The M&M Story

I love laughing. Growing up, I frequently laughed at my father and brother with their running commentaries on most any subject presented. And now with our Big Mac around, we laugh....a lot.   Max has a natural penchant for humor. He's Brian and then some. It's sort of slapstick, Monty Python humor. Briggs, on the other hand, is a bit more serious.  I'm not sure he sees the whole point of the humorous stupidity. We watched Home Alone and Jim Carrey's Grinch this season, and Todd took the boys to see Yogi Bear.  Yes, we've had our fill of funny movies.  My favorite line from Max was, of course, a little more poetic:  "Mommy, the Grinch has fingers like sugar snap peas."   For a child who hates writing but makes ingenious connections, I think he may be a budding poet. Daddy Brian would be so proud :).

A few nights ago, we were eating dinner and all of a sudden Briggs pipes up:  "Think.  Don't drink and drive."  Okay.  Good conversation starter, considering it is the holidays and spirits typically flow.  But this is my six year old.  So we asked why and where he had learned that.....he read it on a billboard.  Makes sense.  But then he said, "Children and dogs should not drink and drive. It isn't safe." Children and dogs????  And are we talking orange juice or beer? Biting the inside of my cheeks, we pursued this line of reasoning with questions, mostly about the dogs and whether or not he understood to which drink the phrase referred. Apparently, he just figured it would be dangerous if children and dogs drink and drive because they might get hurt. We explained the difference between drinks like soda, coffee and orange juice (I had a panic for a minute because my kids have seen me drink coffee daily...as I am driving) and adult beverages.  Both seemed

Recently, I taught some poetry writing workshop lessons to Max's third grade class. It's been awhile since teaching elementary school kids, especially those under the age of 10.  I forgot what it was like to have a gaggle of little people follow you around the room itching to read their creative work or to motivate little boys who would rather play with dust bunnies than write. Such enthusiasm--with high schoolers, they would much rather talk to each other than to me--these little guys were buzzing with creativity and excitement over writing poetry.   One of Max's assignments was to write a poem about something at home and to write to the something--be it an object or an event or even a person. Dabble in personification. So he decided to write about Briggs.... Briggs [all about my brother] by Maxwell Maynor Fall 2010 Briggs you are loving you are kind you are smart in the mind. You are funny You are kind You are kinda Weird sometimes. I love you very much So I won’

Five years ago today (it was actually a Monday), Brian entered the gates of heaven.   Max's prayer this morning over breakfast:  "Dear Jesus, thank you for this day.  And thank you that five years ago Daddy had his homecoming." Briggs' prayer that followed:  "Dear Jesus, thank you for this day.  And thank you that Daddy is in heaven with you." As I reflect on this year, once again I marvel at God's faithfulness and his sweet hand of redemption. I think back to that first anniversary of his homecoming when I trudged through each moment as though I was in quicksand. Deep breath. Foot forward. I still wasn't sure it was real.  But God remained faithful and I never quite sunk so deep that I couldn't move. Today we went to see Brian's stone and Max leaned down to kiss it. He leaned up and said, "Mommy, I remember when Daddy couldn't breathe very well and had that machine.  And I asked him to play legos with me--the Duplo legos--an

B:  Why did Mario and Luigi cross the road?  To get Princess Peach and Toad. M:  Why did the Scarecrow cross the road?  To "scare" crows.

I don't like my thighs.  Never have, and probably never will.  There is just *a lot* of them--more than I want. And I know the filter from my brain to my mouth is rather thin. Rice paper thin. "Did I really just say that out loud?"  And then there is the issue of my independence.  Funny how I still think I am totally in control, yet clearly I am wrong. Create the earth? No. Make the sun shine? No. Decide how the story ends?  Not really. But the thing is...despite all my shortcomings, flaws, and insecurities, I'm beautiful. Way beautiful.   Stunning, as Lucy Van Pelt would say.   And my life is beautiful. Way beautiful. Stunning, in fact.  Grace. Again.  Beautiful, Beautiful by Francesca Battistelli Don’t know how it is You looked at me And saw the person that I could be Awakening my heart Breaking through the dark Suddenly Your grace Like sunlight burning at midnight Making my life something so Beautiful, beautiful Mercy reaching to save me All

I'm way behind on posting--there are so many beautiful tidbits that come from the "mouths of babes." I'm at the tail end of being a part of a musical (behind the scenes, of course), still adjusting to married life and systems we have yet to create, and continuing to learn the delicate balance of work/family/play. But...onto the beautiful tidbit.  Now this one occurred at 5:45 this morning and I was half asleep, so I'm sure I will miss most of the details. But M came into our bed and snuggled up close announcing--"Mommy, I had another bad dream."  This, by the way, occasionally happens.  We all have them, yes? My sweet son proceeded to tell me about people chasing him, they turned into zombies and then he said, "and that translated into me running as fast as I could to safety.  Then I woke up." I often have the same dream (though not sure I've been chased by zombies--more like the sleestaks from Land of the Lost)--and it struck me that

M:  Hey, Mommy, if there was a contest between Michaelangelo and DaVinci for the best artist, do you know who I would vote for? Mommy:  Who? M:  DaVinci. He made that important statue of David. But did you know that David was naked in the statue?  And had no arms? This conversation took place right after Max had gone to the bathroom and taken a shower. I smiled realizing that my 8-year-old, not-so-little boy was thinking about century old artists.   Yep, kind of beautiful. 

M sees a moth on the ground and promptly stomps on it. B's response:  "Max! You just killed God's (pronounced gawd's) creation!"

Until We Are Broken, Our Lives Will Be Self-Centered True strength does not come out of bravado. Until we are broken, our life will be self-centered, self-reliant; our strength will be our own. So long as you think you are really something in and of yourself, what will you need God for? I don't trust a man who hasn't suffered; I don't let a man get close to me who hasn't faced his wound. Think of the posers you know-are they the kind of man you would call at 2:00 A.M., when life is collapsing around you? Not me. I don't want cliches; I want deep, soulful truth, and that only comes when a man has walked the road I've been talking about.  As  Frederick Buechner  says, To do for yourself the best that you have it in you to do-to grit your teeth and clench your fists in order to survive the world at its harshest and worst-is, by that very act, to be unable to let something be done for you and in you that is more wonderful still. The trouble with steeling yoursel

Two weeks after my first husband entered the gates of heaven, I fell in love with Elphaba.  I didn't mean to--especially after everything I'd been through--but it was hard not to be infatuated with the green-skinned beauty who--well--defied gravity.  For many, many years--I would spend at least six Sunday nights a year with my BFF from high school seeing some of the greatest (and not so greatest) shows in history at the Fox Theatre-- Jekyll and Hyde, Bring on Da Noise, Bring on Da Funk, Footloose, Fosse --too many to count and then there was Wicked . After every show, I would call Brian on the way home and talk him through all the amazing (or not so amazing) points of the show, even so much as acting out my favorite part when I walked in the door at 10:30 p.m.  So it was a little bit off-setting when--on a late November evening--I didn't have anyone to call after I had encountered my soul sister.  My loving and most gentle little brother was the recipient of my phone call--

Last week I got married. Graciously—for a second time. My first go around donned the dress, the veil, the church, the 300 people. This time it was different. On the beach, with best friends and family. Sand and sea. Barefoot. Champagne brunch on a rooftop. Evening gathering, filled with immeasurable love and laughter. I could not have designed anything more perfect. Even with all its imperfections. As I’ve reflected on that moment of pure grace, I keep dancing around the great biblical notion of privileged suffering. Maybe it’s all those years in Los Angeles when I first learned of the “very important people’ concept—being on the list for On the Rox, getting in the side door with Vince Vaughn or hanging with Prince in the VIP room. Name-dropping. Walking on the red carpet. The Deserved. The Entitled. But what if the deserved didn’t get to be first? Instead, they were last? VIP suffering, maybe? As I’ve traversed life as a widow—one without a partner but never alone

M: "Mom, who would win if a TRex and a Dragon got in a duel but the dragon did not have his fire or wings?" B: (After being asked about his favorite part of a recently attended wedding): "The Cake and the Canoe (the bride and groom canoed across the pond to the reception).

An excerpt from Captivating : Unveiling our beauty really just means unveiling our feminine hearts. It's scary, for sure. That is why it is our greatest expression of faith, because we are going to have to trust Jesus-really trust him. We'll have to trust him that we have a beauty, that what he has said of us is true. And we'll have to trust him with how it goes when we offer it, because that is out of our control. We'll have to trust him when it hurts, and we'll have to trust him when we are finally seen and enjoyed. That's why unveiling our beauty is how we live by faith. Unveiling our beauty is our greatest expression of hope. We hope it will matter, that our beauty really does make a difference. We hope there is a greater and higher Beauty, hope we are reflecting that Beauty, and hope it will triumph. Our hope is that all is well because of Jesus, and that all will be well because of him. So we unveil beauty in hope. And finally, we unveil beauty in th

Recently we traveled (by car--it was an adventure) to Colorado to visit one of my college roommates. Four adults + six kids + lots of activities = loads of fun. Activity List: Football with the dads Park play Alpine Slide Bungee jumping (back flips rule!!) Swimming pool for the day Movie night Science museum (dinosaurs and mummy exhibits!) Ice cream cones Boy sleep over at Poppy's Turkey burgers on the grill Drum lessons with Ian Shows and Tricks in the backyard (yes, we have video) Date night for the Parentals GNO for the roommates

Going to soccer camp at WCA Making friends Drinking Gatorade Going swimming at the pool Floating down the lazy river Flying down the water slide Playing kickball in the backyard Planting basil Eating popsicles Taking evening outings Watching the Cards play Listening to music outside Taking trips to visit friends and family Colorado California Experiencing Grace Experiencing Redemption Beautiful days of summer are here.

M: Mom, do they have Aunt and Uncle Day like they have Mother's Day and Father's Day? S: No. M: Well, they should. I would make Aunt Mimi, Aunt Nealy, Uncle Peepee, and Uncle Stephen cards and do stuff for them. They deserve it! Oh, and I would wrestle Uncle Peepee.

My boys have been well-trained. Thanks, Nana. They planned everything by themselves and executed the perfect Mother's Day morning for me. There was a note on the cabinet where I keep my coffee cups. It said, "Look in here." So I did. A gorgeous card made by Max. And a yellow bracelet that said Strength on it. "Mommy, I wanted blue but Mrs. Rahm didn't have anymore, so I picked yellow. And then I saw that it said strength and I thought that fit you because we haven't had Daddy here since we were way little." Then, my little peeps (all whispering) went outside and brought me a flower that Briggs had grown in class. They had kept it alive for two whole days. Outside, hidden. Then I received a coupon book. From B--offering to do things like water the plants and give me some quiet time. And then came the hugs and kisses. The best part.

So last night we went to church. Max sang songs with the choir, one of two boys up there. What I love about him is that he does what he wants and doesn't care what anyone thinks. He sang his heart out. And Briggs--had me in tears--they picked out gifts for their family in his catechism class--and he picked out a pair of shoes for me (size 13 little girls, mind you) and was SO proud of them. All I could think of was that song they play at Christmas--Christmas Shoes--about a little boy buying shoes for his dying mother--I couldn't stop crying or hugging him. I have the sweetest little guys in the world. How I love them.

WHO THE MEEK ARE NOT Not the bristle-bearded Igors bent under burlap sacks, not peasants knee-deep in the rice paddy muck, nor the serfs whose quarter-moon sickles make the wheat fall in waves they don't get to eat. My friend the Franciscan nun says we misread that word "meek" in the Bible verse that blesses them. To undersand the meek (she says) picture a great stallion at full gallop in a meadow, who-- at his master's voice--sizes up to a stunned but instant halt. So with the strain of holding that great power in check, the muscles along the arched neck keep eddying, and only the velvet ears prick forward, awaiting the next order. -Mary Karr It's so easy to picture myself in the rice paddies. In many ways, my story--my main character--could look more like the heroine of the The Good Earth. Not that she was weak....but...I'd rather have velvet ears. And fall down the rabbit hole. And meet a wizard and fight the White Witch. And then ride the waves of a st