What's In a Name?

I did something last night that I haven't done in a long time. I accidentally called Whit "Paul." In fact, I did it twice. The first time, I didn't even realize it until Jack corrected me. The second time I noticed immediately.

It was such a good feeling.

Of course, Terrill and I both did it a lot right after Paul died. We were used to calling the boys by the wrong name. (One time I called Paul "Jack" and he corrected me by saying, "I'm not Jack, I'm Whit. I mean... Paul!!" I guess we did it so much, we even had him confused!) It was usually Paul and Whit we confused because they were so close in age. Every time I did it after Paul died, I remember thinking how sad I would be when that habit ended. Unfortunately, it didn't take long. I have missed it.

I also remember other people doing it. During a casual conversation at church or in the grocery store, folks would ask about one of the boys and inadvertently say "Paul" by mistake. Sometimes they wouldn't even notice they had done it, and I pretended they hadn't, but it made me SO happy! When they did realize their mistake, they would often feel awkward and apologize, but I assured them that their mess-up was a wonderful reminder to me that Paul was still being thought of and remembered.

That hasn't happened in a long time.

So, last night, when it did happen - seemingly out of the blue - I couldn't help but smile. I walked around the house with this goofy grin on my face, thanking God for that wonderful memory of the chaos of life with three boys.

Not Enough Laundry

This morning as I was piling all the socks and underwear into the washing machine, I realized how much I miss doing Paul's laundry. Have you ever seen Hanes' tighty whiteys in size 3? They are adorable...

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Paul's Birthday

Yesterday, Paul would've been 9. When your last memory is 6 1/2, nine is hard to imagine. We celebrated by going with friends to the Putt-putt fun center in Killeen and doing a lot of the things that Paul loved to do. In his honor, I never bent down to place my ball, but dropped it and scooched it with my foot (something he had to do the last several months of his life because of the pain of bending over).

God is good. He has continued to bless us with wonderful, thoughtful friends who emailed and texted to remind us that they miss Paul, too. Thank you for that. It doesn't make me miss him any less, but it sure makes me feel not so lonely in it.

A friend sent these pictures to me today (they were taken in August of 2002, right before Whit was born). They are priceless treasures of wonderful memories. My first thought was how perfect his body was... no scars from surgery or port placements or biopsies... just smooth, perfect skin. I don't remember Paul like that, but it is good to be reminded.

Paul, Christmas, Reindeer and Soap

Paul loved Christmas. Of course, all kids love Christmas, but he seemed to treasure it more than the average kid. It wasn't just about getting gifts (are you kidding? Paul pretty much got gift year-round so Christmas was no biggie), he really loved the season of Christmas. While Jack and Whit were inside watching Sponge Bob, Paul would be outside with Daddy hanging the lights. While the other boys were playing video games, Paul sat on the couch and supervised my decorating of the windowsill ("Just a little more over that way, Mommy..."). We have one lonely lighted reindeer in our front yard because of Paul. He wore me down one year until I finally bought one.

This morning, I've been getting ready for a Christmas party we're having tonight. In the middle of all the cleaning and organizing, I stopped at Paul's picture that sits at my kitchen sink. I stood there and had myself a good cry while I missed him. I wondered what would be on his Christmas list this year and I cried some more. I thought about how much he loved looking at Christmas lights and continued my bawl-fest. I miss him...

...And then I noticed that the soap dispenser was almost empty, so I filled it up...

The Power of Addiction

I must admit I don’t understand drug addiction. To me, it seems simple: drugs are ruining your life, so just quit taking them. However, the more folks I talk with who face the stronghold of addiction, the more I am convinced: it’s not that easy. And I don’t have any answers.

This month at the clinic, we served several folks who are trying to regain control of their lives from drug addiction. Two stand out in my mind vividly.

“Monica” is a wife and a mother of four children (from 4 months to 10 years). Child Protective Services recently took her children from her because of her addiction to meth. Her marriage is in shambles. Her once-happy family has disintegrated because of her constant drug use. She is desperate to re-gain custody of her children and repair her relationship with her husband, and yet she fears that she doesn’t have the power to walk away from the drugs.

“Ralph” is in his mid-sixties. He’s been in and out of prison for over 20 years for drug abuse. He barely knows his grandchildren, but longs to be a real “grand daddy” to them. Tears stream down his face as he speaks of the time lost with his now-grown kids… time that he can never get back… relationships that he fears he can never restore. Desperately he wants to change, to be a dad and grandfather, to attend birthday parties and school recitals. But he has failed so many times before… There is true fear in his voice when he talks about the drug house that is literally right across the street from the rehab center where he is staying… And about the folks there who are more than happy to give him his first hit “for free.”

As I pray with Monica and Ralph, I admit that I have nothing to offer – no advice, no magic formula. I can’t even understand where they’re coming from. I have no power or help to cure their addiction. But… I serve a God who does! In fact, I serve the God who is the ONLY one who can fill the emptiness and pain that drugs have masked for Monica and Ralph.

Will you join me in praying for these two precious children of God? Will you claim the power of Jesus Christ over their lives? No doubt, it is the only way true healing will occur.

The Stockings Were Hung...

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Since Whit was born, seven years ago, I've been trying to find a 5th stocking. I have four that look great together and that I've had for years, but that 5th stocking just seems to escape me every year. I've even been willing to scrap the four I have and start completely over, but nothing seems to work for me.

This year, I was determined to hang FIVE stockings. We have five members of this family, and they would ALL have a stocking... either that or I would hang none. So, in the many boxes and bags of Christmas decor that Terrill dragged down from the attic, I found another stocking. I've had it for years (it was a gift from my aunt long ago), and it is beautiful, but I've never hung it because it doesn't "match" the other four we have. This year, however, I placed it next to the other four, where it hung very conspicuously. I decided that I would be the martyr and claim the "rogue" stocking. Afterall, it was quite feminine (plus, this way, no one could complain).

I didn't like it at first. It looked completely out of place. It screamed the truth - that it was a last resort, and constantly reminded me that I had failed as a decorator.

But then I got gradually got used to it and one day it occured to me: this was actually the PERFECT 5th stocking, but not for me... for Paul. It hung as part of a group of five, and yet completely separate from it. And the stocking even has an angelic motif. It is made out of an angel toille fabric and has little angels sewn around the top.

So now... I am no longer in search of that elusive 5th stocking. Like so many things in life, it was something I've been hunting for for years and yet had in my possession all along.