Thomas and I had just celebrated one year of wedded bliss in Europe— romantic strolls through Paris, skydiving in the Swiss Alps, galavanting through Germany. Right before our travels, we decided we were not going to necessarily “try” to get pregnant but were going to stop preventing and see what God had in store for us.
I just finished addressing my daughter's graduation announcements and am packing for her senior trip. Forty-six years of life has made me intimately aware of the seasons and how quickly they pass. At first, I found myself wishing seasons away, either because I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to feel the feels, or I didn’t have the time to stop and be present. Thankfully, somewhere along the way, I realized I was wishing away precious time I could never get back.
Like my mom, Frankie Hill, I would much rather be digging in the dirt than doing household chores. For me, gardening is about making connections through the Southern tradition of pass-along plants. Mom’s lily of the valley, Grandmother Carpenter’s prize iris, Mrs. Chapman’s larkspur, Mrs. Birchall’s poppies, and so many others bring such sweet memories each spring. Many of my plant benefactors are enjoying heaven’s gardens now, but I continue to feel their love every time I step outside.
It’s amazing how quickly things can change. Just a few months ago, I had never heard of the COVID-19, yet today it has become a household threat. Honestly, I’ve never seen our nation so full of fear. With the presence of 24-hour information via social media and news sources, anxiety seems to be amping up at record speed.
When my husband Brennan was growing up here in Oklahoma City, he claimed he virtually lived at his best friend’s house. He told me all about late nights playing ping pong, swimming in their pool, destroying each other in basketball, and taking plenty of sodas from the refrigerator. Sure enough, when I started dating Brennan, I was also welcomed into that home with the same open arms.
As she peered up at me, her little eyes unfocused and strained, I smiled. Her tiny fists pressed tightly to her chest as she adjusted to the intrusive, outside world I had known for some limited 25 years. My arms more than gathered her tiny body to my chest. My very own niece… miss Tobi Faye. My sister, Jess, had labored and waited for hours for this baby girl to come into the world, and had further more labored and waited for years to become a mom.
Amy Carmichael, unmarried her whole life, raised hundreds of children as her own. Sherri Hanzel, with five kids in tow, crossed oceans to spread the Gospel in a Muslim country. Gladys Aylward, with little to nothing on her back, led a village of children across communist lands to safety. Susannah Spurgeon, ill and unable to leave her own bed, began and managed a pastors’ resource ministry…
