Mama Bear (Blog #2)

love

[luhv]

noun

1.

a profoundly tender, passionate affection for another person.
2.

a feeling of warm personal attachment or deep affection, as for a parent, child, or friend.
This is what Dictionary.com tells those who search the internet to find a definition of love made out of words. But love isn’t just words. You can see love worked out in front of you is you look for it. You can hear it if you listen for it. You can feel it in the hugs your Mommy gives you. It is because of a Mommy that I write this post about love.
When life leaves you high and dry
I’ll be at your door tonight
If you need help, if you need help.
I’ll shut down the city lights,
I’ll lie, cheat, I’ll beg and bribe
To make you well, to make you well.When enemies are at your door
I’ll carry you away from war
If you need help, if you need help.
Your hope dangling by a string
I’ll share in your suffering
To make you well, to make you well.

Phil Phillips- Gone, gone, gone
My friend’s Mama Bear went to be with Jesus today. Her Mommy. The woman who her taught her to walk, who encouraged her in her dream of being a photographer. Her Mommy who held her when she cried, put colorful band aids on her boo-boo’s, showed her the wonders of Disney World, and kissed her tears away late at night. This Mommy, this warrior of light in the form of a mother, fought her last battle, heard the voice of her Heavenly Father say, “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” Now she is clothed in light. She is dancing in front of our Lord. Now, in a body of perfection, she walks on the shore with her mother and friends. It is the love of her Savior and her faith in Him, that has brought her to this shore, made her perfect, danced with her, and clothed her.
Her love for her family can be seen in the faces of her children, on the walls of her home, in the smiles of her grandson. In honor of Mama Bear, who I am sure tok the time and patience to see, taste, feel, hear, and soak in the love around her, I pray that you will do the same. See, notice, revel in what others do for you and others because they love you.
Today, for me, love has been spending 5 minutes with my brother this morning before I dropped him off at the chicken houses.
Love is when you smile for a picture for Mommy at 9:52pm.
I know love when I hear Daddy ask for the Comet so he can scrub the bath tub before Mommy takes a bubble bath.
I know love when my brother, who I was with this morning, asks me when I get home how my stomach is because he took the time to notice this morning that I wasn’t well.
I know love when I walk into a warm house and am embraced by thin, brown arms that squeeze around my waist and my backpack because she is glad I am home. And I am, too.
I am glad to be back inside the walls that protect and comfort the people who taught me to love, who love me, and who I love.
Today the love I feel for these people, my family, my brothers, sisters, my Mommy, my Daddy, hurts inside me.
It hurts because, I think for the first time, I have realized that one day, I will still love them and they will be gone.
The love that binds us now, the love that binds you to those around you, is precious. It is sacred.
Give extra hugs. Laugh hard. Cry with them. Hold them when they cry. Slow dance with them in the kitchen in front of your children. Share a milkshake with them.
And tell them, “I’ll love you long after you’re gone
And long after you’re gone, gone, gone.” Phil Phillips

My Hero(Blog #1)

photo (4)

My pajamas were soft. What surrounded my body was more than likely stretchy pants and a worn out, green T. shirt that smelled of diesel fuel and felt like Daddy. I always stole his shirts to sleep in. They were just better. The hems were always thread bare, the pockets worn through. I sat in a little wooden chair in our living room. The white pine hard wood was chilly beneath my feet. But I never would have admitted it. I liked going barefoot year round to much. The tap and hum of the 20 year old, Dove  wood heater was the only noise that drifted through the house. It was Saturday night and my hair was dripping wet from my evening bath. I winced and wrinkled my nose as I sat there, learning patience. Daddy was behind me sitting on the couch, with my curly, blonde hair in his lap that would sweep across the red, GA clay in our back yard if I leaned back in the swing set. The ends were soft and twisted and waved into baby curls that my daddy loved. That is why, on Saturday night, he and I were the only ones up. With a plastic, Dollar General comb in one hand, and my hair in the other, he patiently picked apart the birds nest that had been constructed out of my untamed hair at the base of my little neck. Those same hands and arms that were taking care of my tangled tresses, were the arms and hands that carried chainsaws and six foot logs. They were the arms and hands that were calloused from a life time made of days full of honest, dirty, long, and hard work. The muscles in those arms and hands came from carrying me and my six siblings, catching us when we fell, building our home in six months in the 1980’s. They came from building a company with nothing but a tractor and a chainsaw. They came from prayers being answered that he could continue to work in the woods with other honest men like him. It was the right, calloused hand with the comb and the left, wedding band clad hand that fingered through the knots. Every callous, every muscle, every tan line on his bicep that were there when I was a foot shorter and my hair was two feet longer, are still things that are a part of my Daddy. And he earned that appearance, the appearance of a man not afraid of dirt, weariness, or hard times, because he was patient with everything he has done and everyone he has dealt with. All the way from his employees in the woods who tell stories about very interesting activities in their pasts, to his fourth daughter waring his T. shirt while he combs her hair in the living room. By the time he would finish, my thick hair would be dry. He would give me a scruffy kiss goodnight and my little feet would make their way up the creaky, wooden staircase to find my room that Daddy built and crawl into my warm bed that Daddy designed for me.

Ephesians 4:29-30

When you talk, do not say harmful things, but say what people need—words that will help others become stronger. Then what you say will do good to those who listen to you. And do not make the Holy Spirit sad. The Spirit is God’s proof that you belong to him. God gave you the Spirit to show that God will make you free when the final day comes.