Something Terrible Happened Today

Something terrible happened today. I don't know exactly when it happened. It may have been when I was running on the treadmill with my gym girls teaching Tread n Shed; maybe it happened when I was teaching water aerobics to some of my favorite senior citizens, many of whom are former teachers, school secretaries, and bus drivers. Maybe this horrible and senseless act of violence occurred at 10:40, the designated time for Tanner and his class to receive their AR awards. Tanner had been so excited when I dropped him off at school, and because of who he is, he told me not to worry that I couldn't be there to see him get his 80 point sticker. We shouldn't have to worry when we drop our kids off at school, should we?

I can't help but think of all the other students who went to school today, expecting to celebrate their achievements, test their knowledge on a tough science test, or maybe participate in some much-anticipated Christmas celebration. While our kids were smiling for cameras, dancing with their friends, and gluing Popsicle sticks into Christmas trees, others were living the kind of horror that we don't even let our kids watch on television. All those things we as parents try to shield our babies from, close their eyes to, came to life today in Connecticut. How to make sense of that? What kind of test has no right answers, just a bunch of empty blanks with no solutions, no do-overs, no retakes? I keep seeing the same responses from people on Facebook: how could this happen, what kind of person does this type of thing to 5 year old children? All rhetorical questions, I know, but I think beneath all those rhetorical questions lies a real need for answers. We can't fix what happened in Connecticut, but can we prevent it? That's a scary question.

I don't know when it happened, but I do know that I have NO answers for why things like this happen, why people see violence as a means to an end, why we have no respect for the sanctity of life. Apparently, my children haven't heard anything about what is being called the worst school shooting in history. I plan to keep it that way, so unless one of them finds out on his own, I think I'll keep it to myself. Of course, I was a little more "overjoyed" to see them than usual at car rider pick up; I played tennis ball with Tanner in the middle of the parking lot while we waited on Tucker, not really caring what other parents thought of my softball toss; and I figured that on the way home we might make a detour and have an after school snack. I'm going to spend the rest of the afternoon watching "Mickey's Christmas" with Tate; I'm going to smile at them a little more, laugh with them a little more, let them laugh at me whenever they want, and kiss them EVERY morning at drop off.

And I'm going to pray. And pray some more. And keep on praying that our tv's and radios, our Facebooks and texts never again interrupt our days with the kind of information they gave us today.

From Ozzy's Uck to Willie Robertson's Duck

The first reality tv show I can remember watching was Ozzy Osbourne's; I don't remember if it even had a catchy "reality tv" name. Tucker was a wee lad, just starting to toddle around the house, and one lazy Sunday afternoon I scrolled through the channel selections and found a marathon showing of Ozzy and his family. I guess curiosity must have killed the cat, because I flipped to the channel and all I can remember was cuss word, cuss word, cuss word, and a really big house. The good news is that I didn't stay long on that channel, evidenced by the fact that I can't remember anything other than cuss word, cuss word, cuss word, and a really big house. I couldn't then, and I still can't today, allow myself to watch things that I KNOW aren't pleasing to God. I find myself struggling with than one sometimes, but when someone tells her son or daughter to shut the **** up, that's a clear cut sign for me--it's time to keep flipping.

I guess what is most surprising is that it became acceptable to air things like this, as long as the editors are *bleeping* the words out and shadowing any other unfortunate gestures made from one friend to another. I know this because shows like this are everywhere now. Morals are gone, niceness isn't as funny as meanness, and manners are a thing of the past. The even scarier thing is that the shows come on at all times of the day, and the horrible word choice and innuendos have slipped into the few remaining sitcoms on TV at night. Used to be we could turn the TV on at 8 o' clock on a school night and feel pretty confident that whatever was on would not end up in a one-on-one conversation with Dad in the back room away from the brothers who haven't caught on yet.

So as we lament the passing of quality TV and try to shield our babies (11 is still a baby, y'all, especially to his mother) from growing up too quickly, along comes a show about rednecks eating squirrel brains, hunting ducks, and blowing things up. I realize that West Monroe is just a short skip from where I grew up, and I have spent some quality time in Louisiana, but when Coach suggested we tune in to this new phenomenon everyone had been talking about, I was skeptical. Frogs scare me, guns scare me, and if someone offered me a bowl of squirrel stew, I might cry (because deep down my momma raised me right, and if someone offers me something in her house, by golly I have to eat it).

What I found (and am tuned into religiously every Wednesday night) is a family not unlike my own. I love that all the brothers work together and visit their Momma all the time; in fact, I'm working on coming up with a multimillion dollar industry that will insure that all three of my boys can NEVER go too far from home. I love that the grand kids say "yes, ma'am" and "yes sir" in their sweet, country accents. I love that the wives on the show have been shown on more than one occasion doing things for their church. I love that there is never a cuss word spoken. I love that when my kids watch, they are unknowingly witnessing an example of a godly family, where men appreciate their wives, women respect their husbands, and children still spend time with their parents and grandparents. Most of all, I'd be lying if I said I didn't get a little choked up every time the show closes and Phil says his prayer. It isn't contrived, it isn't funny, it isn't propaganda. It is just who they are.

And apparently America loves who they are: Facebook pages are lit up with Likes for just about every member of the family, the main talk at the middle school these days is the latest episode and Jase's shenanigans, and people I know are planning to name their babies Silas, nickname Si.

I've heard folks speculate that Duck Dynasty is just another fad, soon to pass in time. I hope not. Maybe ten years from now, America will still be talking about Willie and his ducks; and the youngsters will cock their heads, look at me all funny, and ask "Ozzy who?"

And that is my closing prayer.

Today was home school Sunday School again at our house. Coach has a Thursday night game this week, thus a Sunday practice (yes, they do exist), so in lieu of trucking my three munchkins to church alone, I opted for my own life lesson from the KJV. I had a great idea to work with, and I have to admit, I found MORE material to choose from than I could incorporate into my adorable worksheet. So I narrowed it down and we got to work.

Our topic was fear, and we started out pretty basic. We talked about things that fourth and sixth graders, not necessarily them, but any fourth and sixth graders might find frightening. Their answers were good, and they were taking me seriously (I had thought about whipping out a copy of my teaching certificate for credentials, but it wasn't necessary). Tanner said going to the principal's office; Tucker suggested breaking a bone, along with some others. "All valid fears," I commended. We were rolling by then, so I got ready to hit them with the scriptures, when one of them turned it around on me and asked me what my greatest fear was. After I thought about it for a few minutes, I told them I had already realized my greatest fear and will testify to this day that without God, I would never have known how to face and overcome that fear.

All parents' worst fear is to see their child hurt or suffering, sometimes it is physical pain, other times it is emotional. My worst fear came with the news (from a not-so-sympathetic NP) that my water had definitely broken at 24 weeks and it didn't "look good." From there we spent 17 weeks with a most sympathetic, yet stubbornly tenacious NICU crew that transferred my hastily scribbled "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me" verse from room to room, bed to bed. Never was Tanner without that rag-tag verse, thanks to some pretty special ladies. I still have that piece of paper with all the cards and prayers lists we were sent, and trust me, that is definitely something I'm grabbing in the event of a house fire.

I felt led to write about this as I prayed this morning for another baby T, little Tripp from Winder who was injured when a tree limb fell and struck him on the head. Right now, his mom and dad are facing their biggest fear, and I wish for them the peace that comes from that verse that traveled with Tanner for seventeen weeks, that now-torn, slightly faded promise that we held on to until we could hold him. Life is not fair, and we may never understand why things happen-- why babies get sick, why wind can be powerful enough to destroy, why moms and dads divorce, why jobs and homes are lost. Though we don't understand, we must constantly remind ourselves that no matter our fear, the depth or the weight of it, "I can do ALL things through Christ who strengthens me."

If you are reading this, please stop and pray for this sweet little boy and his mom and dad. And for each person who comments, I will make a $1 donation (up to $50) to his family. And if you don't want to comment, please just pray for Tripp.

Book Judging

One of the things I look forward to every afternoon is my Facebook time; it might not be my proudest revelation, but a girl has to have her guilty pleasures and I think this is much better than ice cream and "Teen Mom." So today, i logged on and saw a notification that I had been tagged in a picture. Because of who it was from and because today was AR celebration at Tanner's school, I had a pretty good idea of the nature of the picture before I ever saw it. I expected to see Tanner with some of his friends, celebrating their reading prowess. I expected to be proud.

Yeah, so the picture was of four boys, all about the same size, most of them smiling. And then there was Tanner: I'm not really sure how to describe the look on his face. It definitely wasn't a smile, definitely not a frown, definitely not something I would hang on the refrigerator. I saw lots of "likes" on the picture, because really, they looked happy and like they were having a good time. I wanted to comment, but I was at a loss for words. I couldn't quite figure out the right response to this picture of my kid in a goofy (for lack of a better word) pose. So I didn't. I don't think I even "liked" it. I logged off, and I'll be honest, I wondered, "if this is how he acts at 9 years old, Lord, what should I expect in the future."

Well, here goes. Sometimes I'm wrong. Yes, I said it. Once I picked Tanner up from school, I had one of those figurative slaps in the face, and I realized this was definitely one of those times when I was waaaayyyyy off the mark. I told him I had seen a picture from the school celebration today, and then I surreptitiously asked him about the look he was making when the pic was taken. His answer was a quick summation of the boys in the picture and how their "gang" likes to act in school. I asked him if he and the "gang" ever gave his teacher a tough time , and then it happened: the slap in the face. His answer to the question wasn't an answer at all, but something even better.

"Mom, you know her Dad is real sick, so this weekend can we get something to cheer her up?"

Oh, good Lord! Had I seriously been concerned about the degree of goofyness in my little boy, while I was totally missing the degree of love in his heart?

Yes, I was. I almost missed the book because I didn't like the cover. And I gave birth to that book. Life lesson, y'all, courtesy of Tanner!

Happy Friday!

A River Runs through It

Teachers these days have it hard: pay cuts, furlough days, state testing stress, lack of funds for supplies. It's a wonder college grads even take the certification test, let alone actually accept a position as a teacher, with all the negative press the world's oldest profession gets these days. But every teacher knows that if you do the job long enough, the rewards will come. Struggling readers will master their first books, math-a-phobes will conquer algebra, and if we are lucky, those state testing gods will smile down on us fondly. The same is true for coaches, who essentially teach the same principles, skills, and fundamentals; who exhibit leadership, love, and hope on a field or court instead of in a classroom.

Last Friday, Coach got a call from a former player, and we had a fist-pump moment. One of his former student-athletes received an offer from a Division I school to play football after graduation, the final piece to a three summer puzzle. With that piece in place, this student-athlete has fulfilled a promise he made to himself to work as hard as he had to in order to reach his goal: college football. I was pretty proud (did I mention the fist-pump was mine?) when I got the text from Coach who had just gotten the text from River, and I had one of those flash-before-my-eyes moments: off-season workouts, texts with questions at night, film watching and discussion. It all paid off, and it's been fun to watch.

Of course I'm proud of River and excited to see what his future holds, but I have a little more invested in this whole thing. Tuesday morning all of Atlanta was made privy to the unfortunate decision to drink and drive by none other than one of our most gloried Falcons. Well, I have little eyes watching all around me, absorbing anything and everything football related, and I find a whole lot of comfort in the fact that for this one massive error made by Michael Turner, an even better story is unfolding right in front of my three boys' eyes.

When your dad is a football coach, your heroes don't have to be elusive and high paid; for my boys, their hero is a phone call and a Saturday ticket away; they are the boys putting in extra hours in the weight room and hitting the bleachers when they finish. Their heroes play past the hurt, cram for honor roll, and know when to say thanks. And for all those first year teachers and coaches hoping to make a difference in some student's life, know that sometimes it's the students who make a difference in us.

My Tanner!

Y'all know those times when your kids do things that just totally blow you away? I'm not talking about leaving the milk out all morning or hitting a home run on the first at bat. I'm talking about those times when your kids say or do things that absolutely stop you in your tracks: when you overhear them pray at night or witness one of them stop and help someone who dropped her books or you stumble upon one of them reading to the other without being bribed. Y'all probably, like me, feel like those moments are sometimes few and far between. Well, not tonight.


Tonight was just an ordinary night-- until it wasn't. Tanner and I were headed to baseball practice, just the two of us, and without brothers in the car, he had me all to himself. "Hey Mom, what do you think would be the worst way to die?" Huh? Where did this come from, I wondered, but I pressed on, determined to give him a grown up answer. I pondered it all: car wreck, fire, drowning, sickness. "Well, I guess they would all be pretty bad ways to die. I don't know if one would be worse than the other." I wasn't sure if he didn't like my answer or if it satisfied him enough, but that was it-- end of that conversation, and we moved on to whether I thought he would get to pitch or not.


After a very long, almost excruciating, 90 minute practice that included fundamentals, drills, pop flies, and incessant "whoop, whoop's" from Tanner to his friends, we were back in the car. My middle child had gone from philosophy major to pre-teen goof ball in a two hour span, and he wasn't done yet. The question Tanner had originally posed to me about dying came back in the form of an answer. "Hey, Mom. You want me to tell you what the worst way to die would be?"

"You think you figured it out?"

"Yep. The worst way to die would be to die alone." Pause. Silence. I couldn't answer; and this mostly eloquent, English teacher mom managed to utter something quite un-eloquent like, "Uh-huh."

Nine and a half years ago, a very, very sick baby boy spent 17 weeks in the NICU, much of that time alone. And I wonder. . . does he remember? Is that where he got his answer? And if it is, what other answers does he have????

Oh, Tanner! You keep me on my toes.

Fathers, Roosters, and a Rocker

Father's Day 2012 came and went yesterday without much fanfare at this house. Not to worry, though, Coach had a fun-filled afternoon with Tucker (the boy who first made him a father) and a swell father figure whom this Kirk family has all come to know and love over the years. After devouring his traditional Father's Day breakfast of French toast, maple bacon, and grits (prepared with loving hands by muah and Tate)and opening up a few goodies from the boys, Coach K loaded up with clubs, tees, shoes, and Tucker for a drive over to the annual Rooster Classic pre-tournament tournament to spend a sun shiney day with some old friends ( that we now just call family). I wasn't sure at first about this golf excursion on a day set aside for father's and their fams, but after hearing the details from a worn out but enthusiastic Tucker, yesterday's outing was just the ticket for a dad who deserves the best. The Rooster Classic is an annual fundraiser whose goal is to raise money to send kids to FCA camp, kids who otherwise might not have the funds, or the Christian-driven parents, to experience a place where fun is centered around learning about God. Big Jay and the rest of the Bodes have made it their goal to fill that camp every summer with kids who benefit from golfers who want to give back. They (the golfers) also have a pretty good time raising money, golfing, eating bar-b-q, and hanging with former Brave John Rocker. The Rooster Classic also serves as a kind of memorial to Big Jay and Mrs. Margie's son Brent, or Rooster, who died in a plane crash several years ago. Not only do his memories live on with all the folks who gather every year, but so does his name. This year the tournament just happened to fall on the weekend of Father's Day and what better tribute to both Jay and Brent than to bring together dads and their sons for an afternoon of priceless and picturesque memories. We are always told to appreciate every day what we have and more importantly, WHO we have, because we never know when things or people will be taken away from us. Sometimes, as with Brent, that lesson hits close to home. So yesterday, while Billy strolled the links with a great dad, Tucker experienced his first brag-worthy father-son golf tournament, and he learned that family comes in all forms.