We're not just close, we're tight! Photo Challenge - Day Two

Today's challenge is a picture of you and the person you've been closest with, the longest.

For me, that can only be one person... my mom.

My mom and I have always been close, and I'm so thankful for the relationship we have.

I know I wasn't always an easy child. After all, she raised me to be strong and independent. She set an example of working hard, and she told me to shoot for the stars. My mother inspired me to think that there was, and is, nothing I can't do if I put my mind to it.

I have always been able to talk to my mom about anything, and my mom has always made me feel loved unconditionally.

But most importantly, my mother is a Godly woman who showed me, by her lifestyle, the importance of walking daily with Christ.

She loves to laugh; she loves to cry - she's never been afraid to show her emotion. She is humble enough to be silly from time to time, but wise enough to have earned the respect of others.

As I look in the mirror each day, I think I look more and more like my mom every day. This picture shows it all.

Love you Mom!

Discussion vs. Decision

I brought my girls’ school pictures to the office the other day to put them in the Grandparents’ Sweethearts special section of the newspaper. Those pictures are still sitting here on my desk, and all day yesterday, I kept staring at their pictures thinking, “Gosh, they’ve grown up so fast!” Interacting with them on a day to day basis, I still see them as my babies, but looking at these pictures reminds me that my girls are growing into young ladies.

My fear though: do I have the skills to be a good mom at their increasing ages?

Being a parent is by far the toughest thing I’ve ever done in life. It’s hard to be a parent and not just a friend. It’s hard to discipline and set boundaries when all you want is for your kids to be happy. It’s hard to know which battles to fight and which ones to let go.

When my girls were little, I constantly used the phrase, “This is a decision, not a discussion.” And that was the end of it. Whether they wanted a piece of candy or to go to a sleep-over. Sometimes “no” is necessary.

But now as they are learning how to make decisions for themselves, they want to understand the “why” and the rationale in making good choices.

I want my girls to grow up asking questions and not just taking everything at face value, yet at the same time, I want them to know when to just respect their parents’ words.

I was watching a movie last night and it took me back to the old days. In this movie, there was an 18 year old girl preparing to go off to college and her parents were having a very difficult time with their daughter’s transition into adulthood.

There was a household rule for the girl and her younger brother growing up that they were not allowed to ride motorcycles. The parents just felt it was too dangerous despite how good a driver their friends may be. Yet one day right before the girl went off to college she came home on a friend’s motorcycle, and the mother flipped out.

“I’ve told you not to ride motorcycles! Don’t you know how dangerous they are?!?! Don’t you know how easily you could be killed?!?!”

To which the normally quiet, patient and smart daughter yelled back, “I’m an adult now and I’ll make decisions for myself!”

The mother was speechless. (As I think I would be.) Oh sure, the mother could’ve bitten back something about “as long as you live under this roof….” but she didn’t, wisely I think. That speech would’ve likely just pushed the daughter farther away.

I realized that the process to that moment in time for that mother and daughter began a long way back. The process to good decision making began in childhood, and for my daughters, that process is beginning now.

As I sit and look at my girls pictures on my desk I think, “How do I avoid getting into situations like that when my precious girls are 18?”

How do I teach them to make good decisions? How should I react when they don’t? How do I teach them to be strong and independent but at the same time, smart and safe?

As of this moment, these pictures on my desk are an accurate reflection of my girls. Their smiling faces show that they are happy; they are healthy and they are loved.

I know it won’t always be easy – after all, I remember being a young girl very well. I know there will be friend problems. I know they will likely get their heart broken by a boy somewhere along the way. I’m sure they will fail a test at some point down the road, and sooner or later, they are going to be faced with making decisions about important things when mom and dad aren’t around.

I’ve been studying lately in the book of Isaiah. This morning I was reading the passage in chapter 43, verse 2-3. It says, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through the fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you. For I am the Lord your God…”

Sometimes, it’s such a relief to be reminded that I’m not in control and to know that God is.

I pray every day that God will help me to be the right kind of parent, but more importantly, that He will be “Father” to my girls.

Now where is that passage in the Bible about not riding motorcycles?

Going home...

Have you ever driven in the pouring rain? Try driving in the pouring rain for eight hours straight. It’s a little nerve-wracking. Especially when you have big, 18-wheelers whizzing by splashing water and debris all over your windshield. Then there are the noises coming from the back seat - the constant ringing and dinging of sounds coming from my two daughters’ Nintendo DS hand-held toys. They’re playing the game Mario Brothers against each other.
“I’m gonna win!”
“No! I am!”
They scream at each other as if they were on separate ends of a football field and not sitting right next to each other in my little car.
Throw in the continual, “I need to go to the bathroom!” and “Will you please turn up the radio? I can’t hear the music!”
In the 500 miles from Columbia, Mississippi, to Nashville, Tennessee, I drove silently trying to keep my wits about me.
I’m vaguely aware of my mother chatting away incessantly in the passenger seat next to me. I know she’s talking because she’s excited and she wants to make sure I don’t fall asleep, but there’s little chance of that. She’s going over our schedule and all the things we will do once we arrive in our hometown while she points out all the businesses off every exit off the interstate. She really wants to stop at a Stuckeys to buy my dad a pecan log because she’s been buying them for him since he was in Vietnam. “Only a Stuckey’s pecan log will do,” she says.
Meanwhile, I’m trying my best to just tune everything out so I can focus on the road and getting there.
It’s hard to believe it’s been over three years since I’ve been to Nashville. I’ve been to distant places on the other side of the globe more frequently then I’ve been up the road to the place where I grew up and where most of my family still resides.
Ultimately, it was family that provided the incentive to make the long trip this past weekend. I really needed to see my grandparents; it’s been way too long. And as I studied my calendar and the things we’ve got going on before our family leaves the country, I discovered there weren’t many open weekends available. My daughters had a break from their weekly Upward basketball games, so my mom and I made the snap decision to jump in the car and go while we had the chance despite the nasty weather.
The tiresome trip and the drive were worthwhile. We had a jam-packed day and a half filled with visiting friends and family. First we saw my dad’s sister, Aunt Emily. She is a fun-loving, always smiling, warm-hearted individual who has a way of making everything seem cheery when she’s around. (And I’m not just saying that cause I know she’ll be reading this column.) :)
Saturday, we were able to spend the day with my grandparents, my mom’s brother, and ironically, my two cousins who are in the Marines stationed in North Carolina. (They just happened to come home on the same weekend.) They will both be shipping out to Afghanistan in the coming days, so it was especially poignant for my grandparents to have all their children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren at their house at the same time for the first time in more than five years.
“Laughter” best describes our time that day. It was just a joyful occasion for us all to be together, to share what’s going on in our lives, and to recall the funnier memories of years past. My grandparents are doing great, and it made me feel so much better to have that time with them.
We even managed to have a few hours with some old friends. I feel very fortunate to have some high school friends that I still stay in touch with and try to see whenever possible. These are the kind of friends who knew you back when you had acne and braces and boy problems, but they still loved you and wanted to be around you. They’re the kind of friends who are brutally honest, and will say what you need to hear whether you like it or not. They are also the kind of people who go out of their way just to see you and hug your neck because there is no amount of time or distance that could ever separate your friendship.
Yes, I’ve got some amazing friends and family in Nashville and they were worth every bit of that difficult drive up there.
But I realized something as we began that same long trip back home on a sunny and unbelievably beautiful Sunday. Nashville will always be a very important place to me, and it will always hold a special piece of my heart, but Mississippi is now my hometown.
Driving down the interstate, as we passed the big, blue sign that says, “Welcome to Mississippi,” I heaved a sigh of relief knowing we were finally home.
There’s something refreshing about getting back to one’s roots, and I can’t help but think about how it will feel to come back to Mississippi after we’ve been gone for several years. But no matter how far from here I roam, Mississippi will always be my home. I am proud to be a Mississippi girl.
P.S. In case you wanted to know, Stuckeys no longer carries the pecan logs. We stopped seven times just to be sure. Dad, I hope it’s the thought that counts!

(published in the Columbian-Progress 02/10/11)

A "light" discussion

As a child growing up, I looked forward to the time each year when we would break out all the boxes of Christmas decorations. Dad would unload them from the attic while Mom and I opened them to discover what was inside. Each one was like a Christmas gift being unwrapped because of the special treasures tucked within the box.
There’s something unique about Christmas decorations in that they often hold special memories. My dad has a little, red Santa Claus ornament that he’s had on his tree every year since he was a child. One of my mom’s favorite decorations is the porcelain nativity scene that she received as a gift when she and my dad were newly married. It felt like I had received a great honor when I reached an adequate age that my mom let me set out the pieces of the nativity because I knew how very special it was to her.
Of course, decorating the Christmas tree was also a very big deal. In my teenage years, we bought a real tree. The big decision each year was whether or not to get it flocked with artificial, white snow. Typical tradition involved my mom picking out a color palette that we would decorate within, including the tree, ribbons, wrapping paper and ornaments. Usually it was a pairing of red and silver or green and gold, or some other popular combination trending that season. To coordinate with the colors, our Christmas tree would usually have only white lights, but we had lots of them. White lights became the tradition for my family, and it’s what I prefer now as an adult as well.
Unfortunately, my husband grew up with colored lights every year on his tree, and now as we strive to combine the rituals of our past into our own family practices, we just can’t seem to agree on the lights on the tree.
CJ and I have been married for 15 years, this year, and you would think after all this time, we would have figured some sort of compromise. But year after year, the same debate begins, usually around Thanksgiving. The discussion of white lights versus colored lights on the Christmas tree causes more consternation than any other dialogue in our household (followed closely by what temperature to keep the thermostat on in the house.)
CJ thinks that colored lights are more “fun” but I think pretty, twinkling white lights are just as fun! I also think that colored lights take away from the beauty of the ornaments. Whether store-bought or home-made, it’s the ornaments that hold the memories and meaning on the tree.
I posed an informal poll to my Facebook friends to determine their preferences when it comes to the tree and decorations. On the question of preference for a real tree versus an artificial tree, the answers were about 50/50 for each. Those in favor of artificial typically said it was because of less hassle and mess for the fake kind. Those who chose the real tree felt it was worth the trouble of keeping it watered and cleaning up needles, etc. because of time-honored traditions and of course, the amazing real-Christmas-tree smell in the house.
The question about the lights showed a majority preference for white lights! To be precise, about 70% said white lights would be on their tree over about 30% who desire colored lights. I still don’t understand why people think that colored lights are for kids, which is what several of my online friends quipped. White lights can be just as fun for kids too.
One of my favorite answers was from a high-school friend that I went to church with, Dennis Burton, who said white lights were better and that the colored lights looked like the ‘70s. That’s just too funny!
Another Facebook friend, Lisa Berarducci, said that you should use while lights on very tall trees and colored lights on shorter ones.
My brother-in-law, Joe Johnson, sided with CJ, of course, saying white lights are boring.
My favorite response came from Kandee Molaison, who said they have programmable lights on their tree and they can change from colored lights to all white by simply pressing a button. Although, in our household, that would just add one more layer to the discussion.
We’ve tried in the past to rotate every other year —colored lights one year, white lights the next. But each year when Christmas came around, we couldn’t decide (or remember) which lights we had used the year before.
We even tried a couple of years to decorate two Christmas trees in the house — one with white lights, one with multi-colored. But that was just more trouble than it was worth.
There’s just not been an easy solution.
I was dreading the discussion this year. I just didn’t want to have to debate anymore. After all, there is so much more to be considerate of during this wonderful, holiday season. Why dampen the mood by disagreeing over something so small as lights on the tree?
So I just never spoke of it. Thanksgiving came and went this year without the single mention of what colored lights to put on the Christmas tree. Even earlier this week when we went out to purchase our favorite Frazier Fir (at least we both agree on having a real tree in the house) the topic of lights was never broached.
Then something really amazing happened. We brought down the boxes from storage with all our Christmas decorations inside, and lo and behold, all of our strands of colored lights have disappeared! I don’t know what could have happened to them all…
Oh well, I guess Santa came to the Johnson household a little early this year, and he made sure that we had only white lights on our tree. Thank you Santa Claus!
(Published in the Columbian-Progress 12/2/10)

Christmas Card 2010

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Salute to Veterans

In the house I grew up in, there was a coat closet near the back door. Inside that closet hung a worn-out, faded green coat. This coat was not like any other that hung in the closet such as my mother’s fancy, wear-to-church coat or my dad’s favorite brown and white plaid blazer with the black elbow patches. There were also sweaters and rain coats for each of my family in this closet, but this one shabby coat was quite different and quite special.
This coat had “Marable” embroidered above the right chest pocket. (Marable was my last name back then, my maiden name now.) As memory serves, that jacket also had “U.S. Army” on the left chest pocket. I remember as a kid being very fascinated by that coat, as if it had a special aura about it. I would sneak into the closet and put the coat on when no one was looking. The arms of the coat of course were much longer than my own, and the length of the jacket fell way beneath my knees. I would wrap myself up in the coat which still had a lingering musty smell mixed in with faint scents of my dad’s after shave lotion.
Like a magic cape, I felt as if putting on my dad’s army jacket would conjure up memories of the time he served in the military.
Over the years, I have tried to ask my dad many questions about the time he served our country in Vietnam. But like a safe that’s been locked up and the key thrown away, he always manages to avoid the details I’ve tried to finagle out of him. Of course now as an adult, knowing and reading about the atrocities of what happened on that foreign soil, it’s no wonder my dad refuses to relive that piece of history.
My dad, Jerry Marable, enlisted in the Army and was called to duty just a few short months after being married at age 21 (almost five years before I would be born.) He was in Vietnam during the peak of the war in 1968 and 1969 as part of the 43rd Medical Brigade.
It is reported that over 58,000 American soldiers were killed in action during the Vietnam conflict, of which more than 16,000 died in 1968 alone.
The question of why the United States participated in the Vietnam War is still hotly debated, nearly forty years after the conflict ended. It’s much like the ongoing debate as to the necessary presence of our military men and women still fighting today in Afghanistan and Iraq and other Middle Eastern countries.
The one thing I do know is that no matter whether or not you support our leaders’ decisions to go to war, you should definitely support the men and women who risk their lives in service to this country in those wars.
I can’t even begin to imagine how those servicemen from Vietnam felt after never-ending days and months of fighting, seeing their brothers-in-arms die all around them only to come home and be scorned by the people they were representing.
Since the days of Vietnam, there’s a whole new generation of men and women serving in our country’s military. I have two cousins, both sons of my mother’s brother, currently serving in the United States Marine Corps. I have seen these two young men grow up from their birth, and I have always loved them like an older sister. I am so incredibly proud of them and their decision to join our country’s armed forces. They are tough; they are smart and they are incredibly focused. Very different from the two little boys who wore little, white tuxedos in my wedding fifteen years ago. They stood at complete attention on the platform in between me and my maid of honor during the long ceremony never moving or speaking once. To be such wild, rambunctious boys, even then their inner soldier was shining through.
I sleep easy at night knowing there are many other men and women just like Matthew and Christopher serving all over the world to protect our country’s interests.
Those soldiers keep us safe, and for that, we owe them a great debt of respect and gratitude.
As a little girl wrapped up in my daddy’s army coat, I felt sheltered and secure. That coat is so much more than just the armor of a soldier; it is a symbol of the larger conglomerate of men and women who make up our country’s armed forces. That coat may be tattered and pierced. It may be washed out and ragged, but no matter the condition, that coat will always keep you warm.
November 11 is the day we set aside to revere and memorialize those individuals who have served or continue to serve in our country’s military. On this day, let’s honor our soldiers for whom without we would not live in the freedom that we do today.
I challenge you to remember that this nation will only remain the land of the free, as long as we remain the home of the brave.
(Published in the Columbian-Progress 11/11/10)

Needles in the sky

Like snowflakes on my tongue
and raindrops on my hand,
the pine needles fall to the ground.

They twirl downward to the earth and whirl in the wind
and before you can pick them up
they fall again.

The once green grass is covered with brown.
They came out of nowhere
without a sound.

It's the circle of life
this birth and death of trees and their leaves
like a new baby's breath.

For now we watch in wonder
It's a sign of the new season
Soon they'll be swept away for
a new rhyme and reason.