Nadia Elizabeth

I've told the story about my son's name before. Before I miscarried, I had--only somewhat jokingly--asked the Lord what he was going to name this baby. When I miscarried, I developed a fixation on one of the names we had discussed: Nadia. It's a Russian name that means hope.

The morning after we agreed on the name, as I was reading my Bible I came across Proverbs 13:12. "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life."

What is a miscarriage if not "hope deferred"? And Nadia means hope. I took it as confirmation that the baby was a girl. We never got the opportunity to confirm the gender medically.

More important, though, is the promise that the verse gives. The desire...more children...is not cut off, only delayed, and when it does come, it will be a blessing.

The promise sent me searching for an appropriate middle name. I searched no further than Elizabeth. It was a name Sweetie had mentioned previously. The name means "my God is an oath" or more simply "oath of God." God gave His Word and He is His Word. What greater promise do I need?

While my heart will continue to ache for the child I lost, her name is now another little reminder of how God works in my life. The last time this promise was inspired to me, it was two years before I saw any fulfillment, but it was fulfilled. God may make us wait for a promise, but He never reneges on His Word.

It was a precious comfort to me. Personalized and perfect. I'm not surprised; God has a tendency to do that for His children. Man's ideas and platitudes may fall short, but God has a perfect balm for the wounded. May those impacted by my experience, or those with the same experience, look to the Lord for His perfect comfort.

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My Socks Don't Match!

How much time do you spend on laundry? Probably more than you would like. How much time do you spend matching socks? If all of your socks are the same, maybe not much. But if you have many different patterned socks the task can become time consuming.

I've recently decided to stop wasting so much time worrying about things like matching socks. Sure, it may be a little awkward, but life is too short to waste time worrying about something making you feel uncomfortable.

Sometimes three little words can make you uncomfortable: "I love you."

Do you remember the first time you said it to a boyfriend or girlfriend? Do you remember how terrified you were? It's because the words hold a lot more meaning than their mere eight letters would suggest.

Some families say it more often than others. Just like some families are more touchy-feely, or "huggy" than others. The thing is, life is too short to pass up the opportunity to say "I love you," to someone you really care about, whether by word or deed. Even if it's awkward.

Several years ago I felt impressed to go and visit my Aunt Wanda in the hospital. I was living in Little Rock at the time, and Oklahoma City was a simple weekend trip. While I did stay with my grandparents, the purpose of the visit really was my aunt. I enjoyed spending that time with her, even though it was a bit odd to go for the express purpose of seeing her. I was so glad later that I did it. It was the last time I saw her before she died.

The last time I saw my grandfather he was outside talking with some of the family. I felt too awkward to interrupt and say goodbye, so I just waved. We left on our trip back home, and I never saw him again. I wish now that I had overridden my feelings of discomfort and given him one last hug and said "I love you." But I can't change it now.

It makes me so glad that the night that Daddy passed that I got to say "I love you," one last time. I'm glad for the opportunities that I had and didn't pass up during his illness--to sing for him, sit with him, pray for him. I don't have regrets for anything I did, even if it made me uncomfortable at the time.

I try to be more mindful now to say "I love you." I never know when my last opportunity will be, and I don't want to neglect it. Feeling awkward over it is such a waste, and the regret really isn't worth it.

So if you catch me wearing mismatching socks, no, I haven't reached a new level of harried housewife. I'm just choosing to focus my energies on things of slightly more significance in the big scheme of things. Which would you regret more? Missing your last opportunity to say "I love you," or wearing mismatching socks?

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Walking and Talking

This post is dedicated to my first best friend, Zachery.

I remember sandy blonde hair.

I remember your smile. 

I think your eyes were blue,

But maybe they were gray.

What does a five-year-old notice?

I remember just walking around the playground. 

Talking. 

We must have done that a lot.

What did we talk about?

I wish I could remember that. 

We must have been a strange pair. 

I don't remember playing with the other children. 

Just the two of us walking. 

And talking.

You were my first best friend. 

I still think about you sometimes.

It's been twenty years.

I wonder how things might have been different.

I don't remember how I reacted to the news. 

I remember going to the visitation.

I remember your mother.

I remember driving by the cross at the intersection. 

Every day on the way to school.

It's still there.

It still looks nice. 

Sometimes there's a teddy bear. 

Sometimes there's flowers.

I wonder how you would react to me now.

I got to grow up.

I have a little boy of my own. 

I heard you had a little brother.

He'd be older than you now.

Does that make you feel weird?

No. You're probably just laughing about it.

I look forward to seeing you again. 

I'm sure you've already found the best places to just walk.

We have a lot to talk about.

Remembering

"There's things that I've forgotten that I loved about the man." (Daddy's Hands)

I first heard this song at my grandfather's funeral. He died a year ago today. In some ways it seems like been longer than a year, and in other ways it seems shorter. 

I can still hear his voice calling, "It's the girls!" when my sister and I came in the door. Or "It's the guys!" when it was my cousins. He was Daddio to us. While he was not an overly demonstrative man, we all knew he loved us.

I still can't play "Last Date" on the piano and not think of him. Especially because the piano I have now is the one they had at his house. He never said much about it, but I know he enjoyed hearing my sister and me play the piano.

I was expecting my baby when he died, and my son's middle name is Daddio's first name. I know he's up there shaking his finger at me for doing it…in between fishing trips. You can't tell me there is no fishing in Heaven.

Daddio loved to fish and hunt. Quite a few of my memories with him are of fishing trips. Floating the Black Warrior River. Trout fishing at the dam. Watching him and Dad fly fishing. 

Baby even has a few mannerisms that are pure Daddio. The way he will hold his head when he's tired especially reminds us of him. 

Something that I explored while writing for NaNo was that those that have passed on are still with us in our memories. This feels especially true with Daddio's passing. Maybe it's because I'm no longer living in Alabama, and not constantly around things that remind me that he's gone, but a lot of times it feels like he's still here.

I still have a wreath that Daddio made, a model car he have me once, and a little baseball bat he whittled. Mementos to remind me, because I do not want to forget. The memories are bittersweet, because I know I can no longer make more of them with Daddio, but that's ok. That's life. And it's ok.