"A teacher affects eternity; she can never tell where her influence stops." ~Henry Brooks Adams

We've all had one. A teacher who is more than just a teacher. For me, that one was Billie Jordan. I remember feeling loved by her from the moment I walked into her 2nd-grade classroom at Pine Tree Elementary School back in the fall of 1973. We were her first class of students, and the young, energetic, enthusiastic Mrs. Jordan made learning fun.

Apparently, Tracy (in its various spellings) was a popular name the year I was born, and four of us with that moniker landed in Mrs. Jordan's 2nd-grade class together. In order to easily distinguish us and avoid confusion, Mrs. Jordan announced on the first day of school that she would be calling  us by our last names. From that day forward, we were Meadows, Hinson, Smith, and Moore - names we continued to call each other for the next 10 years of school.

Mrs. Jordan cared deeply for her students. The summer after leaving her 2nd-grade classroom, I had surgery on my hand in a neighboring town. It was an hour's drive one-way, but Mrs. Jordan drove to visit me in the hospital. To an 8-year-old little girl, that made an impression. What made an even bigger impression was how she did the same thing the following summer, when after 3rd grade I had the second part of that surgery.

I can't really put my finger on a specific thing Mrs. Jordan did in 2nd grade to earn the place in my heart as my favorite teacher ever, because it wasn't just one thing. It was how every day she loved, and taught, and cherished us all - her kids - in her classroom. Mrs. Jordan gave me the only paddling I ever got in school. It happened one day as we lined up to go to the library, and she asked us not to talk. Evidently, Hinson and I had something very important to discuss, so we ignored Mrs. Jordan's instructions. She pulled us both out of line and gave us each one whack with her paddle. I had always wanted to please her, and that broke my little 2nd grade heart!

After moving on to 3rd grade and beyond, I would take every opportunity in elementary school to go by and visit Mrs. Jordan - sometimes after school on the way to the bus, or maybe before school if I arrived early. She would always ask about my life, my current teacher, my family, and even my pets. She always acted as though she had been waiting for me to return, and she was so glad to see me. But I eventually left elementary school, and my interactions with Mrs. Jordan became less.

In 1986, tragedy struck Billie Jordan's life. Shortly before Christmas that year, her husband's parents were returning her two young children home from a visit when they were involved in an automobile accident. All four of them - Billie's in-laws and both of her children (a son who was 10 and a daughter who was 5) were killed instantly. I cannot even begin to imagine enduring such grief. Billie did so with such grace and faith. God blessed her and her husband with two daughters in the years that followed, and a Facebook post by Billie in 2012 summed up her attitude about enduring such tremendous loss. She wrote, "To lose a child is the most devastating thing that can happen to a parent, but to lose a child during the holiday season multiplies that fact a thousand times over. I so vividly remember, there were little packages under our tree... daily, things came in the mail we had ordered... and a little flag Ashley had made and put on her door in a five-year-old's handwriting, 'SANTA, I HAVE BEEN VERY GOOD!'  Brent's Christmas list setting beside his bed listing the things he was going to buy each of his friends... I will never fully understand why things like this happen, but I believe with all my heart that God has a plan... Every single moment of every single day I am in awe of how out of such tragedy could come such blessings. There are so many things I do not understand, but I do know our God is an awesome God."

The following year I became engaged.  Needing someone to help me plan and organize my wedding that was scheduled for January 2, 1988, I called my old 2nd-grade-teacher. She was excited and happy to help me with that - she told me it would be a nice distraction during the painful holiday season. I treasure the memories I have of running wedding errands with Mrs. Jordan. She kept telling me to call her "Billie," but that was a hard transition to make. We had a lot of laughs through that time, but also a lot of serious conversations about love, and life, and serving God through it all.  Billie single-handedly kept things running smoothly on my wedding day. I was sick with bronchitis and laryngitis that day, and I felt awful. But Billie was there constantly cueing me to smile, or walking up behind me with wisdom like, "Enjoy this - it only happens once!"

Billie Jordan passed from this life yesterday. We had kept up with each other through Facebook, but I had not seen her in many years. Even so, when I heard of her passing, I felt such sadness. Because of Mrs. Jordan, a little girl who dealt with the insecurities of childhood felt loved and special in a public school classroom. She taught me to love learning, that education was something to get excited about, and that a teacher can have a major impact for good in a child's life, extending even beyond the classroom. And through her great tragedy, Billie exemplified how to handle unspeakable grief with a deep trust in God, and that sometimes the way to get outside of that grief is by reaching out to help others. I loved Billie Jordan. And I know countless others like me loved her, too. She was special, and this world is less without her in it.  How blessed I was to have been one of those who was loved by her.

"To send a letter is a good way to go somewhere without moving anything but your heart." ~Phyllis Theroux

I still have them all, stored away in a box on a shelf in my closet. They range from the dates of September 1986 through December 1987. Some are cards commemorating holidays like Christmas. Most, though, are letters written in blue ink on light blue stationery. This box - these hand-written memories - are the thoughts that flowed from the pen of a handsome young man who lived in a different city as we exchanged our hearts through correspondence. His penmanship wasn't the best, but I didn't care. The letters between us ended because we moved in together as husband and wife. However, we really got to know each other through those letters. I treasure them still. 

Another box in another closet contains various other letters. Some are from my Granny. She would write to me after I got married and moved away. Most of those letters contain news of family and friends, things that happened that week in my hometown, a running commentary on the weather, and Granny's latest maladies, all written in her enviably beautiful script. She invariably ended those letters by telling me how much she missed me, and how she hoped I could come visit her soon. They were simply signed, "Love, Granny." 

That box also contains one letter from my daddy. As best I can remember, it is the only letter he ever wrote to me. I had asked him for some Bible class material, and he had gathered it up to mail to me, enclosing a letter. It's short - only a paragraph - written in his unique, choppy longhand. He ends it with, "I'm proud of you. Love, Pop." As I read those words in his handwriting, I can hear his voice. I will never be able to part with that small notepad-sized penciled letter - a tangible piece of him.

In addition to those, I have other various letters I've saved through the years from friends. Each one contains an undeniable link to the personality of the writer - each one's distinctive scrawl. They also all speak to the uniqueness of each relationship. 

I love handwritten letters. I always have. My first experience with this came in fourth grade when I was assigned a pen pal in Leeds, England. My childhood correspondence soon grew to include my first and best friend from next-door who moved away. I wish I still had some of those letters!

Unfortunately, hand-written correspondence has pretty much become a thing of the past. Replaced by more efficient high-tech methods, most people would think it's crazy to hand-write a letter when you can communicate instantaneously through email, text messages, and social media instant messaging. Why would I "waste my time" in that way? I can think of lots of reasons...

Only a handwritten letter shows the true emotion of the writer. When I hold a letter, I feel a connection with the author, observing the familiar curves of their script, the smudges on the paper, perhaps even a stain of coffee or chocolate that trickled onto the composition during its creation. I can visualize the writer sitting on their couch, or perhaps at their desk, thinking of me while sharing their thoughts. Then, imagining them thoughtfully folding the stationery, placing it (along with some of their very essence in the DNA that it contains) in an envelope on which they write my name and address, then sending it to me. That's certainly more special and personal than any text emoticon can ever hope to be.

This week, I received the most precious letter ever. When I retrieved the mail from our box on Tuesday, I saw an envelope that immediately made me smile. It was addressed to "Mimi and Pappy," and the return address sender was "Lydia." Her mommy had helped her write the addresses, but everything else was pure Lydia. I opened it carefully, pulled out a letter to Pappy and handed it to him, then sat down to consume a letter that began with, "Dear Mimi,". It was simple, written in a right-handed six-year-old Kindergarten print. But, oh, how special. Two short sentences, but a letter I will treasure always.

It makes my heart happy to think of this new stage of life with my oldest grandchild. We converse through FaceTime weekly, but to now be able to correspond with her adds another layer to our bond. What Lydia (and my other grandchildren) don't know yet is that I've been writing to them since before they were born. Each one has their own journal where I correspond with them on a regular basis. (I did this same thing for my children.) Someday, I will give them their "Letters from Mimi," where they can read and learn about our unique journeys together as Mimi/grandchildren. 

Until then, I will relish the letters that arrive in my mailbox, joyfully answering each one with a return post. I hope they will bring the same sense of joy that has been brought to me. Now I must put away this impersonal keyboard - I have a letter to write. 

"Old places fire the internal weather of our pasts. The mild winds, aching calms, and hard storms of forgotten emotions return to us when we return to spots where they happened." ~Siri Hustvedt

Earlier this week, I drove to my hometown to babysit one of my grandchildren who moved there with his parents recently. It was a brisk morning, and I bundled Noah up, put him in his stroller, leashed up little Brinkley, and headed out for a morning walk. I've done this a few times now with Noah, but it's not a strange or new neighborhood to me. The familiarity of those particular asphalt streets, the hills and curves they form, the nearby park, the houses we passed, the smell of fallen leaves - all of that felt as intimate to me as my own skin, bringing to mind a flood of childhood memories.

My growing up buddies - Traci, Donna, Kim, & Kevin

In March of 1967, when I was one-year-old and my brother was three, my parents bought a brand new home in a new development.  As the neighborhood grew, the homes filled up with other families like ours - young couples with children our ages.  Some families came and went, leaving me with only fleeting memories. But others, like us, stayed for the duration of our childhoods. 

Clinton Street was a great place to grow up. Our block, along with the parallel street (Buckner) and the shorter, perpendicular street which connected the two (Hale), was separated from the larger part of the neighborhood by a busy two-lane road. This isolated us until we reached the age when our parents felt like we were old enough to cross the busier road. For me, that freedom came incrementally, first being allowed only as far as the Werner's mailbox (three houses down), then to the end of the street, before finally getting old enough to cross the chasm of that busy, dangerous road. I don't remember how old I was before I reached that pinnacle, but at least into my double-digits. Because of these physical limitations, our Clinton/Hale/Buckner gang were a close knit bunch.

I've been back many times since leaving home. But never like this - pushing my grandchild's stroller  down the same streets where I used to play . . . in HIS neighborhood. As we walked, I told Noah about the houses I remembered. The red brick house, where our friends Mark and Traci lived. Theirs was the "cool house" in the neighborhood - the only one with a trampoline, cable TV, a pool table, AND a swimming pool! Traci had a a dachshund named Mandy who celebrated birthdays with parties. My dog, Tramp, was always invited. 

 As Noah and I progressed down the street, I told him about the other families - I knew the names of everyone who lived on our street back then. Mrs. Werner (remember - the mailbox three doors down) was my first piano teacher.  The family next door to us had four children, and their oldest, Kim, was my first and best friend. I remember during my preschool years watching Captain Kangaroo and Sesame Street each morning, then asking my mother if I could go ring Kim's doorbell and ask her mother if she could come over to my house to play. We played a lot - inside both of our houses, and outside as well. The small ditch between our houses served as a perfect river for our Barbie boats after a heavy rain. 

Kim, Traci, and I would often go up in the "woods" behind our houses, climbing the "red dirt hill," and exploring the trails back there. One time we found an injured rabbit. We named him Brer Rabbit, and Traci took him home with her to nurse him back to health. (We knew her parents were the most likely to let her keep him.) Unfortunately, Brer Rabbit didn't make it, so we took him back to the woods to carefully bury him, complete with a tearful funeral. 

Then, there were the kids from "around the block," on Buckner. These were mostly my brother's buddies - Karl, Steve, Lee, and Bubba. They played a lot of "street league football," built bike ramps like Evel Knievel, and lots of other dangerous things that boys do. One of them (you know who you are) was the "Eddie Haskell" of the neighborhood - he tended to pick on us younger ones, but was always very polite and respectful to adults. I can still hear him saying, "Hello, Mrs. Meadows, how are you?" to my mother, all while planning his next prank for later the same day.  

The neighborhood park was on the restricted side of the large road, so I didn't venture there without my parents until I was older.  But I remember riding bikes as a family and going there to play sometimes in the long summer evenings. (Yes, even my mother rode a bike back then.) The walking trail that is accessed by the same street where the park is was frequently the site of walks I would take with my daddy - he helped me collect leaf samples there when I was in Mrs. Strohsahl's high school Biology class, and one of my favorite memories of him was the time it snowed and we walked down there together, just the two of us, in the quiet of a winter wonderland.  My own children played in that same park when they would visit my parents as children. They also played in the same back yard where Kim and I transformed my daddy's rock garden into a mountain range for our Barbies, and his fish pond into a lake. 

And now, my grandchild lives in that same neighborhood, a short mile from where I lived when I was his age. I remember riding my ten-speed powder blue bike down the street where he lives on a regular basis when I was old enough to cross that wide, dangerous road. If twelve-year-old Tracy could have seen into the future, she would have been blown away by that!

Most of the houses in that neighborhood have different residents now. And most of the parents of the kids I grew up with have passed from this life. But they all live in my memory as I walk those streets once again. I can see them all in my mind's eye, even down to the vehicles they drove.

And it makes me wonder about Noah . . . will he come back here in 50 years, push his grandchild down these same streets, and talk about the memories he has of growing up here? I hope he has the same kinds of fun that I did, even though so much has changed in our world since then. Sadly, I can't imagine letting children go off into the woods alone these days, or even having the run of the neighborhood the way we did back then.  But I hope he has friends down the street, and plays freeze tag with them in the summer until it gets dark. And I hope he remembers walks with his Mimi down to his great-grandma's house, listening to me ramble about bottle rocket wars we had in the middle of the street, and the time that one of the neighborhood boys pulled up the entire brick sidewalk my daddy had built looking for roly polies. (Don't ever do that, Noah.) Kristen Hannah wrote, "Home is part of us. It's in the scars we have on our knees and elbows, in the memories that surface when we sleep. I don't think you can ever really leave." I felt that profoundly this week.

"It never failed to amaze me how the most ordinary day could be catapulted into the extraordinary in the blink of an eye." ~Jodi Picoult

I wrote the following two years ago today, but I never actually published it to my blog. Now that October 10th is here again, I thought it would be a good time to share it....

October 10th has always been a seemingly ordinary day in my life.  If you looked at this date on my calendar across my lifetime, it would usually appear as any other day - either blank or filled with the mundane "to do" lists that often accompany most days.  But occasionally that day has brought profound, life-changing events.

On October 10, 1989, I was a 23-year-old wife, living in Dallas, and working for a semi-conductor recruiting firm.  The month before, Jeff and I had learned we were expecting our first child, and we were so excited!  But on the morning of October 10th, I realized something wasn't right.  What followed was a trip to the doctor, an ultrasound that showed no heartbeat, an "I'm so sorry" from my doctor, and a weekend of beginning the grieving process.

For the next 14 years, October 10th came and went.  At first, as with any loss, the coming of that date brought back great emotion and sorrow.  But as time passed, the pain lessened.  I would still think of the events of that day when I flipped my calendar to October, but I was better able to see God's Hand in my life, the blessing of my living children, and the lessons I learned through that difficult season.

Then, October 10th came again in a powerfully sorrowful way.  On October 10, 2003, our family buried my father.  He had died suddenly and unexpectedly as the result of an accident four days prior.  For most of that week, I had been in shock.  I remember leaving the cemetery that day, as the full weight of what had just happened would take several more weeks to fully settle in upon me.

And again, for the first several years after that, October 10th was a hard day.  Even now, sixteen years later, I can vividly remember the most minor details of that entire week.  But just like my previous experience, the passage of time has eased the rawness of the pain.  I'm able to reflect more on the good memories of my daddy over the 38 years I was blessed to spend with him, and less on the horrors of that final week.

And now, October 10th is here again.  Only this October 10th, I got to meet and hold my newborn third grandchild, surrounded by my first two precious grandchildren.  

Isn't that kind of a microcosm of life itself?  Most days come and go in a very ordinary way.  We go through our usual schedule and pace.  But interspersed in those ordinary days we find that great sorrow and suffering will arise.  Likewise, we all experience great highs - moments of unspeakable joy.  It just so happens that those things have often intersected in my life on October 10th.

I'm thankful for all October 10th has brought to my life.  My miscarriage experience gave me a greater appreciation for the children I would be blessed to meet, raise, and love on this side of eternity.  It also gave me greater compassion for those I would cross paths with since then who are suffering the same kind of loss.  Similarly, I feel the same way about the loss of my daddy.  There are days I miss him, and I would love to be able to see and talk to him.  But his loss - especially the way we lost him - has given me greater empathy for those suffering similar grief.  And knowing that the two greatest losses in my life are together now, and I will see them both one day gives me great joy.

And now - on October 10, 2019 - I feel like I've come full circle.  As I held Owen Jeffrey Renz today, I was overwhelmed by the irony.  There was so much joy in that room, but I couldn't help but think of the other events in my life in years' past on this same day.  The unborn child I've never met, and my daddy who would've been so thrilled to have held and loved his great-grandchildren.  

R.J. Palacio wrote, "It's so weird how that can be, how you could have a night that's the worst in your life, but to everybody else it's just an ordinary night. Like on my calendar at home, I would mark this as being one of the most horrific days of my life. . . But for the rest of the world, this was just an ordinary day. Or maybe it was even a good day."  The opposite of that is also true - I thought about that as we left the hospital tonight filled with joy.  Most of the people we encountered had no idea.

Everyone has days like this forever etched in their memories.  Maybe it's not the same day in your life like it has been in mine, but it's still there.  So as you walk through that day each year - either a day that has brought great sorrow or unspeakable joy or maybe both - I hope you will find a way to praise God, knowing that "He has made everything beautiful in its time" (Eccl. 3:10).  And don't forget to praise Him in the normal days, too.

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers." ~Herman Hesse

Jeff and I have been on a wonderful trip to some of our western National Parks over the past few weeks. We began with the varied beauty of Yellowstone, extended into the majestic Tetons, then down into the other-worldliness of Bryce. Currently, we are in the stunning canyons of Zion. We have seen indescribable beauty in every place we've been. Beauty which defies description, and which photos cannot adequately capture. Beauty which speaks to the power of our wonderful Creator.

As we have "ooohhed" and "ahhhhed" over so many magnificent sights, one in particular jumped out at me as we toured Bryce National Park on Monday. Not so much because of the beauty, but more so because of the uniqueness. In this barren, rocky place with little soil and limited water, we saw trees with roots above the ground. I wondered how anything could live like that. So in some down-time, I did some further research...

I first learned that these trees are Great Basin Bristlecone Pines. They are only found in six states, and only on exposed dry rocky slopes and ridges between 6500-11,000 ft.  The oldest living Bristlecone Pine is 4,765 years old. According to the National Park Service, this ancient tree is named Methuselah, and lives in a secret location in the White Mountain range of eastern California.

What was most fascinating to me is that they die in portions. When I saw them and wondered how they can live with their roots above the ground, the answer is that they don't. As the roots become exposed, they dry out and die. The portion of the tree connected to those roots will eventually die as well. But, the remainder of the tree - with roots below the ground - will continue to live. The National Park Service says this is what causes their tortured, twisted look.

As I read about these trees, I thought about the stark contrast of others we've seen on this trip - those with roots not visible, growing tall and strong. It reminded me of Psalm 1:3, where the psalmist writes describing the one who delights in the law of God, meditating on His Word day and night. He writes that such a one "... is like a tree, planted by streams of water that yields its fruit in its season, and its leaf does not wither." Similarly, Jeremiah describes the one who trusts in the Lord as "...like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes, for its leaves remain green, and is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit.” Likewise, Paul encouraged the Ephesians to be rooted and grounded in love through faith in Christ, also instructing the Colossians to be "rooted and built up in Him."

What kind of tree am I? I'm afraid that all too often in my life, I've been more like the Bristlecone Pine. Spending my time in other endeavors that have pulled my roots up and out of the soil of God's Word, exposing them to the elements of worldliness, causing their dryness and decay, leading to sin and distance from God, which has at times caused a tortured, twisted existence.

But I want to be more like what the Psalmist and Jeremiah describe - that strong, straight, beautiful tree, with deep unseen roots. The tree that is planted by the rivers of the water of life, with my roots drinking so deeply from His Word that I cannot help but grow strong and produce beautiful, righteous fruit for His glory. 

I hope you do, too.

"For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth is named, that according to the riches of his glory he may grant you to be strengthened with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith—that you, being rooted and grounded in love, may have strength to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled with all the fullness of God." ~Ephesians 3:14-19

"Connecting with someone is not necessarily a bond with a significant other, or even a friend, but can be the indefinable - perhaps the rarest and most precious thing in life to find at all." ~Donna Lynn Hope

 

Monday began as a normal day for me - I had my list of things that I needed to do this week, appointments to be kept, and mundane chores to accomplish. But after a few text messages and phone calls from Sarah, I canceled those appointments and booked the earliest flight I could get on to Nashville. 

The first text message Sarah sent indicated that Ryan's mother, Cheri, was ill and needed prayers. Within a few hours, though, it became apparent that she would not survive her sudden illness. Ryan jumped on a flight to Houston to be with her as she passed, and everything kicked into high gear. 

In my hurried moments of trying to get to Nashville as quickly as possible to be with Sarah and the kids and drive them back to Texas, I had little time to fully process what was happening. I boarded my flight at DFW shortly before 7 pm, and as I checked my text messages one last time before take-off, I received a note that Cheri had passed peacefully with her family at her side. I turned off my phone and had two hours in the air to think about the events of the previous twelve hours.

I first met Cheri at one of Sarah's bridal showers. I remember as she approached me that day, I walked over to greet her, and she quickly enfolded me in a warm embrace, saying, "I'm a hugger!" From that day on, she would frequently tell me how much they loved "their Sarah," and how happy they were to have her as part of their family. I shared that feeling back toward her son. There is just something special about a lady who will envelop your child into her family, along with the fact that the son she raised to love the Lord has also become a part of ours.

Then came grandbabies. When Lydia was born, we were able to be at the hospital together -- Cheri, the seasoned, experienced veteran Grammie, and me, the newbie, rookie, first-time Mimi. There was something special about sharing that moment with her - admiring together the first child born to her son and my daughter. We were able to do the same a few years later when Henry was born. In fact, at that time, two-year-old Lydia had her best day ever as Grandpa & Grammie along with Pappy & Mimi kept her entertained for the day! 

When Owen was born, Dale and Cheri were out of the country. But the morning of his birth, I received a text message from Cheri that I still have on my phone. She asked me to keep her posted and send pictures - she ended it with, "I hate that our travel plans got in the way but I'm so glad you are there!" That was Cheri.

We texted each other frequently over the past eight years, but especially in the years since we became grandmothers to the same grandchildren. If Cheri was in Nashville visiting, she would send me a picture or two, and I would try to do the same - but she was better at remembering to do that than I was.

Cheri loved all nine of her grandchildren with a passion. If you knew her, you know what I mean. And her grandchildren loved her back. Lydia often told me about fun things she did with Grammie, and if they were leaving our house to go to Houston, Lydia was always excited in anticipation of being with Grammie. I can't really explain what it's like to be a grandmother and know that there is another woman in this world who loves MY grandchildren exactly like I do, because she is their grandmother, too. I never really thought about that until Monday...

When I arrived at Sarah & Ryan's house after 10 pm Monday night, Sarah had told the children what had happened that day. Lydia was still awake, and Sarah said that she and Henry wanted me to sleep in their room. And as I bunked with them Monday night, listened to their sweet snores and sighs, I felt the weight of Cheri's loss, and my heart broke for Lydia, Henry, Owen, and the new baby who will arrive next month. I'm thankful for the memories that Lydia will have of her Grammie, and I hope Henry will remember her as well. But I grieve for Owen's and the new baby's loss at such a young age, and for all of the future events that will happen in the lives of all of Cheri's grandchildren where she will be so greatly missed. 

I never knew Cheri as anything other than my counterpart as a mother, and especially as a grandmother. And as I laid in Lydia's and Henry's room Monday night, I felt an odd weight and loneliness in knowing she was gone. No matter how good of a Mimi I am, I can never be Grammie. No one can. I wouldn't even attempt to try. Instead, I will speak of her often, and as long as I live, I will remind our four common grandchildren of how special she was, and how blessed they were to call Cheri Renz their Grammie. I will also be sure they live with the great hope that because of Jesus, they will see her again one day.

"But we do not want you to be uninformed, brethren, about those who are asleep, so that you will not grieve as do the rest who have no hope. For if we believe that Jesus died and rose again, even so, God will bring with Him those who have fallen asleep in Jesus." ~1 Thessalonians 4:13-14

"And I heard a voice from heaven saying, 'Write this: Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord from now on.' 'Blessed indeed,' says the Spirit, 'that they may rest from their labors, for their deeds follow them!'" ~Revelation 14:13

“The miracle of children is that we just don’t know how they will change or who they will become.” ~Eileen Kennedy-Moore

Twenty-eight years ago today, we met him for the first time. Caleb Jeffrey Stewart made his debut at 9:53 am that cold, clear winter morning at Presbyterian Hospital in Dallas - the week after the Dallas Cowboys won the Super Bowl by beating the Buffalo Bills 52 - 17. My doctor and his assistant had both traveled to Pasadena, CA to attend that game, and the main topic of conversation during my C-section was how amazing Troy Aikman and Emmitt Smith played the game. I remember wishing they would be a little more focused on the task at hand - didn't they realize they were helping to bring into this world someone way more important than Troy or Emmitt? 

I'm not the same person I was back then. I think everyone can say that of themselves when they look back over 28 years. But a big part of the reason I'm different has a lot to do with that eight-pound bundle of joy who entered my world that day.

Caleb was born into a home of introverts. I have always tended to be on the quiet side until you get to know me. I was also born with the proclivity to approach life from the side of caution, inclined to be more serious about most things. Jeff is much the same. 

When Caleb entered our lives, his two-year-old sisters were both painfully shy. Sarah and Becca didn't take well to strangers, and they also were slow to warm up to people they knew. I remember inviting some friends from church over one evening, and they were amazed to see the girls twirling and laughing together in the living room of our home - I think prior to that they had the impression that Sarah and Becca just sat silently staring into space or sitting in my lap all the time because that's the image they portrayed to the world around them outside of our home.

Enter Caleb. We've often wondered aloud where he came from. From his earliest days, he exuded joy. As soon as he was old enough to interact with people, he did so. I remember my 18-month-old son in a stroller who would say, "Hi!" very enthusiastically to anyone he encountered at the library, increasing his volume until he got a response. He would do the same to the men serving the Lord's Supper at church until I learned to clamp my hand over his mouth in anticipation of such greetings. I can also remember the three-year-old version of Caleb who made friends with the older gentleman at our local grocery store who sacked our groceries for us. He would ask on the way to the store if Mr. Kenneth would be there, and he would get genuinely excited to see him each week. 

As Caleb grew, so did his enthusiasm for life and people. I remember one day at the end of ladies' Bible class how Caleb passed out "notes" he had scribbled for each of the ladies in attendance. He loved going to the grocery store with me, standing up in the cart, and singing either "Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus" or the Ten Plagues song. Just imagine the looks we got as he belted out the ending "... locust, thick darkness, death of the firstborn!" It's a small wonder no one called CPS.

                                                                                    

Caleb was well-known at the girls' school before he was old enough to attend. He had two of the aides at Cain Elementary wrapped around his little finger as he charmed them each afternoon when we would be waiting to pick up his sisters at the end of their school day. He called one of them, "my friend," and the other one, "my lady." He is Facebook friends with both of them to this day. His first-grade teacher told me that she predicted Caleb would grow up to be either a preacher or a politician. I'm thankful that he preaches sometimes and avoided the politician route.

In high school, Caleb could be found on Friday nights leading the band in the "roller coaster." He once even led the entire crowd in the same at Fantasmic while at Disney World on a band trip. He has always found complete joy in the smallest things, milking every single experience for all it's worth. If there's one phrase that comes to mind when thinking about Caleb's life to this point, it would have to be "Best Day Ever." I cannot tell you how many "best days ever" he's had!

This boy - this man - who has jumped out of an airplane (and somehow convinced his dad to join him in that),  traveled to Guatemala on medical mission trips, made countless balloon animals for children, enjoys woodburning and photography, loves his dog Ranger (who he has trained to be a therapy dog), enjoys his niece and nephews to the extreme, loves hunting, befriends everyone, and above all else has a passion for his God, has changed my life profoundly.

Because of Caleb, I've learned to find joy in the smallest things, to stretch myself, to not take myself so seriously, to love more deeply, and to make every day my "best day ever." It has been my unique privilege to have a front-row seat to watching Caleb grow from that joyful, friendly child into the giving, caring, joyful man he has become.  

Happy Birthday, Bud! I'm overwhelmed that God chose me to be your mother, and I'm so thankful He did! I pray that your next 28 years will be as overflowingly joyful as your first 28 have been as you continue to follow in the steps of your Savior. And I hope today really is the Best Day Ever.

“To be a mother of a son is one of the most important things you can do to change the world. Raise them to respect women, raise them to stand up for others, raise them to care for the earth, raise them to be kind, compassionate and honest. If you do these things you are raising a leader-- someone that will affect the lives of countless people... " ~Shannon L. Alder