Batter Up!

I just have no idea what I'm going to do with myself.  Zach played football in the Fall. Basketball this Winter...but he's decided not to play baseball in the Spring this year. Not really sure of his reasons. I guess the reasons are his.

He says he wants to lift weights. Get his body back in shape for football. He has a Spring Jamboree he wants to be ready for..starting as a Junior. Starting Center this next year. Taking the place of one of his best buds, Matt Carter. Matt will be graduating this Spring.

But I am sure gonna miss those baseball games. First part of every baseball season, it's still cold. It's still getting dark early. You're sitting out there on the field, bundled up. Loving every freezing minute. My spot was always right outside the fence, at home plate. I love making the calls. Striiiiiiiiiiike, ball, and YOU'RE OUTTA THERE!!!! And letting the umpire know when you thought he had made a lousy call.

I love the smell of the dirt. The hamburgers on the grill behind the concession stand. The boys in the dug out. Hollering out all crazy kind of stuff. To their own teammates as well as the opponents.

I'll even miss the age old tradition. I didn't even know it was happening. I of course, was not asked.

We got to the game. Getting our chairs set out. Getting ready for the game. The boys start heading out to the field. The first one I see is Hunter Suber. Our opening pitcher on the mound. I am saying to Mims..."What in heck is wrong with Hunter..does he look different to you?"  We're both looking, trying to figure it. Then Hunter starts popping his cap on and off his head. A nervous habit all men seem to have. And I see it. I see what looks different.  HE IS BALD!!! I mean like ..you can see the veins in his head...bald. I was like..OMGosh...what in the heck??? Then I start looking at all of them. They ALL looked different.

The talk amongst the parents begins. I can hear laughter, some talking under their breath, and some out and out exclamations. I hear Angie Suber LOUDLY, telling Hunter's Daddy what she thinks of Hunter's head. She is SO upset. I'm trying not to laugh..because she surely does not think it's funny. She is upset. They have an Olan Mills portrait appointment that next Saturday. For Easter pictures! She looks like she wants to tear his behind up and cry all at the same time.

I began to look earnestly for Zach. He played far right field. I can see him. He's way outfield, but he looks the same. His hair was still long and curly. I can see it at the bottom of his cap in the back. I thought to myself. Thank the lord. But Zach was so funny about his hair. It didn't surprise me that he was not one of the ones that succumbed to the shave. Tradition or not. Solidarity or not.

Inning over. They all begin to come infield. I've turned my head to talk to someone. Not paying a lot of attention. I was mostly listening to the other parents carrying on about their boys' hair. Some knew beforehand. Some, obviously, did not. Zach is up to bat. Mims is tapping me on the arm. To pay attention. And to look. He's telling me to look. I turned around and something...looked very strange. I couldn't quite  put my finger on it at first. His hair looked weird. It was still long in the back. But it looked kind of like he had tucked behind his ears on the sides. Like a girl. The umpire calls time. And Zach steps out of the batters box. He begins to nervously "pop his cap" on and off his head. And then I see it. What looks weird. My child could not just shave his head like normal kids. He could not just be like everybody else. Because he never is. Like everybody else. Zach has let those boys shave him a MOHAWK. He has shaved the sides...and has a CURLY STRIP going down the top of his head in the center, all the way to the back of his head.

I came OUT of my chair. I was standing as close to the fence as I could get without jumping it. I leaned into the wire mesh, gritting my teeth, and told Zach, "Boy, you'd better hope those clippers are still in that dugout, cause you are shaving the rest of that crap off before we go home tonight". He never moved. Never even flinched. Just stood there, and a slow cock-eyed grin started to form. He turned his head just slightly in my direction and winked. HE WINKED AT ME.

All those parents I had found so humorous before, were now laughing at me! Telling me it will be alright. It's just hair.  I sat back down in my chair behind the batters box. And fumed for about 30 minutes. I kept looking at all the other boys. Wondering, what in the world possesses kids to do crazy stuff like that? My thoughts were similar to those of Angie Suber. Zach has a funny shaped head. Bless his heart.  He just looks better with a head full of hair.

Somewhere toward the last few innings, Larry Edwards walked up to my chair. Mclane's Daddy. Copped a squat, and proceeded to tell me and Mims what a good son we had. He had chaperoned one of the school trips and had stayed in the room with Zach and a couple of the other boys. He said he just wanted us to know, what a good boy we had. A polite boy. Somehow, the good Lord always knows when to send someone your way. Larry's words absolutely diffused most of my anger.

After the game, we went back in the dugout, and finished off his shave job. He wanted to keep the Mohawk of course, but his school has strict dress and hair codes/guidelines. So, off came the rest of his pretty hair.

It's a funny story now, but it wasn't so funny that night. I wish I was going to have a funny story to tell this year. A funny memory. A story of crazy solidarity. Teammates. Rally caps. Stolen bases and home runs. I wish I had taken my camera that day. I wish I had a picture of that Mohawk, and not just a story. I wish I were still standing next to Angie Suber as her husband continues to tell her, "Angie, it's just hair. He can wear a cap in the pictures, it'll be fine."  Maybe next year.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Dream Weaver

At 4:43 this afternoon, I was matching up invoices to delivery tickets. My stomach was suddenly filled with dread and a ooky feeling washed over me.

At 4:46pm, I sent my son Zach a text message. Asking him was he alright. He answered back, yes. I knew he was on the school bus, headed to Popular Springs, Florida for their last regular season basketball game.

I sure hope if I get any comments on this post tonight, they will be comments of understanding and agreement. Because these things happen to me quite often. I'd like to believe I'm not crazy.

I do it to Joshua as well. I have called him at 1am in the morning. Because I knew his prior plans included going out with his friends. And I knew, a lot of times, they will walk home from the local pubs there. For all the obvious reasons. I will wake up out of a dead sleep, and know, there will be no going back to sleep until I call. Until I hear his voice, and I know, he is alright.

If you have read my Butterfly Trilogy, then you already know I have "feelings".  I have dreams.  I "know" things. I have been called a Gypsy many times in my life. My girl friends have told me "get a booth, stand in it, make you some money". But it doesn't work that way, and all my "feelings" are not accurate. Thank God.

I've had dreams about my parents and had to call them. First thing. The very next morning. I do not, however, call them in the middle of  the night. They would not appreciate it. I give them the courtesy of waiting until daybreak to call. They are used to me. My children, unfortunately, have to deal with it.

I've already told you all that I have had dreams that have stuck with me for years. One in particular, I have been trying to analyze for years. You can tell me what you think. What it means.

Joshua and I had been to see the movie Titanic earlier that day. And I will say this right now, that was THE most depressing movie I have ever seen in my life. Well, other than The Lovely Bones. Which was horrible. The Titanic was not beautiful, it was not about true love. It was about selfish, awful, self-centered people and how they behave when tragedy strikes. When human nature takes over and it's every man for himself. Anyway, when we came out of that theater, I was so glad to see daylight and sunshine. I was depressed and  in a weird mood for days.

A few days after, I dreamed that me, my dad, my mother, Joshua and my ex husband were in the ocean. Like the Titanic. There are life preservers everywhere. People are floating. It is obvious, we are the survivors from this shipwreck. My dad and I are struggling. In my dream, he has on the most beautiful Kelly Green sweater he wore when I was growing up. My dad is tired. Tired of trying to stay above water. He keeps going under. I'm pulling him, holding onto him, the best I can. He's telling me to let him go. Just let him go. As he goes down, one more time, I began to cry.  He's so heavy. Because he's wet and that beautiful sweater now feels as if it's added 50 pounds to his body. I'm grasping for the sweater and hollering for help. As I turn around, to see where my family is, because I need help, I see them. They are about 300 feet from me. My mother, my ex husband and Joshua. My ex is holding Joshua in his arms. And suddenly I realize. They aren't struggling at all. The water only comes to their knees. And in my dream, I know. They are safe. They are not struggling. Because they are the good people. They are the people who don't have bad tempers, who don't pitch fits, who don't fuss for no apparent reason. The good people.

I wake up and wonder. I think about this dream for days. I talked to my Daddy about the dream. I was so glad he understood. It didn't sound crazy to him. It seemed to make the same sense to him as it did to me. Zachary was not even born yet. So this dream is at least 17 or 18 years old. And I can remember it like I had it yesterday.

Over the years, my friends will call. And ask me. To tell them. Tell them what "my stomach says" about some particular situation. I don't have any such internal visions..but I do have awesome gut instincts.

I've had a few experiences with deja vu''. The year Zach was about eight years old, me, Mims and Zach were going to Turbeville SC to visit family. We were riding down some long country road, and I got the strangest feeling. The feeling that I had seen all that before already. Been there. Which was ridiculous. I had only been there one time before, and that was about 4 years prior. And we had been nowhere near where we were riding that particular day. I was in the front seat relaying my thoughts and feelings to Mims. How weird it made me feel when things like that happened. Zach piped up from the backseat, asking me what "that word deja vu" meant. I explained it to him. And just as clear, he said, "Oh that, that happens to me all the time, it doesn't make me feel weird, I just know, I already know about it, some kind of way."  I had chills go up my spine. I turned around in the seat and said really? You really do that? He just shrugged his shoulders like he does when he's through with something and kept looking out the window. 

My daddy has sworn since Zach was about 2 years old, that he has been here before. That he is an old soul. And I'll grant, he is definitely an old soul. He'd just as soon sit up in Hardees on Saturday morning, and listen to all the old men tell stories and talk, as do anything else. Been here before? Not so sure about all that. Me? I don't have any special talents, just extremely sensitive nerve endings. Things have happened over the years, and my feelings did come to pass. But it spooks me a little. So I prefer to think I just have a wonderfully imaginative dream box.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

And The Truth Will Set You Free

I wonder if any of us ever really know, before we start to have children, what kind of parents we will be. I can remember saying as a teenager, as all teenagers do, "I will NEVER treat my kids this way". I can remember thinking while I was carrying my first born, will I be good enough for this? Will I be the kind of  mommy my baby will need? Will I be patient as a saint like my mother, or have a hair trigger temper like my daddy? Turns out, I am capable of both. And not always the appropriate behavior for the situation. Over the years I would win some and lose some, when trying to make the right decision for the predicament of the moment. But my heart was always in the right place. Real hard to go bad wrong when that's happening.

I was raised by a proper southern Alabama mother and rowdy southern Alabama daddy. She was a straight A student and he was like me, got in school...and got out. My mother had the patience of Job, my daddy had the patience of a second. And back when I was growing up, there wasn't much room for foolishness. No allowances for talking back or voicing an opinion. If you were told to do something, you didn't dare utter the words..."in just a minute". Yes sir and no ma'am were staple words. Words taken for granted, not instructed.

All of that was well and good. And I'm not saying the world today couldn't use a little more of some of that. But I was determined that MY kids would have all the freedoms I so longed to have. If they had something to say, I wanted to hear it. If they didn't like something I said, or the rules I set down, they should be able to say so. With respect. Certainly didn't mean my rules would change. Can't think of too many right off hand that did. But they deserved a say so. An opinion.

It's all about respect. We have round table family meetings. We have "come to Jesus" meetings. And we have, "Mama is through talking about this" meetings. No matter the situation, I always start with, "I am going to say what needs to be said, and when I am done, you can say what you think you need to say, or ask questions".
 And I always do. Open the floor. When I am done. I won't say there have been many times I have altered my thinking, but there have been some. The important part, has always been that my children know, they have a voice. And that it matters. What they think, and what they have to say, matters. I want them to know, whether their point of view is on target or not, it matters to me. Because I have very intelligent young men. They both have the wonderful capability to reason and rationalize. To think their decisions through and to make wise ones. That's not to say all of their decisions are the right ones, but I am always pretty proud of the effort they put forth trying.

Your children always have different needs. No two children are the same. Nor should they be.

Joshua made straight A's through school. Never had to ask him about homework or anything to do with school. Never gave me a moments trouble. When he was 12 years old he wanted an ear piercing. After much debate, between he and I, I agreed . I told him when he turned 13 years old, his first year as a teenager, he could have one. The year he was turning 16 years old, he wanted another ear piercing. After MUCH debate, between he and I, I agreed. Once more. But I told him, that was it. Until he turned 18. I made him write me a note of agreement. That he would not ask for another one. I still have the note. And he didn't. Ask. Again. He did however ask repeatedly for a tattoo. Which I would not allow. He could do that when he turned 18. And it was no longer my decision. And he did. He now has several. All of which are not startlingly visible. At my request. I don't know that he will always honor that request. He'll be 25 years old in April. He doesn't have to anymore. He does have one particular tattoo that I have to say I love. It simply says, "The Boy Who Lived".

I like to think I helped give Joshua the freedom to live. To become who he is, with no reprisals, few limits or boundaries, and the world for his taking. I like to think that the millions of books I read to him, and my love for the written word, how it was spoken and read, was parlayed directly to him. He is his own talent, his own person, I was at best, merely a translator.

In school, Zachary does what he has to do. To be able to do what he wants to do. Both he and I know he is capable of so much more.  Both he and I know, some days, he has me wrapped like a broke ankle. I always swore I would not be the parent who went soft with the second child. The last one left at home. Some days, I uphold that pledge. Some days, I am just not capable.

Zachary will be 16 years old in March. He has never asked for body art or piercings.  He only asks for, insists on,  freedom, trust, and respect. I've tried to give him all three. He is the child when at 10 years old, was insulted because the waitress did not give him a menu and looked to me for his order. He respectfully asked for a menu and gave his own order. This same child at 12 years old had a motorized car that needed repair. We took him to the store in Tallahassee. The man in the store made the mistake of ignoring Zachary and speaking directly to Mims and myself. Zachary again, respectfully told the man it was his car, and he was paying for the repairs, to please speak to him. I'd like to say, I was the surrogate for Zachary's thirst and desire for independence. Because I knew at 15 years old, Zachary was going to need additional space. Ergo, the Man Shed. The place Zach can go when he needs to be Zach. Or with his buds, to play their music, video games, ping pong and Foosball. And, I know where he is, and he is safe. Win, win.

Yes. An open house, is what I managed to create and accomplish. I am very proud of that. I trust my children because they have not given me a reason to NOT trust them. And they have both been given "the speech". The one that goes something like this...."I will respect your privacy and your space, until you give me a reason not to. I will never go through your things, your drawers, or search your room. But if you ever give me cause for doubt, please do not think that I won't. It will not be a secret.  I will not go behind your back. You will stand there and watch me toss your room and look through your things. You may even be instructed to help. But it will never happen behind your back.  That I will promise you".

Every parent has had disappointments. Every child has had disappointments. Because every child and every parent is human. Honesty and respect for each other will carry you a long way down the road of forgiving and forgetting. I am who I am, because of my parents and how they raised me. I am a strong, independent woman. I can make the toughest of decisions, and fold like a deck of cards when I know I need to step back. I thank God everyday for my southern born Alabama parents. For they were my translators into this world. My travel guides. My map for achieving excellence.

I paid attention to my raisings'. So have my children. I haven't had to toss a room yet. And of that, I am very proud.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Pay It Forward

I was going to wait to talk about this. But I went shopping today. To the Mall, and Wal-Mart. And there it was again. All of it. Smacking me right in the face. The minute you walk in the door. Actually, most stores were stocked the minute Christmas was over. Overstocked Christmas items on one aisle. The next holiday rolling in, on the next aisle.

I gotta tell you, my displeasure of this holiday goes way back. I can remember as early as Junior High School, this stupid holiday causing such a ruckus. Girls, thirteen years old, having flower bouquets delivered to the school. Boys, coming to school, with teddy bears and odd and end stuffed animals, crammed into their book bags. Girls and boys alike, in a tizzy all day, waiting to see who got what. And in high school, the clubs in school would sell flowers. And the girls waited to see, again, who would get what. Or if they would get any. Or would they be left out of that overblown holiday once again. For the lovelorn, it can be such an emotionally abusive holiday. And lest you scoff, lest you think I'm being dramatic, then you have obviously never been hurting on this holiday. Hurting from someone you have lost, or from someone who has hurt you. Or just because it's your time to be alone. Lonely. It's real. The pain is real.

I think there are some people just destined to not have fun on certain holidays. Destined for that holiday to be, always the one, when you are without a significant other. Because you know, girl and boys, men and women, for years, have brought this thing to an art form. Breaking up with your significant other, right before the holiday comes about. You don't have to buy anyone a gift, and you're off the hook. Or worse, the ones, mostly girls, who trap a boy into liking them right BEFORE the holiday, for the gifts and flowers. Then break up with them right after.  My oldest son was victim of such a girl once in his earlier years. And I don't mind telling you, as a mother, I wanted to smack that little girl up side her head. For breaking my boys heart, and hurting his feelings.  Believe you me, I have given plenty of talks to my sons about women. And sadly enough, how spiteful and sneaky we can be. What users we can be. That's my job, as a mother. If I had girls, I would tell them the same about men. Well, guess I do tell them about men as well. What kind of men they need to be. As mothers, we all work with what we have.

Anyway, I digress. This holiday did not change for me as an adult. When you have a bad marriage, you not only do not exchange cards, you certainly aren't buying gifts or flowers. So for years, this holiday was nonexistent for me. After I divorced and was alone, it was worse. As I have told you before, I was trying to date. It was not a positive experience. The time for this holiday has rolled around. Again. I swear, it would seem I would just get over it one year, and there it was again. For years, this was a scheduled day of vacation for me. For real. I stayed in my house, and waited for the day to pass.

This particular year, I was walking into Winn Dixie. After work. To buy my groceries. As I walk in the door, my face is filleted by strings. Balloon strings. There are THOUSANDS of balloons in this store. And they have all been set loose. Every step I take, I had balloons slapping me in the face. Strings swiping across my lips. I'm practically spitting the strings out of my mouth as I walk. I've taken about 15 steps, and my breathing rhythm began to change.  I am gasping for air. I have begun to hyperventilate. INSIDE THE GROCERY STORE. I turned around and practically ran out of the store. I make it to the parking lot. I am bent over trying to catch my breath. My brain is racing a million miles an hour. I'm trying to rationalize what has just happened to me and why. And I began to cry. I just stood there in that grocery store parking lot. And cried.

I finally straightened myself up, got back in my car, and went home. I had not been there maybe 10 minutes and one of my best friends from back home called me. I had already stopped crying, but as soon as she asked me what was wrong, because I sounded funny, it started all over again. Hysterically, I began to tell her about the flying balloons.

I want women everywhere to know, this is why we have best friends.  Why our gender looks out for one another. Because at one time or another, we have all had the same pain. I don't care how pretty you are, how popular you are, we will all, at some point in our lives, experience this shared pain. My friend came to my house, got my grocery list, and went and bought my groceries for me. Yes she did. It was an act of kindness and love I will never forget as long as I live.

Years later, I am finally dating Mims. The first year we dated, I had the best holiday of my entire life. It was on a Saturday that year. My kids were with their father. Mims and I got up early, he said we were going for a drive. I didn't think much about it.  Mims rides the roads more than any human I have ever known. Sometime after the first hour, I realized what was happening.  He had driven me to the beach. It was too cold, obviously, but we got out and walked down the beach. Then he took me out to eat at a very nice restaurant there in Panama City. Late that afternoon, we were riding back home, and he stopped at a small curb store for a soda. He came back out with a gorilla. A gorilla, that when you pushed his stomach, sang Hunka Hunka Burning Love. Corny, I know. But it was wonderful to me. It was dark when we got back to his house. When we walked into his bedroom, there sitting in the dark, on his dresser, was a dozen red roses.

Now, I know since I am still with Mims, you think, this is a happily ever after story. Some of you are already probably trying to stifle your gag reflexes. No fear. If you are really thinking that, then you can't have possibly read any of my other stories.

On our second holiday, Mims comes to my house, on Hwy 65. I have cooked a meal, my boys are there and we are all greeting him hello. He has on a jacket I have never seen before. A nice leather jacket. I asked him where he got that jacket. And he fumbles around, like he doesn't want to say. Finally he says, his ex wife gave it to him years ago. Well, alright, I can accept that. I'm a grown woman. Just because his ex wife bought him something, doesn't mean he should throw it out. Of course not. That's ridiculous. I tell him again how nice it is. And because I canNOT leave well enough alone sometimes..I ask him, when, when she did she give it to him? He says one year for their anniversary. I say, oh yeah, when was your anniversary? Now you already know the answer to this question. I know you do. I can feel you only half breathing right now, just waiting on me to say it. Yes, their anniversary was on VALENTINE'S DAY. I kid you the heck not. Not to mention the insensitivity of him wearing it on THAT day. When to date, I had never even seen him wear it before. At all. So, ask me again, if I am one of those people, who just does not have good Valentine Day's. Because I will not answer yay or nay. I will simply tell you that I refuse to celebrate a holiday that falls on my husband's EX marriage anniversary.

In reality, I did get past it. We do exchange cards. And he does buy me flowers, even though I complain about the wasted money. Because flowers DIE. He has learned over the years, I prefer yellow roses over red. And that if I had my druthers, I would rather have a teapot I can look at forever than dried weeds that will go in the trash. Depending on if he thinks of it the day of, or three days prior, determines which one I get. I try and get Mims nontraditional gifts. Like an hour long massage. And I always get my boys cards, candy, sometimes valentine boxers etc. And even though he isn't here, I send Joshua a Valentine goody packet to Tuscaloosa.

So unite Sisterhood of the Valentine's Day Should Be Abolished Club. I will be the first member of your club. I will strike with you, and hand out fliers on the curb. I will fling my body in front of flower delivery trucks to keep them from their destination. And because I owe it to someone, as one of those pay it forward deals....if any of you should ever need your groceries bought on that dreaded day...call me. I'm your girl. I will gladly bust through that barrage of balloons to help you out. I will stumble through the menagerie of candy and cards to get your gallon of milk. Call me. I owe someone.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Capture the Moments

I haven't been very pleased with people lately. Their decisions in life. I was going to use today to rant and rave. Get it out of my system. Get it off my chest.  I don't like when people have no money and are  provided government assistance, and they take advantage of the system.That they buy with THEIR money, absolutely unneeded things. Like body art. Or that worse, they use PEOPLE to get what they want or need, while acting as if they care, to the rest of the world. I wish they could all see how obviously disgusting their behavior is. I wish they could all see..they are wasting MY MONEY. My hard earned money. I wish they cared. But they don't. Not likely that they ever will.The governmental hand out system has been flawed for years. Me ranting about it will not change it.

So, while I have wasted a whole paragraph on those people, I think I have said enough to make me feel better. They don't deserve a whole page dedicated to their sorriness. So that part, stops here.

Please do not think, the restraint is self-driven. I have none. I have NO restraint when it comes to the injustices of life. Had I not had a beautiful experience, with a beautiful person, at the grocery store this morning..I could very well, still be ranting.

I was in the check out line, buying my weekly groceries. Mims was with me, he goes with me every week now. Josh used to help me before he moved and now, Zach is never home. Once the buggy gets half way full, I can no longer push or turn it without it causing me a back problem afterward. Anyway, I am checking out, and because of some items in my buggy, the little girl taking care of me, began to speak.  She told me about her mother who has suffered with breast cancer. There was no one behind me, so even after ringing all of my grocery's up, she continued until the complete story was told. The little girl was probably in her early 20's. But already, seemed so mature for her age. She sounded so strong and so very proud of her mother.

As I stood there and listened to her story, it took every ounce of my being not to cry. For her, for her mother, for Patti, for my Aunt, for every woman I know, that has had the fear. The type of fear only a woman can know.

When she was done, she asked about me and my purchases. Did I mind sharing with her why they were being bought. So I began to tell her. About my very brave friend in Albany Georgia. The young girl seemed to find comfort in my words. Maybe less lonely. I was sure while I was disclosing..and talking..that Patti would not mind. Because I have hoped, as I am sure Patti has over the past few weeks, that someone, if they had the opportunity, would comfort her girls. Would tell them a personal story of survival. Or the story of a close friend or family members survival.

It matters that we listen when we should. I feel pretty sure God put me in front of that particular little girl today. What I am not sure of is, if it was for me, or for her. Probably both. I needed that little girl today, that I know.

A wonderful friend of mine sent me a personal inbox message last night. Expressing her concern for me. She said she knew I was upset and concerned about Patti, but that she felt like there may be something else that was bothering me.

My reply was that, there just seemed to be too much going on right now. Between Patti and Penny, and my own Aunt who is about one more treatment of radiation being shy of her last. As well as my parents, who seem to struggle with some health scare at least once a month now. And myself, not quite knowing what all is going on yet, can be as bad as knowing sometimes. The wait, and worry. All of us are getting older, and things are breaking down. Repairs are needed. I admit it's taking a small toll on me. So my solution, for myself, is to lay low, till the storm passes over. I work better that way. I try and bring whatever light I can for someone else..and worry about the rest later. It seems to make them feel better and it distracts me.

I know myself, just from writing this blog, just from opening my heart and telling some of my stories, I have helped people to feel better about themselves.  I have had very personal, one on one conversations with people, who thought they were the only ones. We all spend so much time, guarding our secrets, our pasts, and our own personal pain, we forget the people we are keeping it from are the same. They are human beings. With human lives. And human mistakes.

Until about six months ago, I had not seen nor spoke to Patti Craver Duffy since our 10th grade year of high school. I attended one year of school with Patti and barely knew her then. So that now, I feel such an attachment is unexplainable to me. I choose to chalk it up to, she is just one more person I could have tried harder to know, all those years ago. I have been reunited with several girls, that I regret, I wasn't wise enough to know all those years ago, what wonderful friends they could have been for me.


Strangers who choose to sit down next to you at a doctor's office and ramble, they need you. They were chosen for you. Or you were chosen for them. Embrace the opportunity to be there for someone. My mantra, always and forever will be, there is a reason for everything.

I have a new friend today, and her name is Ali. I will remember to always ask about her mother. To ask how she is doing. To let Ali know, I will not forget her or her mother's story of struggle. I will always remember to do those things, because she took the opportunity today to bring comfort to me. Whether she knew it or not. And I hope I did the same for her.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

Still on My Knees

I am a self made worry wart. I worry about EVERYTHING. I cannot remember a time in my life when I have not had this disease.

I worry about my boys whenever they cross my mind throughout the day. I worry about my parents...daily.

Zach sends me a text message. Wants to know if he can go to Taco Bell after basketball practice with his buddy Mclane. I say yes, but immediatley my gut begins to churn. The worrying begins. He sends me another text after practice, he's coming home instead, his knee hurts. My gut begins to knot again. I text back..CALL ME NOW.  He does. There's nothing really wrong, it's swollen and sore. But in the 15 minutes between when I asked him to call and when he did...I worried myself to death.

Joshua calls me from Tuscaloosa. He's walking from class to his car on campus. It's a long way. In the dark. I talk to him the whole way. People are crazy. I worry. He's driving home from Birmingham. It's better than an hours drive. It's dark and he's tired. I talk to him on the phone throughout the drive. These are rituals we have come to participate in. Together. Because I worry.

I'm ten years old. We're in a restaurant. I have a fresh $10 bill in my pocket. Birthday money or some such. I glance over at a table. Our dinner comes. We are eating. I notice a table off to the other side of the room. Everyone at the table has a plate. But one little girl. Through our whole meal, she never gets her plate. I worry. Why doesn't she have anything to eat. We go to leave, there is a jar on the counter next to the register. Raising money for one thing or another. I pull the $10 out of my pocket and stuff it in. For the girl who has no plate. My Daddy asks me why? I show him the girl, who was just getting her food as we turned around. I worried myself out of $10. Needlessly. But someone else, somewhere, would not be hungry. Because I worry.

My Mims was diagnosed with Prostate Cancer four years ago this March. He was offered several choices. We together, opted to have it removed. Quantity of life over quality. I needed him. To be with me. Forever. Like I had originally planned. He is cancer free now. And I thank God for that everyday. And I worry, twice a year when he is tested. I worry.

My father had a quadruple heart bypass two years ago this June. He went in for stints. It was not possible. That was his option. He took it. He chose, time. My mother needed him. To be with her. Forever. Like he promised. On June 4, 1960. And I worry. The doctors say these surgery's will only last 7-10 years. So I am already worrying.

My mother called me today at work. She has not been feeling well she says. Immediately, I begin to worry. She went to the doctor yesterday. She was worried she had another kidney/bladder infection. A year ago this past December, she was in the hospital for almost a week. She had become nearly septic. In older females there is no pain with bladder/kidney infections. They can be the silent killer if you do not watch yourself closely. Yesterday, her tests came back clean. But I will worry until she sounds like herself again. Tonight, she sounded weak. So I continue to worry. 

My friend Patti has already had one surgery this week. She had hoped that would be enough. It was not. Her test results were not pleasing. She asks, when can we do this? The doctor says when can you? She says, tomorrow. I will see you tomorrow. She chooses action over the unknown. She will now have to have radiation and chemotherapy. She knows what the results can be. She chooses life over vanity. Although she is scared. Scared for what it brings. She is beautiful. She will be beautiful. No matter the outcome. Patti has a very strong faith in our Lord. Our God. I know it is all  in His hands. But I am worried. I just found her. She too, is supposed to be with me forever. And she will be. Because I too, have faith. Even though I worry.

Does it solve anything? Will it cure anything? Will it change anything? No..to all three. Can I stop? Not likely.
Because I love hard and I love strong. With no filters and no reprisals. I just love. The only way I know how. With everything I've got. I've never had a very good on and off switch. So whoever is worrying about me..please don't. I tend to disappear when dealing with life is distasteful for me. I'll be back when I can. No melodrama here...just me. Being me.

Still on my knees. In Quincy Florida.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims

That's His Job

My mother went to church all of her life. Grew up in the church. Epworth Methodist Church in Columbus Georgia. I think she has always believed she belonged in church. Needed to be in church. Many times while I was growing up, we would try different churches. All different faiths. I'm not sure if she was  looking for what she thought she remembered. Or what she thought it should be. 

When I was about 16 years old. I thought we had finally found the right fit. We had started attending Putney United Methodist Church. There was a young, idealistic preacher there at the time. He hadn't been there long. Was just building a following. More specifically, a young following. I am here to tell you, when you can pack a church, to where there is standing room only, in the back, and they are all teenagers, you have created yourself a following. A true miracle as far as I'm concerned. He had my attention from the minute he opened his mouth to speak.

He was a different kind of preacher. Which it seemed, turned out to be his downfall. He would take one verse out of the bible and preach a story around it. He would preach a story that grown people and children alike could relate to and understand. Unfortunately, back in that time, maybe even in this time, it was not what the elderly in the church wanted to hear. It wasn't enough "bible" for them. He was there for a year. And then he was gone. Voted out. By the church elders.

We continued going there through the next preacher. For about three months. And in that three months time, the church dwindled back down to it's original form. There was plenty of seating room in the pews and it was no longer a standing room only crowd. I remember hoping back then, that the elders were proud of themselves. The people, the children, who needed to learn the lessons of God the most, were gone.What an injustice for all of those who were left.

When I was in my twenty's I worked with a woman who was in the church every time the doors were open. Her husband was a Deacon. We had phone solicitation late one night at work. Her husband had come to sit with her towards the end of our evening. As he sat, they began to talk about a young couple in their church who were having marital problems. The young man continued to come to church, as did his young wife from whom he was separated. Both of them members of the church. The discussion was about the amount of discomfort this was causing the young woman. How uncomfortable it made her, for her husband to come to church when she was there. The Deacon and his fellow church members had spoken to that young man earlier that night. And asked him to stop coming to church there. And why. And asked him to find another place to worship.

Now again, I ask you. Who needed to be sitting in a church worse than most anyone else at that point? And who in the world were they, to ask this young man to no longer attend their church and to go find another one?

I'm not about to sit here and tell you those reasons are why I do not go to church. But I will tell you, those two stories alone, are the reason I have a problem with human beings and church. I fully realize I am supposed to go for me. For what I get out of it.

I think I was born cynical. Not hard. Not a non-believer. Because I believe with all my heart. But cynical. I question everything. Too much maybe. Just the same, I have a need to know.

As I'm growing older, I think I need to know now, more than ever. I think I have prayed more in the past year than I have in ten years combined. And I don't take praying lightly. I don't pray for foolishness. I don't pray for teams to win the Superbowl, or the World Series. I don't pray for my youngest son to win his football games. I don't pray for my oldest son to have his writings published. When those things are supposed to happen, they will.

But I do pray for my oldest son to have a safe trip when traveling to Tuscaloosa and back. I do pray for my youngest son and his bus load of teammates to make it home safely from games that are three hours away and the road back is long and late at night. I pray when my husband is traveling, he makes to and from each job site safely.

However, I will not say I never pray for what others may think is wasteful and foolish.  I unabashedly admit, that last year when our office played softball in a league, and I was up at bat, I said a quick prayer when it was my turn. That this overweight, old lady, who can no longer run, would catch a break. Because my boys were watching. And I prayed that I could get a hit. Just one hit, not one at every time at bat. So I wouldn't embarrass my children and I might could make them proud.When the bat cracked that ball and I made it to first base..I looked back at the stands to see both of my boys smiling and hollering. And I said a silent thank you to the One who helped make it possible.

These days, it seems I am praying for one friend or another every day. Or family members. I am pretty sure the good Lord has noticed, that I ask for his attention and help a lot more these days. It seems my knees have calluses lately from all the floor contact they have had. But I also know, he knows me. And he knows whether I am sitting in a church pew or not, I am living the best way I know how. That I care about people. That I try and look out for people. And maybe a little too often, put everyone other than me, first. It's the way I know. It's the way I was raised. By my Mama and Daddy. Both who know God as good or better than I do.

We'll have conversation when I get There one day. Of that I am certain.  He knows me inside and out. Where ever I am, whatever I'm doing. He knows before anyone else. And He's taking notes. For more conversations. Until then, I'll keep living the best way I know how. I'll keep praying for whoever needs it as hard as I can. And I'll keep trying to remember, that I don't need to know the answers to everything. I don't need to understand everything. Nor do I need to judge what I do not understand. Someone else is taking care of that. And if I want something to believe, I just need to believe He knows what He's doing. Always. He showed me that today. I have prayed non-stop for days for my friend. He showed me again today. He not only listens, but He is in charge. He took care of my friend, and for that I am forever grateful.

I love you Patti Craver Duffy, scuffed up knees and all.

copyright © 2011 Michelle Mount Mims