there. Every experience you have from that moment on is clouded by the pain which ranges anywhere from a dull ache to sharp and stabbing. There's no escaping it.

Since my mother's passing, I have watched my dear friend Angie go through the same thing. And now, another friend, Lisa, is facing the loss of her mother. I've been through everything they're experiencing, and I feel as if I should be ready with some kind of deep wisdom to share. You know, words of comfort from one who has already walked through the valley.

The problem is, I'm still there. Journeying through valley of sorrow is a very long, extremely painful trek. I used to ask the question, "How long before I don't feel this much pain? How long before I can get through a day without tears?"

I've stopped asking those questions and started accepting that the grief process is much longer than I had expected. From what I've read, working through the various stages can take as long as several years and is not a process to be hurried along. It can sometimes mean two steps forward and three steps back. And that's okay.

And it can sometimes mean flipping my phone open in the middle of Wal-Mart to call Mom about the most trivial of occurrences in my life. And being reminded all over again.

He Is Risen!

After the Sabbath, as the first light of the new week dawned, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary came to keep vigil at the tomb. Suddenly the earth reeled and rocked under their feet as God's angel came down from heaven, came right up to where they were standing. He rolled back the stone and then sat on it. Shafts of lightning blazed from him. His garments shimmered snow-white. The guards at the tomb were scared to death. They were so frightened, they couldn't move.

The angel spoke to the women: "There is nothing to fear here. I know you're looking for Jesus, the One they nailed to the cross. He is not here. He was raised, just as he said. Come and look at the place where he was placed. Now, get on your way quickly and tell his disciples, 'He is risen from the dead. He is going on ahead of you to Galilee. You will see him there.' That's the message."

The women, deep in wonder and full of joy, lost no time in leaving the tomb. They ran to tell the disciples. Then Jesus met them, stopping them in their tracks. "Good morning!" he said. They fell to their knees, embraced his feet, and worshiped him.
Matthew 28:1-9 (The Message)

A Song for Easter

In Christ Alone

In Christ alone my hope is found;
He is my light, my strength, my song;
This cornerstone, this solid ground,
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
What heights of love, what depths of peace,
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease!
My comforter, my all in all—Here in the love of Christ I stand.

In Christ alone, Who took on flesh,
Fullness of God in helpless babe!
This gift of love and righteousness,
Scorned by the ones He came to save.
Till on that cross as Jesus died,
The wrath of God was satisfied;
For ev'ry sin on Him was laid—
Here in the death of Christ I live.

There in the ground His body lay,
Light of the world by darkness slain;
Then bursting forth in glorious day,
Up from the grave He rose again!
And as He stands in victory,
Sin's curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am His and He is mine—
Bought with the precious blood of Christ.

No guilt in life, no fear in death—
This is the pow'r of Christ in me;
From life's first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow'r of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home—
Here in the pow'r of Christ I'll stand.

Words and Music by Keith Getty & Stuart TownendCopyright © 2001 Kingsway Thankyou Music

Remembering through writing

"Once again I'll go over what God has done, lay out on the table the ancient wonders; I'll ponder all the things you've accomplished, and give a long, loving look at your acts.
(Psalm 77:11-12, The Message)

I love this verse. Just the idea of the psalmist giving a "long, loving look" at the acts of God brings to mind innumerable wonders in my own life of things the Father has accomplished.

It brings me great joy to remember the Lord's work and to brag on His accomplishments. When He has done something really neat in our lives, how fun it is to "go over what God has done," relishing every detail.

Why, then, is it that so many of us suffer from spiritual amnesia, letting the miraculous details of our lives fade with time?

Perhaps that's why I am so drawn to journaling and blogging. Once written, those details are set. They might fade from our memories, but if written in ink, probably won't fade from paper. They will still be there a year from now, a decade from now, a generation from now, waiting to give new hope and encouragement to whomever reads them. They become an important part of the legacy of faith we hope to pass on to our descendents.

Remember with me this week as we journey to the Cross. Remember all that He has done, and consider with me all His mighty deeds.

And then, write them down.

This do in remembrance of me

Quiet music filled the place. The elements were passed. To my right, my oldest child sat with head bowed reverently, preparing to observe her first Communion.

And with the pastor's instructions to remember all that our Lord has done for us, my mind went back 7½ years ago to the night this precious child beside me joined our family.

* * * * *

It had been a difficult pregnancy, to say the least. Around the 30-week point, my blood pressure became dangerously high, and I found myself on complete bed rest. Despite the precautionary measures, I began having stroke-like symptoms. Each time I felt one side began to numb and my speech became garbled, it became a little more difficult to have faith that this pregnancy was going to have a happy ending.

The baby and I finally made it to the 36-week mark, and my obstetrician decided that was as far as he could allow us to go. On October 29, 1999, by emergency C-section, he delivered to us a very healthy, 4-pound, 13-ounce baby girl. Still emerging from the general anesthesia in the wee hours of the next morning, I hadn't yet held my tiny daughter when I became aware that something was terribly wrong. Slipping in and out of consciousness, I wasn't even able to alert my sleeping husband to the fact that my life was in danger. I had survived the pregnancy, now a postpartum hemorrhage was about to claim me.

Incredible peace filled me, and I somehow knew that whatever happened, it would be for the best.

Some amount of time passed, although I have no idea how much. I became aware of female voices in the room. Concerned. Placing a middle-of-the-night call to my doctor to alert him of my rapidly deteriorating condition. There was talk of a rapid transfer to the ICU. More drugs given. Transfusion begun.

"I'm not going to make it, am I?" I asked the pretty nurse, when I could finally muster the strength to open my eyes.

There was a pause, as she looked at my vitals. "No. I think you're going to be just fine," she answered.

"How can you tell?" I slurred, convinced that the next time I opened my eyes it would be God's face I saw.

"Because your blood pressure is coming up," she replied.

As much as I could, I turned my head to look at the monitor to my right and was shocked to see that I had nearly bottomed out. Of course it was coming up ... it sure couldn't go any lower.

* * * * *

As we held the elements, I opened an eye and looked at my oldest snuggled close to her daddy, and contemplated for a moment what could have been. It could be just the two of them making it through life on their own right now, the younger two having never been born.

I don't fully understand all the reasons God spared my life, but I'm thankful that He did. And I'm not only filled that gratitude that He saved my physical life, but even more that He saved my soul as well.

Remembering and reflecting. As we journey through this Holy Week in anticipation of the celebration of our Lord's resurrection, let us think back on ALL He has done for us. And let us be filled to overflowing with thankfulness for ALL His blessings.

This stopped me in my tracks

"We fear insignificance. But what we really fear is that God might call us to do something that He calls significant but that we don't." - John Hannah.

An Unusual Request

File this one under "Conversations I never thought I'd have with my 5-year-old":

Sara: "Mom, do you think you could take me to a fa-yoo-neral sometime?
Me: "A funeral?"
Sara: "Yeah! A fa-yoo-neral!"
Me: "You're kidding, right?"
Sara: "No ... it's not that I want anybody to DIE (dramatic emphasis here), but I was thinking maybe you could find somebody dead that we don't know and we could get all dressed up and go to their fa-yoo-neral!"

Yeah, and maybe that would be the beginning of a new career as a professional mourner. I'll send my best black dress to the cleaner's tomorrow.

A delayed Valentine's celebration

Chief Potter and I have never been big fans of celebrating Valentine's Day on February 14th. For one thing, the actual holiday (if you can call it that) never seems to fall on a day that we don't already have something scheduled. And, more importantly, I despise long waits in restaurants just to be seated. It's one thing to wait if you're already at a table and can munch on an appetizer or sip a soft drink. It's another thing altogether to be shoved in a small area (because who really wants to wait outside in February????) shoulder to shoulder with people you don't know while being taunted by the delicious aroma of foods that you can't yet have while your stomach has reached the perpetual growl stage. Really. We tried it once and decided that from then on we would either celebrate V-Day the weekend before or the weekend after.

When I talked to my mother-in-law about babysitting for us the Friday night after Valentine's Day, she casually offered to let us leave them at her house for the entire night, a suggestion which I promptly dismissed as being entirely too much work for her.

It only took moments after I hung up the phone to start wondering exactly why I felt that keeping three kids overnight would be "too much" for her. After all, I keep them every day all day. And work a full-time job with the chaos going on around me. And love it.

She's a very young *4 (she'd shoot me if I revealed the first digit of her age), and so after talking it over with the chief, we decided to take her up on it.

Here's how the evening went:

We dropped the kiddos off at 5:30 p.m. at their grandmother's house with instructions to obey Grandma Judy happily the first time and to not eat every single cookie she put in front of them (but wait ... that's a whole OTHER post).

By 6:30, we were seated at our favorite Thai restaurant where we both ordered our favorite dish, Evil Jungle Prince (no kidding ... I have to order it by number, because I can't manage to say the name aloud without bursting into laughter). When they deliver the stuff to the table, it never looks like very much food. The sticky rice is in one bowl, and the Evil Jungle Prince is on a plate by itself. You're given a third dish on which to serve yourself a portion of rice and cover it with EJP. Halfway through the Prince, my stomach started feeling a little full, but the stuff was so delectable (and spicy!) I ignored the messages my stomach was sending and happily served myself up another big portion of the rice and Prince. Before too long, we both had finished off our wickedly hot meal and left the restaurant headed for our next favorite destination: Lowe's.

Halfway to the car, with the February wind biting through my coat and gloves and my tummy angry with me for feeding it WAY more food than it is normally accustomed, I started rethinking the whole night and decided that my very warm child-free house sounded like a much cozier way to spend the rest of the evening than shopping for a new storm door.

Chief was all too happy to cancel our home improvement plans in the sub-freezing wind, and to home we went. On the way back to the house, he told me excitedly about a movie he'd recorded on TiVo and thought it might be something I'd enjoy.

We arrived back home shortly before 8 p.m. and after getting comfy in my new fun PJ's Chief gave me from PajamaGram, we poured ourselves something to drink (my mouth was still on fire from the Evil Jungle Prince) and settled onto the couch for a movie that would be uninterrupted by kids getting out of bed, wanting sips of water, needed extra goodnight kisses, etc. It promised to be a relaxing evening like we hadn't had in a long, long time.

I remember the opening scene and vaguely remember asking Chief the actor's name playing the main character ... and that's the last thing I remember until about 6:30 this morning. Yes, that's right, I fell asleep moments into our movie date and didn't awaken until 10½ hours later.

Yep, I'm in trouble.

The House Fairy

Anyone who has spent any time with me at all over the past few weeks has, no doubt, heard me singing the praises of FlyLady. If I could give her an award for the inspiration she has been to me (and apparently THOUSANDS, maybe MILLIONS) of weary but well-meaning wives and mothers, it would be huge. Really huge.

Through a constant flow of emails which arrive throughout the day, FlyLady has provided me with the belief that I really CAN manage my home effectively and efficiently and given me some tools to get moving in the right direction.

The latest of these tools has been the introduction of The House Fairy to my children. In case you don't know The House Fairy (and I'm assuming that most of you probably do not), she pays a visit to each child's room every day. The kids have no idea whether she will come in the morning, afternoon or evening, they just know that she WILL show up before the day is over. In an introductory letter she left before her first real visit, she promised the kiddos that at each visit she would either leave something (a cool treat if she finds a room in a condition that pleases her) OR take something(s) if the room is left untidy. She has a simple "report card" she leaves behind on each pillow that allows her to make a note of what she observed during her visit that day.

This new system has been in place now for a little over a week at the Potter Palace, and I am ASTOUNDED at the change that has come over my little ones. No longer do I have to hound them like a broken record about keeping their rooms picked up. A simple reminder that House Fairy will be making rounds "soon" motivates them to keep clothes off the floor and toys put away. One day last week, House Fairy ended up with two pairs of little girl tennis shoes and some stuffed animals that had to be "bought back" with extra chores. A few instances like that, and I think they are FINALLY beginning to learn how to get out a toy, play with it, then put it away.

If I sound like a control freak, perhaps it's only because I'm still haunted by the memory of how AWFUL I kept my room as a child. Bless my poor mother's heart, she tried her best to teach me some housekeeping skills but must have given up on me at some point as a lost cause. I had a walk-in closet that was such a disaster. I can remember piling game on a shelf up over my head with no concern for putting larger games on the bottom and smaller ones on top. They just went where they landed. Until one day when I tossed something up top and the whole pile came crashing down on my head. I lay on the floor of my closet for a long time, stunned that the shelf finally gave way and wondering how-in-heaven's-name I was EVER going to separate 79,000 various and assorted game parts and puzzle pieces back into their respective boxes. It was a nightmare I tell you. And if it harelips every cow in the great state of Texas, I am DE-TER-MINED to do my part to make sure my children learn a few organizational skills early in life. Not when they're in their 30's, like their mother.

So, House Fairy, you come visit anytime. And feel free to stop by my bedroom and check my top shelf. I think you'll like what you see.

I'm a royal

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Marchioness Sheryl the Lush of Mousehole by Sea Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

I've always been fascinated with royalty. As a 13-year-old, I watched with breathless anticipation as Princess Diana emerged from her glass coach on the arm of her father to marry Prince Charles. I rejoiced over the births of Princes William and Harry. I was devastated when the long-troubled couple divorced in the summer of 1996. And I wept for hours when the news hit the airwaves on the night of August 31, 1997, that the beautiful princess had perished in a senseless car crash.

On some level, every girl desires to be royalty. And now I am. Marchioness Sheryl the Lush of Mousehole by Sea.

2007, The Year of Order

I have deliberately held off on writing this post, because I didn't want it to seem like just another list of New Year's Resolutions which I am notorious for making ... and then breaking before the first week of January has been crossed off the calendar.

Never have I named a year before, but one night as 2006 dwindled to a end, the thought came came to me that I needed a fresh start. 2007 would be a new year for us here at The Potter Place. It would be The Year of Order.

You see, I am famous in my circle for being Disorganized with a capital D. I'm rarely, if ever, on time. My house almost always looks like a tornado hit the night before, and there has not been a single day since I embarked on this journey called Motherhood seven years ago that I haven't been missing something important. Like a cell phone. Or a set of car keys. Or my debit card.

My lifestyle, in short, has been an enormous source of stress (to me and others), and as I reflected on the previous year, the time just seemed right to make some long-overdue changes.

I know better than to try to revamp my entire life overnight. It's been attempted before with disappointing results. Okay, if I were to be honest, I'd have to say it's been attempted with NO results at all. Too much too fast = guaranteed failure, in my opinion. So, with that in mind, I am committing to myself to tackle ONE new area each month, giving myself time to adjust to every change before adding another.

In no particular order, here are a few of the changes I hope to make this year:

1. I will go to bed each weeknight at a reasonable hour. This one's going to be really tough. I am a nightowl by nature and love those hours between 8 p.m. and 1 a.m. when the kids are asleep and my creative juices start to flow. I do my best work in the wee hours but always pay for it dearly the next day. I will still allow myself a few liberties on weekends, though!
   
2. I will go to bed each night with a spotless kitchen. There's something about waking up in the morning to a sink full of the previous night's dishes soaking in Mystery Water that just puts me in a funk right off the bat. On the contrary, a bright shining sink and clean countertops energize and inspire me to create great meals for my family.
   
3. I will discipline myself to do one load of laundry a day, folding and putting away each load before washing the next. This will be a huge accomplishment for me. For years, I have followed the practice of washing, washing, and washing some more, only to let Mt. Washmore move from the dryer to an ever-growing pile on my living room sofa. Countless library books, keys, purses, and other important possessions have vanished into the cavernous depths of Mt. Washmore over the years. In addition to being a source of enormous stress as we follow our weekday morning ritual of Hunting for Matching Socks, it has also been the source of much embarassment when unexpected guests drop by.
   
4. I will make it a priority to enlist the aid of the kids and have them take ownership of their personal spaces. Chief has created a daily chore list for each child and has established a reward system based upon the number of stars they earn each week for completing their morning and afternoon chores. Although they complain about having to work more around the house (imagine that), the girls are already starting to see the benefits of keeping their play room and bedrooms tidy.
   
5. I will be more intentional about planning and preparing meals. I wish I had a dollar for every time I have bought the ingredients for a fabulous-sounding recipe only to misplace (or throw away) my weekly menu and stand scratching my head six months later wondering why, exactly, I did I buy that bag of frozen salmon??? I'd be a rich, rich woman, I tell you. From now on, I plan to post my weekly menu on the refrigerator door along with the page number of the cookbook where each recipe can be found. As each item is prepared, it will be crossed off the list. Any menu item which does not make its way to my table that week will be automatically carried over to the top of the following week's menu.

There will be more changes following these, but I think this is a great start for now. With God's help, I'm praying that this will be my "I DID IT!" year and that I can trade some old disorganized ways for a few new habits that will serve The Potter Clan much better.

I'll be keeping you posted on how it goes as the year progresses and hope that you (all two of you who read this blog) will share your home management strategies with me.

Now, it's off to unload the dishwasher and shine my stove!

Happy Birthday, Jesus!

"For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government
will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful
Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of
the increase of his government and peace there will be no
end. He will reign on David's throne and over his
kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and
righteousness from that time on and forever. " (Isaiah 9:6-7)

To think that the sinless Son of God who had dwelt in the splendor of heaven with his father since before the foundation of the earth would be willing to leave perfection to come and live as a man is something my mind cannot grasp.

Think of the nastiest motel room ever, a place where the sheets have not been changed for months, mice scurry in the walls and across the floors and mold has overtaken the bathroom. A foul stench hangs in the air, and grime covers every surface. You wouldn't think of leaving your nice, comfortable home to go check into a place like that, would you? I sure wouldn't.

Yet, that's exactly what our Savior did when he left his home and Father for 33 years to dwell among us, bridging the gap between a sinless Father and a very sinful mankind.

And that's what we celebrate every Christmas.

May the wonder of His divine gift fill your heart with joy today and every day of the coming year.

Merry CHRISTmas!

Congratulations, Honey!

Eighteen years and a few months after he took his first college course at the University of Arkansas in 1988, my Prince Charming finally received his bachelor's degree on Saturday from John Brown University.

We're so proud of you!

Hope

I've hardly been able to find the energy to blog lately. So much of what's on my mind these days relates to my efforts to make sense of my mother's death. It's deep. It's personal. And it's very difficult to parade the rawness of such emotions before the world.

I was reminded today of a night that occurred several days before my mother's surgery. It was the night following her diagnosis on August 25. That was the last night I was able to spend with her. Even though she knew she had bone cancer and was scheduled for major surgery in just a few days, the two of us watched America's Funniest Home Videos and laughed like we had not a care in the world. I will hang onto that memory for the rest of my life.

Later that night, as she slept fitfully, her rest interrupted by frequent cough attacks, I scavenged a magazine from a nearby waiting area. Who knows what prompted me to record the following quote, but I did. On the only paper I could find, a long piece of hospital toilet paper, I preserved these words:

"No story is without hope - even when it includes a wrenching chapter that involves the death of a loved one. Hope grows from the knowledge that we never have all the data at hand, that the world holds possibilities we cannot anticipate and sometimes can barely imagine."
(from Lessons in Hope by Keith Ablow, MD, September 2006 Good Housekeeping)

I must have sensed even then that my story was about to include a gut-wrenching chapter. What I didn't know was how quickly that chapter would be written.

Traditions

This past Saturday marked the 13th annual Race for the Cure event in Little Rock. And the first race I've done without my mother. Just four weeks after her death, I expected the race to be hard, but in reality it was very therapeutic.

The morning dawned with a chill in the air, but by the race's end, the temperature had risen, and we enjoyed sunny weather for the remainder of the day. This year saw a record attendance of 43,000+ women, and the excitement was palpable.

Our little group was attired in matching t-shirts designed by one of Mom's coworkers at Angie Grant Elementary. A banner at the bottom read, "In loving memory of Jewell Snyder". The only time I was moved to tears was when my sister-in-law pinned a bib on my back which read, "I race in memory of my mother, Jewell Snyder". I always felt there would come a day when I replaced my "I race in celebration" bib with one in her memory, but I never anticipated that it would be this soon.

Here are some pictures from the day:



Family and friends













Our t-shirts in Mom's memory



Even Bill was there doing what he does best to raise funds for the cure




One of the many adorable pooches walking for a cure




Visiting the cemetery afterward to place a big pink bow on Mom's grave


Breast cancer has already taken too many lives. Chances are if you have not had it yourself, you know someone who has fought this terrible disease. October is National Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and I'm encouraging every woman I know to have a mammogram if you haven't already this year. And if you're a man, talk to the women in your life about scheduling this simple, yet very important, diagnostic test. No matter what horror stories you've heard about having your mammies checked (or what bad experience you might have had in the past), it's not as bad as having a tumor go undiagnosed.

So, go on, make the phone call. Now. Do it for yourself. Do it for the people you love.