Posts tagged mother

Give Me Grace : Wanderings of a Daughter

Jan 17, 2015 24 Comments ~ Written by lisha epperson

May our sons in their youth be like plants full grown, our daughters like corner pillars cut for the structure of a palace; – Psalm 144:12

Trailing skirts, braided hair, turrets and a tower. I never walk past the towered church on 86th St and West End Avenue in New York City without imagining myself in a period piece. Say what you will but my heart belongs to the old world. I have an affinity for the architecture and fashion, the speech patterns and peculiar graces of a society set on the semblance of propriety. Even knowing the lack of adequate plumbing doesn’t deter my kindred connection to anything Romanesque, Gothic or Renaissance inspired.

♦♦♦

I spent Friday morning sitting in a pew at The Church of St. Paul and St. Andrew. Churches in the city have been a great friend to the homeschooling community. On Friday mornings my tween and teen explore algebra with a small group of children on the third floor of this beautiful church. I have the privilege of spending a few hours bathing in the perfection of midday light flooding the sanctuary.

It’s quiet and spacious. And holy. That day I sat and cried while reading a gorgeous piece of writing by Holly Smothers Grantham. She lost her mother last year and her struggle and longing, her wrestling to make peace with the now of this transition as a daughter has been hard and beautiful…all at the same time. I’ve learned so much from it. Her struggle makes me think of my own.

“But, even at her weakest, my mom never stopped throwing open wide the doors of her heart. Whenever I crouched at her bedside to feel the heat rising from her brow or curled up under the covers and clasped her hands in mine, I was received into her deepest places. Not even disease could choke out love born in a broken body. Those fissures of cell and marrow became offerings of humility and grace and I always wept in their holy presence.”

Her words washed over me. Warmed and healed me. They did their magic, filling the wordless chamber of my heart – the silent space where I wrestle with being a daughter of an aging mother…the daughter I was, the daughter I am now. My mother is changing, forgetting. The mother I remember. The one who mothered me. I need her but she needs me more and that shift is hard.

I’m living in the tight space between two worlds. In one world I’m corn-rowed and carefree, in the other I’m doing the braiding. I’m washing hair and paying bills, wiping noses and folding laundry. I’m waking up for coffee after too little sleep. I’m sending out and tucking in. I’m planning and doing… all the things she did for me. And now I wonder and worry about her… if she’s eating well… if she went out today. If she’s afraid.

I’m thinking about legacy and living well. I want to live the example my mother set for me. I want to love and hold her up during this transition. I want to live every thing she taught. How she held our hearts by melding the old and new…her life lessons and dreams, her individual creativity and inspiration to build a family…a home, a tower of love for her children…even through change.

I am her daughter.

I wander through the complex floor plan of our relationship. I’m finding my way in the spaces between rooms my mother designed. Everything is familiar and foreign – because we’re different. Both of us. Still, this season finds me meandering through the palace she built.

But our foundation is laid solid with grace. No matter how complex I find areas of affinity, threads linking, connecting me to the home she built. I’m searching but sure. I know why I’m here.

I’m here to maintain the structure of her palace. As my daughters will do in mine.

Let your handmaiden find grace in your sight…#GiveMeGrace

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Posted in christianity, faith, Give Me Grace, life, motherhood, relationships, uncategorized - Tagged #GiveMeGrace, church, daughter, grace, psalm 144:12

Food and Family : Figuring it Out {a guest post for Grace Table}

Dec 08, 2014 Leave a Comment ~ Written by lisha epperson

photo : grace table

“It was very pleasant to savor its aroma, for smells have the power to evoke the past, bringing back sounds and even other smells that have no match in the present. -Tita, Like Water for Chocolate

If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” – J.R.R Tolkien

I learned to make pancakes as a Girl Scout and remember the smell of liver and onions simmering in my mother’s kitchen. It’s still a favorite, the scent of food prepared with love, a deep childhood memory. That my mother found time to prepare meals every day amazes me now. We never ate out and rarely had company. No take out Chinese or “save the day” pizza. My mother cooked every day. Only as an adult can I understand a little about how hard her life alone with four children must have been. How hard it must have been to make it happen in the kitchen… every day.

So what’s with this passion for food and fellowship. I’m still not quite sure but I guess it was her…in spite of the circumstances she prepared every meal with love. I’m sure I felt that. It was one of the many ways she showed love.

But I didn’t learn to cook at home. I’m a recipe girl through and through. I tweak to make things mine but I know how to follow a recipe. A clear recipe offers a guideline and serves as a foundation for safe exploration. My first cookbook was B. Smith’s Entertaining and Cooking for Friends, purchased in Costco for $15. This book was my food bible. Her recipes, scriptural revelation for the meals I’d prepare for my new husband. In the tiny kitchen of our first apartment I’d cook gourmet soul food by candlelight – thoroughly reading each instruction….chapter and verse. Listening to Sade and Nina Simone I’d lean into the poetry of a perfect dish.

Join me at Grace Table to hear the rest of my culinary journey.

#GraceTable#food #family #faith

Posted in christianity, faith, Guest Post, life, nutrition, parenting, uncategorized - Tagged B. Smith, B. Smith's, family, food, Grace Table, kitchen

Give Me Grace : Sarah Laughed

Aug 09, 2014 47 Comments ~ Written by lisha epperson

“Sarah Laughed” by Rae Antonoff

11-12 Abraham and Sarah were old by this time, very old. Sarah was far past the age for having babies. Sarah laughed within herself, “An old woman like me? Get pregnant? With this old man of a husband?” (Genesis 19 11-12 MSG)

Sarah lied. She said, “I didn’t laugh,” because she was afraid. But he said, “Yes you did; you laughed.” (‭Genesis‬ ‭18‬:‭15‬ MSG)

Abraham was a hundred years old when his son Isaac was born. Sarah said, God has blessed me with laughter and all who get the news will laugh with me! (‭Genesis‬ ‭21‬:‭5-6‬ MSG)

Sarah laughed.

We were on our way home. 4 days 3 nights. A minivan, my love and lovelies. After a few days away we were on our way home. Camping at Lake George was beautiful but one can eat only so many grilled to perfection burgers. Besides, the morning run to the bathroom with Chailah was getting old. Note to self, next time? Bring a porta-a-potty.

South bound traffic on I87 crawled but the sound of laughter filled the car. It was the sound of children responding to a few days of fresh air, good food and extra loving. They were happy. Punch drunk from marshmallows and late nights by a fire – our mini vacation had done them well.

Laughter. I laughed too. In that moment God reminded me how much my laughter has changed.

Pause. Rewind, freeze frame, flashback. Click. Click. Click. Remember. It was as if I’d dreamed the moment and in it, remembered Sarah. Sarah’s laughter. At one time it was my own. Never mind what people said, for the most part they were encouraging. Months turned years sprinkled with baby showers and holidays found me holding little more than a dream. My empty arms foretold the story of the ones I lost. At least that’s how it felt to me. I ached for a child, felt my heart-break for a child.

It was me. I didn’t believe. I was my worst enemy, my only rival. Believing the god of fertility hadn’t done its magical dance over me, I pushed aside the one true God who said He loved me. Anyway.

It was easier to toy around with lesser gods than put my hope in the all-powerful. Part of me let go of believing. Because believing hurts. But I know the body shiver of concealed laughter, of the self-deprecating laugh Sarah gave. Part disbelief, part self preservation…sometimes we laugh to dull our senses. But each time I did it, I brushed aside my blessing. Dismissed His power. Believing is hard but doubt is harmful to your health. Laughter hid the dis-ease of disbelief.

I did, I chuckled “yeah right” with Sarah. Sarah laughed and so did I.

And I would have lied about it too.

Yet, that moment was part of every longing for motherhood, every hope against denial, every reason for wanting. It was part of my souls song. My childhood memories, my destiny. And I heard it in their laughter.

Three boys and two girls. Gods great provision against my hopeless situation. Only He always knew. And held my broken winged body close whispering don’t give up, keep believing, time will heal, be willing to alter the dream, take a different path. To listen – even when I didn’t understand.

Their laughter filled me with joy. Ringing through my mother spirit as a dance I’ve known since the beginning of time. Rocking me gently, back and forth.

It was his promise manifested as a tickle in my throat. And I leaned forward to release it with a few tears. My delight in everything and nothing. The moment. I was made for it. My laughter transformed. Full and free. Lighthearted, unburdened. My doubt, like Sarah’s, redeemed as unbridled faith.

Three boys and two girls. I laugh within myself and I think God laughs too.

Let your handmaiden find grace in your sight…#GiveMeGrace

♥

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*** I found the beautiful work of Rae Antonoff on Etsy.***

Posted in christianity, faith, Give Me Grace, infertility, life, motherhood, uncategorized - Tagged #GiveMeGrace, children, dance, dream, faith, Genesis 18:15, God, laughter, rae antonoff, Sarah, sarah laughed

Give Me Grace : A Second Chance

Jul 26, 2014 49 Comments ~ Written by lisha epperson

flickr cc : vinoth chandar

Second chance…

GOD, my God, I yelled for help and you put me together. GOD, you pulled me out of the grave, gave me another chance at life when I was down-and-out. (‭Psalm‬ ‭30‬:‭2-3‬ MSG)

You did it: you changed wild lament into whirling dance; You ripped off my black mourning band and decked me with wildflowers. I’m about to burst with song; I can’t keep quiet about you. GOD, my God, I can’t thank you enough. (‭Psalm‬ ‭30‬:‭1-12‬ MSG)

A baby. Swaddled potential and a basket of dreams. New life. Gods’ promise of hope. A wished upon falling star…captured.

My friend is the new mama of a healthy baby girl. And today, I write through happy tears because she’s been granted a second chance.

The miracle of birth is not lost on me and I have a God story to tell. I hold the stories of victory close because I know the battle for motherhood is real. There’s something special about the testimonies of women who fight for the title. My friend is an infertility warrior. We met on the field.

She is the mother of one son through adoption. A son whose sudden passing shattered every thing she knew about the world. It’s said a mother shouldn’t have to bury her child and tasting even a sip of that bitter brew, through her experience, tells me the saying is true.

“I’m mad at God.”

The pain in these words rang through the halls as I sat outside a memorial service delivered by Reverend Calvin Butts. He was referring to the untimely passing of a young mother in our community. I knew what he meant and appreciated his transparency in that moment. His humanity couldn’t comprehend why something so terrible had to happen. He was thinking of the husband and child she left behind…and he’d loved her and it hurt. The reverend said those words through tears.

So hearing the news of my friends loss at an annual picnic a few years ago was more than any of us could bear. It wasn’t fair. I was mad at God too. I know He’s sovereign but I’ll be honest – I was mad anyway.

Last night I heard the news. She gets a second chance. A second chance at motherhood, a first chance at a daughter, another chance at life.

I drank in the picture of their daughter and prayed His favor over their family. They aren’t young, or new parents. They’re brave and wise. This is a bold step of faith and they’ll need God, like we all do, to raise a little girl for His glory. She’s here! I imagine their sorrow turned joy, their mourning turned dancing. They’re celebrating the life of a son…gone too soon, the grace gift of a daughter and a God who declares this season new – a second chance.

Rejoice with me. Her name is Mariel.

and this song, a little gospel in my head – “Special Gift” by Donnie McClurkin

heaven sent me a wonderful, very special, beautiful gift

Let your handmaiden find grace in your sight…#GiveMeGrace

♥

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Posted in adoption, christianity, faith, Give Me Grace, infertility, life, motherhood, parenting, uncategorized - Tagged #GiveMeGrace, God, hope, second chance, women

Redeeming the Silence

May 10, 2014 ~ Written by lisha epperson

We’re choosing silence for Mother’s Day. In solidarity with the mothers of the nearly 300 girls, kidnapped from their school in Nigeria and in partnership with Jumping Tandem, we’re redeeming the silence through prayer and reflection. Honoring those who mother …everywhere. To read more about it and for a link to petitions* you can sign to support efforts to #BringBackOurGirls, click here.

*comments are closed for this post…instead I ask you click through on the link above and lend your support by signing one of the online petitions. Many have not met their required goals and need your signature. Thanks.

Posted in christianity, faith, life, motherhood, parenting, uncategorized - Tagged #bringbackourgirls, jumping tandem, mother's day, silence

Mother’s Day Reflection {guest post by Renee Baron Donatich}

May 09, 2014 4 Comments ~ Written by lisha epperson

Renee and I met on a family day picnic for adoptive parents at Spence Chapin (an adoption agency in NYC). We’re Spence Mommies. Automatic sisters whether or not we ever clock in the hours one might imagine necessary to forge a bloodless bond. The shared experience of adoption ties us. Period. I asked Renee to write a piece for the Last Girl On the Hill series on motherhood and Mother’s Day after adoption. She offers a brave collection of words on the bittersweet challenge of finding and redefining oneself within the context of a personal journey. Reading her words made me remember the complex dance of reconciliation with God and ourselves. Renee shares her story. Listen.

all photos :R.B.Donatich

When Lisha asked me to write about my first Mother’s Day after adoption, I eagerly agreed thinking of the charming anecdotes I could spin of a beautiful day with the babies I had always wanted. It’s funny how memory works though. When faced with the blank page, other memories eclipsed the ones I wanted to recall. I couldn’t remember much about the first Mother’s Day after my twins came home. I know it had to be pleasant: that my husband bought me flowers and there were phone calls from my friends and family. But I don’t remember the day as particularly special. What I can remember however, quite vividly, are the Mother’s Day before it; Mother’s Days where I was waiting, grieving, trying to put on a good face while family members struggled to say encouraging things, things I often took the wrong way. At first, I was consumed with my inability to have children biologically. Later, the anger seeped in when we did not quickly find a suitable match for adoption. I remember the waiting…the waiting….oh, the waiting.

There was more. My sons from my husband’s first marriage struggled with the absence of their biological mother, which compounded the issue. I knew that they saw me as a mother figure and loved me, but I also knew they yearned for her. Most of the time, we were happy forging ahead as a family. We created our own rites and rituals, but on Mother’s Day, I could tell they missed her. I felt like a fraud because I couldn’t make it better for them, and I was angry with her for relocating so far away. We just tried to make the best of what was clearly a complicated, emotionally-wrought day. I don’t know how we made it through those trying early years, but thankfully we did.

By the time our babies did arrive, I had waited a very long six years. No one can sustain the amalgam of emotions accompanying infertility for that amount of time without coming to peace with it, even only nominally. In retrospect, I realize that I suffered from a rigid notion of what it meant to be a mother, and the only way to move forward was to challenge that notion and find an alternative way to think about motherhood.

In her inspiring 2009 TED talk, award-winning Nigerian novelist Chimimanda Ngozi Adichie notes that there is danger in the single story that keeps us away from seeing the realities of our and other people’s lives as they truly are; we see one thing — the “script” that society sets for us — and the power of that narrative casts a shadow over other, equally compelling experiences of the world. Despite witnessing many models of motherhood throughout my life, I always expected that mine would fit into the fairy-tale, cookie cutter mommy narrative.

When it didn’t, it took strength, faith, and prayers (not necessarily my own) to get to a place where I could recognize that holding on to that script had the potential to destroy me and my family. In the language of drug addiction, I had to “hit bottom” before I could move on to find my own story of motherhood wherein I could encourage my sons to resolve their issues with their biological mother and teach my twins to leave a space in their heart for theirs. In a space where there’s room for multiple narratives of motherhood, there is room for – no, there’s grace in — generosity of heart.

I had to learn that being myself, being my best self, was the only thing I needed to be a mother. I had to open my eyes and see that all around me there were other stories of mothering/motherhood. Here are just a few:

• The aunts, grandmothers, neighbors, and teachers, who babysit, feed, clothe, take in, and subsidize the children of their loved ones when those loved ones cannot do it by themselves.
• The mothers who love not because their children resemble someone in their family but because these children ARE.
• Fathers who are both mother and father to their children.
• The mothers who allow others to parent their children because they know they can’t.
The single story of motherhood gets a lot of attention on Mother’s Day, so I would like to salute the ones that don’t fit so easily into it – the ones, like me, who had to create another narrative.

Happy Mother’s Day!

Posted in adoption, christianity, faith, infertility, last girl on the hill (blog series on fertility and faith), life, motherhood, parenting, uncategorized - Tagged children, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Day, God, mother's day, spence chapin, Ted talk

Five Minute Friday : Mess

May 02, 2014 13 Comments ~ Written by lisha epperson

photo: flickr cc/ randy perteit

Underground…we all go offline. We used to anyway. A few of the highly trafficked stations in the city offer wi-fi now. But generally the subway is an internet free space. Once in a while though, between stations a signal will come through, some kind of portal in the cosmic free space opens and a message escapes. You’ll hear what has become an unfamiliar sound down under. A message notification.

The notification was mine. Balancing 3 grocery bags at my feet, I tucked my book under an arm to grab my phone. It was a message. 4 messages in a row. All from family members. The stream of texts highlighting my maiden name connected me to my childhood. My life as daughter, sister. I thought of my mother.

She hasn’t been well lately. Early signs of age related dementia have changed her life. The past year, the worst. And I’ve felt guilty because I haven’t been able to keep up. In the mess of my daily life I haven’t transitioned well. The adjustment from needy to needed daughter has been slow. My mother is martyr supreme…maybe to a fault but she handles her business. She lives her life, her way, on her terms. I’ve come to rely on that.

I got the message at 72nd street and had to ride until 110th. Two stops on the uptown express. Five minutes, tops. Five minutes to explore every possible twist in the why of this confusing stream. And my mind, of course, sets a bulls-eye for the “what if” of her passing.

At 96th Street I was still there. Still processing. The train jolted suddenly and brought me out of it for a moment…just long enough to notice the pungent sticky smell of sweat trapped in an unvented car, the passenger behind me zoning out in a lip sync fury, fire orange “Dre Beats” head phones on blast. The mama of littles navigating nap time truths with her daughter. “Try not to sleep honey. I can’t carry you” she said to her preschool daughter. This is the mess of the noon day rush. And there I was… overdressed in the center of the car. Clutching a germ laden pole and wondering how I’d tell my son, who was planning to meet me at the station, his grand mother died.

We pulled into the station at 110th Street, train cars creaking and groaning the misery of a hundred year old system. I waddled off under the weight of 3 heavily packed Trader Joes paper bags. My balancing act wasn’t working though. I’d been thrown off kilter – in the middle of the unexpected. I needed help but was afraid to ask for it. The possibility of keeling over from unbalanced shopping bags is real and a perfect metaphor for the mess of figuring out dementia and aging parents and change and ….life. This is the mess of life.

And as suddenly as they appeared, the feelings of worry left. Because my mother knows the Lord. She’s already sealed her hearts home and looks forward to the glory of heaven. In the mess of this life….she’s already said yes.

I managed to make it up the stairs and packages in tact, scanned the park side of the street for my teen boy/man. He was far enough away for me to make the call.

A check in with my youngest brother revealed the why of the messages. All good news. My mothers first grandchild is graduating from Rutgers University this spring. Plans are under way for a huge celebration. The original message tagged each family member, assuring for all, an intimate knowledge of every party planning detail. Sigh. Technology.

My mother is well and I, well I’m growing and changing. Becoming the daughter she needs today. Praise God.

joining Lisa Jo and friends for Five Minute Friday

Posted in christianity, faith, life, parenting, relationships, uncategorized - Tagged daughter, five minute friday, God, mess, train

When You Don’t Have Children {guest post by Dawn Hewitt for #NIAW}

Apr 22, 2014 11 Comments ~ Written by lisha epperson

Dawn and I have been friends for years. Cut from the same cloth, we share a love for fashion, art, nutrition and health. We have similar reproductive histories and bonded over that in late night conversations and long walks in the city. We love God and clapped alongside each other on countless Sundays. She moved to Florida a few years ago and I miss her quirky sense of humor. We reconnected on-line a year ago when we both started blogs. Hers is the opinion I look for when I doubt my words. She’s coached me through my most popular posts. I’m honored to host her during National Infertility Awareness Week ( #NIAW ). Today Dawn tells it. And I promise, you’re going to want to meet and hug her after reading. Show her some warrior love in the comments and get to know her better on her blog Tall Girl – Late Bloom

flickr cc : d. sharon pruitt

I love children and most kids that I know, love me. I love the way babies pull my hair and my earrings and pinch the mole on my face, how they laugh with their whole bodies. The way toddlers document their experiences with crayons and paper and try to do everything the adults around them do. They really do make my heart melt.

On the other hand I’m blessed because when I’m done playing with them I get to give them back to mommy and daddy and go home to a quiet house, go on vacation when I want, stay out late, whatever it may be, I only answer to myself.

I get to be the cool aunt, known for having the gift of extreme silliness. When one of my nephews was seven and was having a rough day, I took him in my lap and hugged and tickled him until he couldn’t help giggling. He said to me “Aunt Dawn you should have kids cause you sooo… nice and you know how to make kids feel better!!” I was struck by the sweetness of his words but I rationalized that I would rather not take the chance… It was too dangerous for me to be in charge of an actual human being.

No, other people had children; I am still trying to raise myself. I’m constantly asked, almost every day, why I don’t have children. I find that question very confusing, after all it’s not as if you can just create the perfect father out of thin air, outside of that who would I be having this baby with? Even if I wanted a baby… if there are no decent, single, father-material men anywhere in sight. I have no idea how to remedy that situation. I dated two guys one after the other, both of whom wanted me to have their babies, but neither of them wanted to call me their girlfriend, they both asked why I wanted to label the relationship. Needless to say neither one of these blossomed into anything serious.

When I did get married my husband also begged me to have a baby, good thing I never got pregnant, our marriage only lasted 2 years. I’m in my mid-forties and I’ve had serious issues with reproductive health and I haven’t yet been involved with a man who was actually father material.

But I have to admit, within the last few months I have felt like something is missing in my life. I try to look into the future and it seems very lonely, no husband or children… While I believe it’s possible I might meet someone great and get married again, I don’t see myself being able to give birth simply because of my age.

flickr cc : d. sharon pruitt

That thought doesn’t really upset me, what I do find disturbing is that due to the type of childhood that I had, I never saw myself as a mother. I wonder sometimes if that made me approach life in such a way that resulted in me not even considering having children.

I was five years old when I decided that not every person capable of giving birth should have children. My mother was days away from giving birth to my baby brother when her and my father started one of their fights, he quickly used his size against her, as usual, throwing her to the floor and kicking her in the belly over and over again, shouting that he had told her he didn’t want any more kids.

My sister and I tried to make him stop to no avail, we were too little. I recall the cold perspiration which made my clothes stick to me; I worried that the neighbors would be calling the cops any minute now and wondered if this time my father would actually get arrested and thought about how violent my mom could be to us kids after my dad beat her up. I knew this was no life for a kid, I was sick of being scared.

A few minutes later my father left, the loud slamming of the door made me jump. My mother slowly got up, brushed herself off and limped into the kitchen. For the rest of the day my mind asked itself “why him?” As in, of all the men in the world, why did she choose to marry and keep having babies for him? It puzzled me, taxed my brain.

I made a childish promise to myself… that would never be me. Never, ever, ever.

No marriage, no babies, I would be free as soon as I got old enough to leave home. When my dad got home later, into the awkward silence he put on one of his Bob Marley records and played “No Woman No Cry.” I found his coded apology predictable, disgusting and pathetic.

As I grew I would often think that my mother and my father should be ashamed for bringing children into the unstable environment their passions and deficiencies had created. As for my mom, she was more concerned with how we looked to the outside world, beautiful home, ribbons in our hair. This is why as I grew up I became more and more invisible, transparent, like a ghost, staying under the radar made it easier to exist in such a negative environment.

Whenever I tried to get something out of life I was shot down.

Like when I was 14 and my guidance counselor asked me to be in a Miss Teen pageant, I was so thrilled, I took the form home to my mother to sign, she read it over quickly and with a smirk said “I’m not signing this… you’re not even pretty Dawn, you’ll just get your feelings hurt…” The crisp white paper made a sound like a zipper as she folded it in half then handed it back to me. Again I thought that if there was the slightest chance I would ever treat a child of mine that way… I would rather not have any. After all, don’t people parent the way they were parented, wouldn’t the tendency for cruelty and violence be baked into my character despite my best efforts?

I felt that the small chance I had of ever being a good mother was far outweighed by my conditioning and I felt that no child, including me, deserved to be parented by someone who’s understanding of children was limited to the circumstance of their own awful childhood.

flickr cc : d. sharon pruitt

But time has marched on and changed like a river imperceptibly re-routing itself. It’s been a hard conclusion to reach… but as bad as things were, I guess my parents did the best they could, certainly better than their parents. Through the years have met many people who have been through far worse things and still turned out to be fantastic parents. Maybe if I had my own children I could have been better than mine were…

Ultimately I feel ready to face the fact that even though my circumstances are not perfect… that I can adopt one day and give a loving and safe home to a deserving child of which there are too many in this world. If I have the pleasure, I will promise to be all about the business of helping them chase and attain their dreams.

Anything is possible.

a post for Last Girl On The Hill : a blog series on fertility and faith

Posted in adoption, christianity, faith, infertility, motherhood, relationships, uncategorized - Tagged #NIAW, aunt, blog, child-free, childhood, children, father, Life, national infertility awareness week

My Favorite Lady :: a memory

Feb 25, 2014 18 Comments ~ Written by lisha epperson

I loved to slip away to my mothers’ room. Whenever I sensed the opportunity, I’d slide the heavy wooden doors open to enter her world. There I’d hear the soundtrack of my soul , an endless rotation of my favorite music flowing through my mind. And every song reminded me of her – my favorite lady.

My mother had a bedroom set. Three matching pieces. Bed, armoire and dresser/vanity. I loved the vanity. The large three paneled mirror, a soul reflection and glimpse into my future. Me. A woman. I spent hours in my mother’s room tinkering with objects on her vanity. Things only a woman would have.

Cold cream, lipstick, small pictures of faraway but familiar faces framing the mirrors. They were cousins and friends from her long ago life in Demopolis, Alabama. On rare occasions she’d leave her wedding band in a swan-topped crystal bowl. The rose gold band, huge in my little girl hands, felt holy but unreal. Alternating stars and moons encircled the gently worn band. Foreshadowing the mismatched union of a Christian girl who fell in love in the big city.

She married a man who embraced the idea of many wives and not much else of the Muslim faith. She was too young to fully understand the complications that choice would bring. Back then, I’d already decided their arrangement was complicated. There were too many people involved. Nothing in my parents relationship resembled anything like the love I saw on TV or knew in my heart a marriage was supposed to be.

My mother wore little jewelry but the pieces she owned were classic and stylish if not authentic. Pearls. Delicate studs, a nice watch. The pearls weren’t real. Neither were the stones that, to me, looked like diamonds. And the watch …maybe a great sale in the mid-range category at Macys. Nothing special really. But she was. She loved us so well it covered a lot of the painful parts. We were happy.

It seems I’m there now. Becoming the woman I spent so much time dreaming about. I was going for a combination of my mother, Nancy Wilson and Marilynn McCoo. A little too rough for pearls, I blended in a bit of Nina Simone…maybe a little Rita Marley. I’ve always connected to an image of a tough sort of warrior princess. A queen with spunk and heart.

“I’ve been hurt in love 3 times. Once as a baby, then as a lady. Now I’m a woman.” – Nancy Wilson

“One less bell to answer, one less egg to fry….” – Marilyn McCoo

“Birds flyin’ high, you know how I feel
Sun in the sky, you know how I feel
Breeze driftin’ on by, you know how I feel
It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me….and I’m feeling good” – Nina Simone

Rita Marley
raw beauty and style

I sang the words to songs like these while rummaging through my mothers drawer. The nylon slips and bra she wore when it was hot fascinated me. My mother was elegance I could touch. In my world she was a celebrity…clearly slumming it with the likes of us. Obviously dodging her many fans by camouflaging herself as an ordinary woman. I imagined she had a life that didn’t include chasing kids in department stores, cold cups of instant coffee or a husband that didn’t choose her or us….first.

At her vanity I sighed and sang….giving voice to feelings I didn’t have the emotional vocabulary to express. At her vanity, I felt the dreams for my life mingle with her longing for another. Becoming one.

an exercise in memoir writing shared with the community at #TellHisStory. Thanks Jennifer for the space to share this and the friends who’ll read it

Posted in christianity, faith, life, memoir, relationships, uncategorized - Tagged #TellHisStory, marilyn mccoo, marriage, Nancy Wilson, Nina Simone, Rita Marley, woman

Five Minute Friday :: Grace

Nov 02, 2013 11 Comments ~ Written by lisha epperson

a moment of hard-won, quiet grace…

Grace

He’s 3. All charming, willful, semi-obnoxious boy and he didn’t say a word.
I’d been gone 3 days and as many nights. In 12 years of parenting…I hadn’t missed one. Not one goodnight, not one performance, not one appointment. Because I’m always there. I’m that mama.

You don’t get to choose the way you parent. I didn’t know I’d co-sleep, attempt adoptive nursing, attachment parent or home educate. Those were things I found out about myself when I became a mother. Sure,you can choose many things, but the way I mother came so naturally, so instinctual…I don’t think there was any other way for me to be….their mother.

So I arrive home after 3 days in South Carolina, full and happily marinated in the word but feeling a little guilty. Guilty because…he’s the baby and I left and I hadn’t done that with the others……

And my 3-year-old, after the cries and calls for Mama from the older kids, climbs into my lap and sits. He sits. And nestles into my chest. Burrowing deep into the nest of his long-lost home. He cuddles into my neck and rubs my arms. Loving me with his hands, he calls it. But he doesn’t say a word. And I know, in that moment, I’m breathing the grace of motherhood. And he didn’t have to say a word.

Grace is like that. Grace speaks when we have no words.

Joining Lisa Jo and friends at Five Minute Friday.

Posted in christianity, faith, love, motherhood, relationships, uncategorized - Tagged five minute friday, grace

Posts tagged mother

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Let your handmaiden find grace in your sight…#GiveMeGrace

♥

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When You Don’t Have Children {guest post by Dawn Hewitt for #NIAW}

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Five Minute Friday :: Grace

Grace

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