Della is 4!

Happy 4th birthday to my darling Della. 

I always feel like my children's birthdays are a sweet celebration for me, too. 4 years ago I had the privilege of becoming a mom- one that I'm beyond grateful for everyday, even when (and especially when) it can be hard. I didn't know that day four years ago what it would feel like. While it's indescribable, one way of describing it is that my heart left my body and started walking around on the outside of me. When I had Milly, it was like my heart split in two and could suddenly run in different directions! It's a scary place to be when there's so much you can't control- I pray daily that I'd be the mom I need to be. There is also SO much joy and laughter. 

Here are some things about Della that are making me smile tonight:

When I say "I love you all the time" and she responds, "every day." 

The way she loves Toy Story and playing pretend. Give her a few toys and she can play for hours by herself creating stories.

The way she moves her little hands when she talks and her sweet little voice.

The intense eye contact she makes to be funny.

The way she gets phrases slightly wrong, like this morning when she said, "Excuse meat."

She's a momma's girl and I never have a shortage of snuggles and hugs.

The way she loves her daddy and saves the best laughs for him.

The way I know she really cares for Milly because she has to know where she is at all times. 

She LOVES people and each morning wants to know who else we are going to see that day. 

The way she dances (with a huge smile and a sporadic leg kick to one side). 

The hilarious things she says in the bathroom. (I'll just leave that there).

The way she is starting to ask questions about God and life---telling her daddy recently that she thinks Jesus drives an orange car 😂

The way that she insists on entire family hugs and loves to have the four of us yell, "Go, Smiths!"

I'm grateful Della is mine. Birthdays are a great reminder of the days I was given my most precious gifts, and what unique gifts they are! 

My Girl

The Song
The day we went to the doctor to find out our August baby's gender,  I was so excited. I told myself I'd be happy and ready either way. If it was a boy, he'd be the first boy grandchild on my side of the family and the first one in eight years on Alex's side.  We had a lot of people remind us of this, with "we are counting on you" types of comments. If it was a girl, she would mirror my experience, being the second girl in the family and having a big sister close in age. And I love my girl so much, I just knew I'd be thrilled with another. When the doctor told us it was another girl, I knew in my heart that God had chosen this for our family, and chosen well. I knew she was not just "another," but uniquely created by God to be something wonderful and unique. When I heard "another" girl was coming, I couldn't believe I was getting another girl- what an excessive blessing! I immediately thought of the song, "My Girl" and my heart sang out the song. Since then I have listened to the song many times, with the words and melody washing over me to produce a rich, deep joy. "I've got sooooo much hon-ey, the bees envy me." Having Della opened my heart and turned me inside out in the most wonderful way. What a blessing to get to have that times TWO. So. much. honey.

The Poem
Right away we began discussing her name. As we did with Della's name, we looked for inspiration in literature. I thought of my favorite pieces to teach and showed Alex the poem by ee cummings, "maggie and milly and molly and may." Poetry isn't everyone's cup of tea, but it is mine. I love how a few words can have such intricate meanings, illuminating the simple and complex in beautiful ways. This poem's themes speak of childhood, innocence, and getting lost in the wonder of the world. Here it is:


maggie and milly and molly and may
went down to the beach(to play one day)

and maggie discovered a shell that sang
so sweetly she couldn’t remember her troubles,and

milly befriended a stranded star
whose rays five languid fingers were;

and molly was chased by a horrible thing
which raced sideways while blowing bubbles:and

may came home with a smooth round stone
as small as a world and as large as alone.

For whatever we lose(like a you or a me)
it’s always ourselves we find in the sea



The sing-songy way it begins with the names and the rhyme sets the tone for a kid-like, carefree afternoon on the beach. In each stanza, it tells another story of how the child loses themselves in the wonder of the day. Maggie finds a shell that sings and makes her forget her troubles, Milly befriends a starfish,  and Molly is caught in the thrill of a chase. May's line is my favorite, maybe because it only makes sense to me sometimes, and when it does, it is beautiful. She finds something so simple ( a smooth round stone) and imagines it's possibilities and is amazed with it. To me, this poem captures the wonder of childhood and experiencing the world in ways that adults only catch glimpses of, when they force themselves to put aside their worries. I've found that I've gained moments like this back through motherhood, living vicariously and being encouraged to explore as my daughter does. It also reminds me of all the times I have stood next to the ocean, overwhelmed by the wonder and beauty and majesty in it, and felt an instant connection to God. With that connection comes the reality of His love, washing over me, wave after wave. In that way, the last stanza of the poem rings true to me, "For whatever we lose (like a you or a me)/it's always ourselves we find in the sea." For me, I find the part of myself with the ability to see the beauty in the world and feel love, absent of worry and fear. I pray for these types of moments for my children.
Immediately after discussing this poem, Alex voted we use May as a middle name. He loved the poem and its meaning, and he also mentioned that we were married in May. Beyond that, the month of May has such a wonderful connotation. Everything is warm without it making you want to melt,  and the warmth has a newness about it that is so exciting and refreshing, pointing to both the slowed down and adventurous days of summer. In that way, May symbolizes hope. Hope for better days ahead. As we thought through all these meanings, it clicked completely when I thought back to her song, My Girl. "When it's cold outside, I've got the month of May." This pregnancy has been especially hard, seemingly impossible at times. Through it all, I've found comfort in the dream of holding my girl.  It's certainly felt cold at times, yet there is so much I've found hope in, including our sweet girl.

The Name
Her first name didn't come as easily. Nothing clicked quite like May. At the time,  my students kept asking what we were going to name our baby now that we knew she was a girl. I laughed and told them her name hadn't hit me yet. They took it on as their personal mission to find her a name. After having to officially make the topic off limits for my sixth graders (they became obsessed), one asked if she could submit a list of suggestions. After I agreed, I received 9 lists within a few days, most of them group "projects" done at the lunch table and recess. The girls told me excitedly that they had their future children's names all picked out. I laughed and let them know another person would be involved that may throw their plans off course. At home, I got frustrated and basically told Alex it would be a lot easier if I could choose myself.  He was patient with my frustrations and asked what I would name her. Amelia May, I said. Surprisingly, he said he really liked it. We both started researching and discussing meanings and associations with the name, trying to make sure it fit for us.
Here is what we discussed:

Amelia with the art she made for Amelia May's room

 - It also exists in the ee cummings poem in the form of "Milly," which we love as a nickname.
-I've loved the name Amelia since I was a kid. I find it so elegant and beautiful.  I probably loved it partly because my mother did. If my brother (her fourth child) had been a girl, that was the name she had picked out. Now it will be the name of her fourth grandchild! Also, I loved it after watching The Princess Diaries (I'll be honest).
- We never considered it while naming Della because it is the name of one of my best friends, who we saw over three times on a weekly basis. She was also our neighbor, and we watched each others kids frequently. It would have been confusing. Amelia moved to Jacksonville last August, breaking my heart. Now it wouldn't be confusing, and she gave the name a wonderful association.
She is one of the friends that I most closely associate walking into motherhood with.
-  Alex and I are both wordsmiths and we care a lot about name meanings.The name Amelia means hard-working. That made it fit our requirement for being a classic name, both beautiful and strong.
- Famous people named Amelia are cool. Along with Amelia Earhart, we also found several princesses and saints named Amelia, one of whom had several children who all became saints as well. One of the Amelia saints refused Charlemagne's hand in marriage, despite his pleading. 

The Meaning
   Our prayer in naming both of our children has been that we would give them names in which they can be proud. Names that they will make their own. We know that they will add to their names with their own unique personalities. We simply want to start them out with the message that they were prayed for and wanted long before they were born. God is currently creating Amelia May in her mother's womb, and I'm so honored to be a part of God bringing something new into this world- a world that has its flaws, but also its beauty. I hope she is able to get lost  in the wonder of the world, to feel God's love as she stands in awe of his creation and love for her. I hope she always knows she belongs to someone and is never alone. My girl. Our girl. I can't wait to meet her. I know everything will have been worth it. We have a new song in our house:
We've got sunshine, on a cloudy day
When it's cold outside, we've got Amelia May

We've got our girls. We've got so much honey. We've got the sweetest song.  Now, hurry up and get here, Amelia! We are all waiting.

The Problem with Silence

                                                                         

                     

                                   

"Show, don't tell" was a common theme in all my writing and literature classes, both the ones I attended and the ones I ran. I'd tell my students as I'd been told before,  "Don't just say your character is nice. Show them running to help the person who just dropped their books in the hallway or offering the friend who forgot their lunch a sandwich." The "show, don't tell" philosophy also applied when I wanted to teach my students about truly meaningful things, concepts they may have only half-formed opinions of, concepts like love, beauty, stereotypes, and racism. 

From an early age, I have been in awe of the civil rights movement and all the ideas that led to it. Perhaps it was because my hero was my fourth and fifth grade teacher, a black woman that has remained my inspiration in the classroom for years. Whatever the case, throughout my schooling years I chose the topic for projects, took elective courses on the subject in college, and couldn't wait to begin incorporating the ideas in my own classroom. I knew when I broached the topic in my classrooms in Winder, Georgia, I'd need to apply the "show, don't tell" mentality.

 In college, I took three courses within the same year: the history of the civil rights movement, the poetry of the civil rights movement, and African American literature. In my history course, I learned a myriad of facts, but in my literature classes I experienced what only good literature can produce: the ability to feel the history. As readers know, good writing sucks you in and makes you feel as though you are walking in someone else's shoes. I wrote an essay that year about my decision to teach literature over history because of this very idea. I committed to teaching these important historical concepts and having critical conversations with my students. 

        I showed them Martin Luther King, Jr.'s speeches, the poems of Langston Hughes, Gwendolyn Brooks, and Alice Walker, the Ted Talks of Chimimanda Adichi and Lupita Nyongo,  and While the World Watched, an autobiography of a survivor of the Birmingham church bombings, among many other pieces of literature. Their words often brought me to tears, and I wanted to drop them in front of my students and stand back quietly, watching fireworks go off in their minds. I watched as they expressed their rage, voiced their disbelief, wrote their own beautiful pieces of literature in response, and circle discussions that would leave them begging for more time to explore the ideas with each other. These were the days that I felt like a stellar teacher.

Then, I'd walk out of my school building into the bright light of the world and I'd find myself silent in the face of subtle racism and silent in the face of the complex issues surrounding our world today. As I woke this morning and read my Bible, every verse jumped off the page and seemed to be saying the same thing to me. It's not time to be silent. The words of Martin Luther King, Jr. came to mind, "In the end, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends." I'd analyze this quote with my students and we'd ask ourselves, "Where would we stand? What would we have done if we were living during this time?" 

When my girls see these recent events in history and ask me about it, I don't want to tell them that I hid in my white privilege, not saying anything simply because I had that convenience and no one was expecting to hear anything from me. 

Part of the problem is that I have been given the opportunity to study the whole story in depth, and when white peers post silly memes or make comments about "race baiting" that simplify and attempt to invalidate the problem, I feel helpless. How can one facebook comment show them the fault in their thinking? I know telling them just won't work. So, I shake my head silently. Silently. 

This morning I read, "Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves" (Romans 12). And sometimes love doesn't sound like silence. So here are some honest thoughts:

Should the confederate flag be taken down? Absolutely. Why has it taken this long? I've tackled this issue with many students in my day, explaining to them the symbolism in the flag and asking if they think it is worth it to make their black peers feel so uncomfortable. Fortunately, each has agreed it is not worth it, and discontinued their use of the symbol. In order to "show, don't tell", I encourage you to read Ben Watson's post on this issue at the end of this essay. He is so balanced, speaking from personal experience about how the flag makes him feel and how it is a struggle not to assume things about people who display this flag.

         I've been shocked and appalled by some of the comments on this issue. People saying, "What next, remove it from the history books just so that no one is offended?" Of course not, but can we please remove it as a source of pride when it makes so many people feel so uncomfortable and hated? It offends me, too, and makes me feel ashamed. It can certainly remain in the history books next to pictures of lynchings in the south and the Ku Klux Klan, or maybe even next to the swatstika. 

 Many will say it symbolizes the civil war by way of states rights and that slavery was not the only issue. However, we know that slavery is the heart of the issue. Don't believe me? Do the research and look into the founders of the flag and their viewpoints

To my fellow brothers and sisters in Christ, I have to ask, is the flag an image we should really take pride in? As a wise pastor I know recently posted, the call of Christ is to lay down our very lives for our brothers. Shouldn't you be able to simply change your mind about a symbol that means hate from a racist heritage? I think we can love our Southern roots. Southerners have awesome idioms, hospitality skills like no others, sweet tea, and homegrown tomatoes you can buy on the side of the road- and whites and blacks alike can celebrate the awesomeness of those things. I also think we can look realistically at the hate in our history's past and be ashamed, desiring reconciliation. 

Racism still exists. I know this in part because of my sometimes reserved personality. I have been put in awkward situations multiple times where racist jokes have been told, and by observation I saw that the social norm was to laugh. I have furrowed my brows and felt sick in these circumstances- always thinking of the perfect thing to say too late. Growing up, I definitely overheard occasional racist conversations because "the coast was clear" and I was white. And there are times when I have spoken out, but have been haunted because I know it wasn't enough. Like the time I was asked by a woman I was working with if teaching in Athens was rough because the kids are "all black." To which I promptly responded "absolutely not," but am still wondering what else I should have said. From an early age, I knew comments like these where wrong. My mama raised me right. Still though, I pray for more courage and effective things to say as I am faced with these situations in the future.

       I am reminded of a powerful portion of MLK's "I Have a Dream Speech," in which he says "many of our white brothers...have come to realize that their destiny is tied up in our destiny." As a white person in America, I know I have privilege because I can look the other way and not be affected by racism, but for others it is a daily reality. However, I do care. And it saddens my heart daily to think about what many of my beloved students have to face in this society, and to hear their stories in my classroom and on the news. We can pretend to be colorblind all we want, but it's not helping anybody, and we are not all the same. Some struggle much more and have an ancestry that we can't and shouldn't wipe away. As white people who seek unity, we have to see the struggle as real, to validate it because it exists, and work toward peace. For those that say "not everything is about race" or "we experience racism, too," just stop. It's not the same. People don't clutch their purse tight to their chest when you get on the UGA bus. You have the convenience of looking at these issues only when they are blowing up your newsfeed. 

This country has made so much progress and we still have farther to go. Be a peacemaker. Educate yourself. Speak out when a racist joke is told at a family reunion. Abandon your stereotypes and biases because they don't look like love. Be transformed by the renewing of your minds. In addition to Ben Watson's post, I encourage you to check out just these few pieces of literature, a great starting point that I have used in my classroom for years. Don't dismiss the experience of such an important portion of our population. Look at these issues with a soft and reflective heart. They show the story of the African American experience in our country and have been essential for developing empathy. I know that through this post I probably didn't say everything right- but that fear has kept me silent for too long. In honor of the lives that were lost in Charleston and the conversations people are having on race, I wanted to simply offer the little I know and be an advocate for change.

Resources:

Ben Watson's facebook post: 

https://www.facebook.com/BenjaminWatsonOfficial/posts/718321871628280

"The Danger of a Single Story"- If you've never seen this, take the time to watch. I began all my conversations about race with my students with this video, having them write responses and having a circle discussion about the things she brings up. It evoked common experiences for everyone, and I think it brought us to a place of empathy and understanding before jumping into history. 

http://www.ted.com/talks/chimamanda_adichie_the_danger_of_a_single_story?language=en

Langston Hughes' poetry is some of my favorite. I particularly love "I, Too" where he speaks as a slave being sent from the table when company comes. He envisions a future where people see his beauty and are ashamed of their actions. "Harlem" helps us understand the possible outcomes of generations of men and women who are told to put their dreams on hold.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/langston-hughes#about

Lupita Nyongo's speech, in which she discusses overcoming her issues with self image. Very relatable for any girl, and yet you can see the added challenge of having no one in the popular media that looks like you. As a mom of girls, this one breaks my heart a little and I love the conclusion. Only 5 minutes.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=ZPCkfARH2eE

While the World Watched by Carolyn Maull McKinstry. I read this novel in maybe two sittings and was thrilled to have a class set to read with my students. It is about the church bombing in Birmingham in 1963 in which some of her best friends were killed. Filled with anecdotes about growing up in the south during this time, you can't help but walk away understanding the African American struggle in our country more and more. As a mother, I'll never forget her confusion as a child as to why she was not ever going to be allowed to go to the theme park they passed frequently simply because of the color of her skin. 

http://www.amazon.com/While-World-Watched-Birmingham-Survivor-ebook/dp/B004JZYB20

On the Day That She Was Born

 On the Day That She Was Born

As Della's first birthday has been approaching, my heart often jolts as I think it through-- has it really been a year already? The day Della was born was like no other, and I knew I needed to write about it. However, I was quite busy in the beginning with caring for a newborn, and I slowly felt the opportunity to write about it slipping from me, adding to the long list of things I didn't quite get to this year. Unlike many things on that list, this is something that I felt needed to be done, a story that had to be told. What better day to tell it then on her very first birthday? If I was given the opportunity, I would go back and relive that day. There was pain, yes, but there was nothing like meeting my baby for the first time, watching her daddy fall in love with her, and celebrating life with all my loved ones. So, I've had the year to let the best parts of the story stick, and this is my way of reliving it.

 

 July 12th, Cow Appreciation Day, 7pm 

After coming home from Chick-fil-A dressed as a cow and feeling like one as well, I laid in my recliner and asked Alex to come sit next to me. We decided to watch 24 on Netflix, but I had a lot on my heart. I felt Alex needed to know every last detail, naturally, so we paused to discuss these concerns. I listed the following concerns to Alex: I was tired of waiting, and my curiosity was killing me. I already knew and loved her, cherished every kick and movement, but there was still so much mystery to her. What would she look like? What kind of baby would she be? She was mine, and I wanted to know her more. Also, I was incredibly uncomfortable, barely able to walk, and the next day was only the first day Della could come without being premature. It could be like this another five weeks, I lamented. I was so tired of having to rely on Alex for everything-- when things fell on the floor while he was at work, they stayed there until he got home. Knowing Alex didn't quite know what to do with my panic rambling, I told him what I needed. I needed him to pray for peace. He did, and I allowed myself to focus on trusting God, to relax and give Him these concerns. It worked and I was breathing easier, calm for the moment and ready to watch some 24. Until I had to go to the bathroom, which felt like every three seconds in those days. 

 I waddled to the bathroom and came back to the living room with interesting news. "I know everything is weird now that I am this pregnant, but my water might have just broken." No way, we thought, and decided to watch more 24. Then, it became more obvious, and all we could do was laugh. I called my older sister, Allison, and she and her family were headed to Chick-fil-A. "I need to go to the hospital, right?" I asked. My birthing class was scheduled for the next day, so I felt that I knew nothing and needed confirmation. She said yes and couldn't figure out what to do because her girls were dressed like cows and were really excited about it. I laughed and said that she could take her time, it could be hours, and I wasn't having contractions. I was oddly calm about it all, maybe because Alex was bouncing around with enough nervous energy to power our house. He called his mom and asked what he should bring to the hospital as I called my mom while packing my bag and Della's. As he rushed around, he kept pausing and announcing with a giddy smile that we were going to have a baby. The excitement I felt was quiet, hard to express in the moment. I was gearing up for what could be difficult, but I was accessing inner strength I knew God had given me. I felt a peaceful anticipation, soaking in every detail of each moment, knowing it would be one of the most important days of my life. 

An hour later when we finally hit the road, I asked Alex to pray for continued peace. I closed my eyes; Alex left his open, like a questionable Christian but a responsible driver. When I opened my eyes, I was astounded by a beautiful double rainbow in the sky. What does it mean? I asked myself. I interpreted it right away as a promise, that everything would be ok. Instant peace. I put on the song, "Your love never fails," a song I'd listened to throughout my pregnancy, as that had been the song playing loud in my head at four in the morning when I took the pregnancy test: You make all things work together for my good. I put on make up, too, because of social media. When we arrived, I took a picture of Alex in front of the rainbow (not double in this picture). In front of the emergency room, four or five staff members were standing outside marveling at the sky, which hopefully meant it was a slow night.  It certainly added to the surreality of the night.

 They took me into a room with a nurse, Jessica, that Alex actually knows, because Alex knows everybody. Jessica used to make meals for the Sparrow's Nest, the homeless ministry where Alex works. After confirming that my water did break, and that it's possible it broke earlier in the day (pregnancy is weird, y'all), she said it was go time and that we would probably be holding our little girl in the next 12 hours. The joy and excitement that rushed into my heart in that moment pushed all the fear right out. We looked at each other with huge eyes and wide smiles, and as she walked out to get a wheelchair, our excitement spilled out as we hugged and acknowledged with each other that this was really it. 

July 13th, 12 am 

Several hours later I was waddling up and down the halls of St. Mary's no longer in my cow outfit, but instead sporting a blue robe accented by a cart full of medical equipment that I dragged behind me. They'd given me pitocin, and I didn't much like the idea of writhing in pain on an uncomfortable bed, so instead Alex walked with me while I writhed in the hallway. My sister had come and gone, collecting a few things we wanted from our house and knowingly leaving us alone because this was clearly the perfect setup for a romantic date. I am grateful for the time with him, though, because he was already dad of the year, making sure I was comfortable and distracting me from the contractions. He had even read not to crack jokes during labor, so he was very sensitive. I decided to sit on a birthing ball because its sister, the exercise ball, was always so fun to play on as a kid. It helped a bit, but not as much as Alex praying with me and listening to "You love never fails" on repeat. I clung to the words, When the oceans rage,/ I don't have to be afraid/ because I know that you love me/ Your love never fails. The song brought forth a strength I knew God had provided. 

When the real pain finally hit, I had just requested an epidural. The contractions hit me hard like waves for the next hour. As soon as I'd catch my breath, another would pummel me, stronger than the first. I sang the song in my heart, The wind is strong and the water's deep,/ but I'm not alone here in these open seas. I felt God's presence, a strength in my moment of weakness. New hope sang out to me with yet another line, There may be pain in the night/ but joy comes in the morning. Focus on the morning, I reminded myself. I remember thinking that labor was so different than I'd seen in the movies. I never screamed, and I didn't cuss my husband out. Alex stayed by my left side where I hugged him through the contractions- he tried to move to my right at one point and I quickly let him know that was not okay. My mom and sister were there now, reading the screen and letting me know when I made it through a really tough contraction. They cheered me on, telling me I was doing great, and their encouragement helped me all the more. 

Finally, a man that showed absolutely no personality at all came to give me an epidural. That was fine, I wasn't in the mood for small talk. At one point, I pitifully moaned, "I can't do this anymore." When the man asked very seriously if I was referring to the epidural, I made it clear that getting the epidural was about the only thing I wanted to do. He read a long list of awful things that could happen because of the epidural and then made me hunch over my beachball belly for too long. He also told my mom and sister to get out. I would never invite this man to a party. Even so, he was my favorite person in the world a few minutes later. With a break from the pain, I was ready again, and so was Della. 

They called the doctor in. It took Dr. Halbach a while to get to the hospital, and the nurses told me to go ahead and push. I pushed once and they frantically told me not to push. Dr. Halbach got there sometime after 3 am explaining that she had been locked out, and she needed to change clothes. While I waited, I thought about how wonderful the nursing staff had been. The experience fully convinced me that nurses are literal saints, and their bedside manner was what really mattered. They took care of me so kindly, and I am so grateful for them. When Dr. Halbach came in, she was amazed at how quickly everything had gone. She briefly explained some technique for pushing, and I was ready. I put every ounce of strength into those minutes. At one point, Alex seemed concerned and asked how long it might take. We hadn't been to a class, and he was afraid it was taking too long. Dr. Halbach responded, "It's really up to her," meaning me. I took that as a personal challenge. With each push, Alex, my mom, and my sister encouraged me. The excitement in their voices translated to more energy for me. My time was 8 minutes. Apparently, Alex's concerns were unfounded. 

July 13th, 3:51 am 

 I'd had two requests for Della's birth. I wanted them to lay her on my bare skin after having her, and I wanted them to leave the umbilical cord for a minute because I read articles about the benefits of immediate skin to skin touch and delayed cord clamping. I didn't get either, and it doesn't matter at all because the doctor saved the day. Della had the umbilical cord wrapped around her, so she cut it off immediately. I was covered in blankets because I was strangely cold, so they laid Della on the blanket over my chest, where we were face to face. Nothing else mattered in that moment. I know there were other conversations and activity in the room, but I was zeroed in on her alone. Her beauty and familiarity left me speechless. I had longed to see her face, see what only God had seen in secret when he was forming her in my womb. With this mystery revealed, I was in awe. At the same time, I thought to myself, Of course she looks like this. Of course. I murmured, "Oh, she's beautiful," marveling at each of her features, noticing her likeness to me and her daddy and a beauty that was all her own. 

So many thoughts existed in my head at the same time in those few minutes, though there was a clarity about it all that I'd never known. I felt my heart open right there in the room, and in her tiny face I saw hope and a future. I could not have been prepared for the love I felt and all that God was teaching me about His unconditional love in that moment. As I fell deeper in love with her, I also fell deeper in love with Alex, as Della grabbed his finger with her tiny hand and tears filled his eyes. Amongst so many strong emotions, overwhelming thankfulness emerged as I surveyed the scene and heard the song once again, You make all things work together for my good. 

The Next Few Days

During our time bonding after she was born, I had plenty of time to gaze at her and reflect. She was so tiny and yet she had the capacity to stretch my heart out to the point I thought it would surely pop. I learned that a mother's stretching moves from the belly to the heart after a baby is born. I heard once that love doesn't run out like money, love grows more love. Love grew in the whole family as each and every family member came to visit, as well as many good friends. I should have been tired, but I must have had a lot of adrenaline left over because I barely slept the next few days, too excited about bonding with her and watching as others came to love her, too. Maybe I was excited because I witnessed a glimpse of heaven meeting earth, as Della's arrival brought with it a sacred joy and newness. As surely as God breathed new life into her, he breathed new life into me as well.

One year later

 

The Story of Her Name

Baby Girl's Name

The Inspiration

            The last time I wrote a blog about names was last summer during the Red Clay Writing Project, where I actually wrote two. One dealt with the significance and issues with names in general, and the other detailed my own experiences with my name, which I grew to love throughout my adolescent years. So in deciding a name for my own child, this was no small matter for me or my husband. As most parents do, we had countless conversations about name possibilities for our child. 

            We both agreed we wanted a name that was unique, but not confusing, since our last name is the ever so common "Smith." We also wanted it to sound feminine, but strong, and we wanted it to have depth and meaning behind it. We finally landed on two name choices, and I was determined to wait until the day she was born to decide, but her dad's plea to "please just choose so we can start praying for her by name" won out over my desire for surprise on the day she is born.  He also had his choice pretty set, and I love the name, too, so we were in agreement. I love that her daddy loves her name so much! The other name also has great meaning, being named after a sweet friend of mine, and we might like to use it in the future. 

            The first time I mentioned baby girl's name, I was afraid it might be quickly rejected or get a "maybe" noise, which would bother me as being Alex's first reaction if we decided to use it, so I asked him not to give me an opinion right away because I was serious about this one. I told him a name I had always loved was Della, the main character in my favorite short story, "The Gift of the Magi." He loved it right away. He mentioned being so frustrated by that story as a kid, but the frustration was in the foolish sacrifice the husband and wife made for each other in the name of love.

The Story

            If you haven't read the story, I highly recommend it: "The Gift of the Magi" by O. Henry. In the story, Della and James are a poor, very in love, married couple, and it is Christmas time. Della is upset because she wants the perfect gift for "her Jim" but has only one dollar and eighty seven cents. What she really wants to get him is a chain to suit his fancy pocket watch, which he loves but uses on the sly because of the old leather chain it's on. She sets out on a mission and ends up at a wig shop. The lady there will pay her twenty dollars for her hair, a large sum of money in the late 1800's. She impulsively agrees before she can change her mind. She buys a nice chain with the money, and waits for Jim to get home. With every minute, she grows more apprehensive about her appearance, and she prays that he will still love her, despite the absence of her beautiful long hair.

            When he returns home, he looks at her strangely and she worries he is upset about her hair. Then comes my favorite line: "Don't make any mistake, Dell," said he, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going for a little while at first." When she unwraps her present, she sees the beautiful, expensive combs that he had watched her admire in a window, combs that she would not be able to use now. The other problem: he sold his watch to buy them. 

            When I read the story to my 8th grade class every year, I always get a little teary eyed at the conclusion, which reads:

            "And here I have lamely related to you the chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are the wisest. Everywhere they are the wisest. They are the magi." 

The Meaning

            When Alex and I chose this name, it was for more than the sound and look of those five letters strung together. It met our criteria and so much more. It is unique, not being popular since the late 1800's, it is simple, and we see it as elegant and strong. It is also not the name of anyone we have ever known, so she will get to decide what makes a "Della" a "Della." In other words, she will grow into her name and her personality will define it for her. Any meaning we have attached to it is simply our hopes and prayers for the little girl we have loved since her very existence. 

            We hope that, like the Della in the story, she loves unselfishly, with wisdom, and with abandon. That she will understand that her identity is not wrapped up in her hair or any form of her appearance. We pray that not only will she love so lavishly, but that she would receive that type of love in return. The story is about her sacrifice, but also about his. He loves her enough to sacrifice his most prized possession as well, both of them understanding that love is so much more important than anything this world has to offer. And we pray that one day she will see and realize for herself that she is already loved in this sacrificial way by her very Maker. That He sacrificed his very life for her on the cross so that she may understand, live, and walk in His love. His love that keeps away fear. His love that bring peace that transcends understanding. His love that heals. His love that provides. His love that brings joy. His love that can put new life into her very heart, mind, and soul.

So there we have it, the story of her name. :)

Love Grows Where My Rosemary Goes

This is a project that I worked on for the Red Clay Writing Project this summer. The idea came to me at the very last minute while sitting at the Botanical Gardens during one of our writing marathons. My sister, Allison, was gracious enough to work with me on it, and it ended up being more meaningful than I even imagined. I enjoyed putting it together and sharing it with my family and the other writers in the institute.

I hope everyone who watches enjoys it. We all love our Rosemary!

Nana's Song

During the writing project I wrote this piece during our writing marathon in downtown Athens. While having a conversation with friends that day, we got on the topic of grandmothers. We all agreed that all of our grandmothers take us back to our childhood and remind us of who we are. As we exchanged stories, I mentioned that my Nana had been one of the first women in Lawrenceville to start wearing pants. Niki stopped and said, "Write that line down!! That is so cool- start your writing with that today!" and so I did. I was already writing a few pieces about her that I consider a collection (like the previous post), and this was added to it that day. Forgive me for using the same picture; I just love it. In case you wonder while you read, the stories are true.

My great grandmother was one of the first women in Lawrenceville to start wearing pants. When I think about her as a young woman, I think in sepia toned snapshots, old photographs that come alive in my head while keeping their same shades of brown. I know she was beautiful. It is both obvious from pictures and engrained in my mind as a fact of life in small town Lawrenceville. While visiting the many elderly people my grandmother checked in on even in her old age, they would get a dreamy far off look and tell me my grandparents were the best looking couple in town. It didn’t take much to convince me, even with white hair and wrinkles covering her face she was one of the most beautiful people I’d ever seen. Her beauty came from a deep place- what might have been surface level grace in her teens grew into every cell of her body, bringing joy, mercy, peace, and wisdom along with it. She wasn’t perfect, but who can even define the kind of person they would label that way? She talked a lot, and always commented on everyone’s weight. I was always too skinny or slightly pushing it. It was okay for her to be overweight, she explained, because one day she would be too old to eat and would need the extra cushion. Every Christmas, for the last ten years of her life, she would announce that this would probably be her last. Eventually we told her just to hush. But the idea of death didn’t bother her, she continuously talked about how rich her life had been. She was ready to go, and even when she did, her story was beautiful.

When she was in hospice, I had the chance to talk to her by myself. With tears filling my eyes and a heavy heart, willing my nerves to calm down, to focus, I spoke. I told her she had been the perfect example of a Christian in my life, someone who really lived out what she believed. She was kind to everyone. Age, race, social status, money—none of that mattered to her. She saw it and saw through it into who a person truly was. She had an unparalleled ability to comfort, the wrinkles on her brow moving in all the right places, the care shining through her eyes. She taught me what it meant to love others, to dance, and to laugh, but never at someone’s expense. She was both gentle and strong, one of her greatest strengths being her fierce love. When I told her what a great example she was to me and held her frail, wrinkled hand, she stirred. She looked over at me and with a humble smile managed, “I hope so.” I kissed her hands, told her how much I would miss her, and I left hysterical that day, unsure if I would speak to her again. Fortunately, I did.

The next weekend my brother got special permission to roll the piano into the room. He played her favorite hymns, and we all sang from the hymnal. We sang with joy because Nana would have it no other way. She hadn’t moved or spoken in days, but we knew she would enjoy it. Some glad morning when this life is o’ver, I’ll fly away. Her eyes fluttered as our unified voices rose together, ringing over her hospital bed. To a home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away. Mom went to her side, Nana’s hands clasping hers. I’ll fly away, Oh Glory, I’ll fly away in the morning. To this day the most beautiful thing I have ever seen is this loved ninety year old woman sitting up in bed and singing with all her strength When I die, Hallelujah, by and by, I’ll fly away.

At her funeral, there were only a few people wearing black. Wearing black at funerals didn’t sit well with Nana. As she said, we should be celebrating. And also crying a little. But celebrating through our tears. So we all bought colorful new dresses and wore them with her church hats. She had closets full of colorful hats from over the years, and we brought them in boxes, asking every woman to wear one and take it home. It was a lovely sight. The sun was shining, and my sister and I read a tribute we wrote for her. She would have loved it, and I hope that she did. For the longest time, I cried when I thought of her. I wondered and wrote poems about where the love between us went now that she was gone. I have faith that she still holds it, but also it is engrained into every fiber of who I am, a trace of where I’ve come from and who I hope to be.