Go Saints!

March, 2008, Cassie decided to purchase the perfect gift for Raymond...tickets to a Saints game. (When she saw the price she decided it would be the perfect Birthday-Father's Day-Christmas gift.) Her plan was to buy a pair of tickets for her and Raymond, but Kyle really, really wanted to go. Since Cassie wasn't willing to buy his, he paid for his own. Even way back in March the rival game between the Saints and the Atlanta Falcons was nearly sold out, and she couldn't purchase just three tickets. They only came in sets of two. I paid for the fourth one and was reimbursed by my MIL who wanted to go too.

We held that wonderful secret until Father's Day when Cassie presented her perfect gift. Raymond was speechless and in disbelief. It was, indeed, the perfect gift for him. Then came the long wait from June to December 7th. During that time Mawmaw had her terrible accident. There was no way she would make the game. She graciously gave her ticket to me.

Yesterday was the big day!

Kyle, Raymond, Cassie, and me before we left at 7:00 AM. (#25 Reggie Bush, #26 Deuce McAllister, Cassie and I in "Souther Belle" shirts that say, "Southern Belles Love Their Saints!")

Louisianna Super Dome!

Pictures don't do it justice. It's breath-taking to view the field for the first time.

Awwww...brother and sister love each other...at least when Mom makes them smile. :-)

Part of my favorite team...the Jeffcoats!

It was an awesome day, and the Saints won 29 - 25!

My husband had a bad day yesterday....

....so did my car...

Raymond was traveling north from Collins, MS. Road crews were sweeping the road creating a dust storm. Raymond didn't even see the truck in front of him until after Raymond hit his bumper. The car behind Raymond was obviously having the same problem since that lady hit Raymond's bumper. Our friend Kevin took Candace and I to Collins to pick Raymond up and take him to the ER at Baptist Hospital. Even though Raymond's arm hurt like crazy, the ER personnel said it wasn't broken. He's very banged up and sore, but thank God he will survive. We would appreciate your prayers for a speedy recovery and wisdom in obtaining another vehicle for me. Until then I guess I'm stranded. (Unless someone's insurance will provide me a rental.)

Nice? To Her?!?!?!

The sign hanging from a pink polka-dotted ribbon boldly declared, “DO NOT DISTURB.” What better invitation did a twelve-year-old need to barge into her older sister’s room?

“Get out!” the eldest yelled, “And I mean now!” Rather than leave quietly, the younger began a volley of less than loving words. The older was more than up to the challenge. After several rounds, the younger finally ended it with a slam dunk and a slammed door. With determination she set off to find a sympathetic ear (a.k.a. me, her mom.)

In an effort to justify herself, my younger daughter let fly a string of examples to prove she is always mistreated by my older one. I listened patiently, finally counseling her to “just be nice to your sister.” (This seemed the motherly thing to say)

“Why?” She demanded, “Why should I be nice to her?” (With an emphasis on “her” as if uttering “her” real name might cause regurgitation.) Without waiting for a reply she proceeded to list all the reasons her older sister did not deserve kindness. And while there was some truth to her words, I knew her sister could compile a similar list. Exasperated by this time, I once again admonished the younger to treat her sister with kindness. She looked at me with her own frustration and demanded once more, “Why should I?”

All the good things her sister had done for her were on the tip of my tongue waiting to fly off like messengers of grace to bridge this valley in my daughters’ relationship. I realized, however, that the younger was not in the Land of Reason, so I decided to put it bluntly, “Because I said to.”

She gave me a bewildered look and left deciding, I suppose, the cat appeared to be more sympathetic than I.

I began to think.

How often do we, God’s children, exchange cross words with one another justifying each one? Do we explain to God why we can’t be nice to So & So, detailing all the reasons they don’t deserve kindness?

Perhaps the reason we are to treat our “brothers” and “sisters” with love is not because they deserve it, but because Dad said to.

That’s something to think about.

“Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.” ~ Ephesians 4:32

Sisters who usually get along.

Becoming My Mother Update

I called my mother today. Here was the conversation:

Mom: I laughed when I opened the card you sent.

Me: Why?

Mom: Because I bought the same one for Mamaw!(Her own mother!)

Me: Great minds think alike! I guess that means you liked the card.

Just another sign I'm becoming my mother!

Happy Mother's Day to all!

Becoming My Mother!

Becoming my Mother!

© Drewe Llyn Jeffcoat 2005

It’s official – I’ve turned into my mother.

I suspected as much last summer when we were both caught wearing similar bathrobes and slippers. It became clearer upon discovering both our pre-Katrina preparations included boiling eggs and filling the bathtub with water. Let’s face it, for years we’ve laugh at the same jokes, enjoyed the same books and movies, and appreciated good puns. (Not everyone can, you know.) And in spite of the fact she loves squash, which I despise; my notion that I was becoming my mother were recently validated at the local Dollar General Store.

“I’ve got to get a pair of reading glasses,” she began. “I just can’t read the fine print on boxes anymore.” As she perused the reading glass rack my suspicion was confirmed, for it wasn’t my mother who was trying them on and speaking, it was me!

I’ve always had 20/20 vision and became slightly irritated when my mother would say, “Just a minute, let me get my glasses first,” every time I asked her to look at something. Over the past year, however, I’ve noticed a few changes. Manufacturers have changed the print size on their packaging, the light by my reading chair has grown dimmer, and people have been standing too close to my face during conversations.
Alas, the evidence mounted to beyond a reasonable doubt, so I scheduled an appointment with the optometrist. “When you reach forty your eye muscles start weakening,” she politely said during the exam. “You could use a pair of reading glasses.” What she meant was, “Nothing’s wrong with you; you’re just getting older.” Well meaning? Yes, but it brought little comfort coming from a twenty-six year old.

My mother and mother-in-law are forty…well, er... at least they were the last time I noticed. My mother-in-law’s fortieth birthday celebration was only yesterday. Wasn’t it? I was madly in love with her son at the time. The simple fact she was my boyfriend’s mother meant she was old. (Ahem…I mean old-er.) My own mother was forty when I married that same fellow, and we’ve only been married a mere…let’s see…twenty-one years. Twenty-one years?!?!? Yikes! That makes me…oh, my!...forty-one! How did that creep up on me?!?!?! That means I’m old! (I mean old-er.)

To be honest, turning into my mother isn’t such a horrid thing. She’s smart, caring, a hard worker, has a heart for God, and can make an awesome pan of chicken and dumplings. She has a great sense of humor and a love of books that’s been passed down to me and at least one granddaughter. She has a creative side I greatly admire, is a good listener, and repeatedly puts her faith into action. I consider myself blessed to be her child.

I modeled my new reading glasses for my own children the night I got them. “They’re cute!” one said kindly. Another wasn’t quite so tactful. “You look like Grandma,” she declared.

Actually, I hope I do.

Me and my parents. How many years ago????


Me with my youngest dd. She's twelve now!


My mom and I just a couple years ago.

Frodo's Calling

It seems improbable that I include The Lord of the Rings Trilogy on my list of all time favorite movies, especially since I’m generally into “Chick flicks” and not “shoot ‘em ups”. (Or in this case “spear and slash ‘em up”.) Yet, I absolutely love these movies. I suppose I’m drawn and captivated by the many spiritual truths they contain – truths about friendship, loyalty, devotion, self-sacrifice, and calling.

Frodo, one of four extraordinary Hobbits, was quite evidently “called” by some higher being to carry the power-wielding ring to its destruction. No one else could do it, not even his faithful companion Sam. The wise elf-queen Galadriel said quite plainly, “If you don’t find a way, no one will.” And of course by movie’s end, he does find a way, receiving high commendation for his service from the King of Gondor.

I love stories where ordinary people step up to the plate and selflessly attempt an extraordinary task for the betterment of others. They travel long and perilous paths sprinkled with splashes of joy and tender moments. There are always “Gollums” who would derail the mission, and occasional “Sams” who forward it by their own devotion and self-sacrifice. And in spite of all the harrowing experiences and difficult challenges, in the end, the mission is accomplished making the world a better place. *sigh* These always leave me inspired by the hero’s courage and inner strength and yearning deeply for a calling of my own. I want to make a difference in my world.

After much pondering I’ve come to a staggering realization, I have received a higher calling, one requiring a generous supply of inner strength and courage, one that will impact my world, changing the course of history for those around me. It’s my job and mine alone, a task that won’t get done unless I find a way.

What is this task? The Great High Power, God Almighty, has asked me to care for those He’s personally entrusted to me - my children and my husband - not to their destruction, but to their construction – nurturing, encouraging, and building them up to be all He created them to be. Sure, someone else can cook, clean, shop, and read to the kids. Indeed, millions of women around the world have received similar callings, but God has uniquely crafted and gifted me to be the mom and wife these children and this man need in order to fulfill the call on their lives. If I fail – if I’m not true to the things I’ve been asked to do, if I don’t run the course, if I choose a different, easier path – what then?

Well…I’m sure, at first, Frodo and Sam didn’t fully understand the magnitude of their mission, or the consequences of failure. Neither do I.

So, I have accepted the challenge and press patiently onward…past runny noses, spilled milk, and sticky faces; through mood swings, broken hearts, and temper flares; tackling dirty faces, greasy dishes, and stained laundry, while stomping the occasional spider. Fortunately, my path is dotted liberally with lullabies, rocking chairs, and campfires; snuggles, chocolate chip cookies, and shopping sprees; church plays, family outings, and read-a-louds. I’m ever mindful to be the loving hands, feet, and voice of Christ to my family, so at the end, on that day when we all stand before the King of kings, we can all hear, “Well done, My good and faithful servants.”

I dare not fail.

“…I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you received. Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.” ~ Ephesians 4: 1 & 2

Palms of His Hands Story

Palms of His Hands

It was spring, 1991, when my grandparents buried their first born child, my aunt, claimed by lung cancer at the age of forty-nine. My first born, age two, wiggled beside me during the service even as my second child squirmed within – her debut still six weeks away. Maternal emotions consumed me causing heightened awareness of my grandmother’s grief. How does a mother bury a child – a part of herself? I knew her painful loss would remain the rest of her life.

The officiating minister, surely nudged by the Holy Spirit, read from Isaiah:

"Can a mother forget the baby at her breast and have no compassion on the child she has borne? Though she may forget, I will not forget you! See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands..." (Isaiah 49:15-16NIV)

Those words flew straight to my heart. How well I knew that no nursing mother can forget her child! Her entire body aches and yearns for her baby making forgetting a physical impossibility. Yet God says, even IF a nursing mother could forget, He would NEVER forget us. His love is deeper, His memory is greater, His heart strings are stronger than even the most devoted mother. He yearns for us making forgetting a spiritual impossibility (Jeremiah 31:20). We are permanently engraved on His very hands – a part of Him. How awesome is that!

It was fall, 1997, when the church we were serving gave my husband and me a tremendous gift – a trip to the Holy Land! Forever we will be grateful for that wondrous experience. Before we ever boarded the plane I envisioned the perfect souvenir – a carving of a child in the palm of a hand. I’d never seen such a statue, but I was on mission to find one.

Traipsing all over Israel, my eyes scanned the goods inside every little shop to no avail. When even the Olive Wood factory in Bethlehem failed me I began losing hope. God, however, smiled, for late in our trip my treasure was found at a small shop in Jerusalem’s King David Hotel. There it was, out of olive wood just as I pictured it, a hand with a child carved on it! I could now return home triumphant and satisfied with my special souvenir of a remarkable experience. Little did I know that souvenir would soon become an incredible symbol of God's abiding presence.

It was summer,1999, when my husband and I felt the call to foreign missions. We, our three children included, applied for a two year assignment overseas. There was no doubt God said, “Go!” He just didn’t say where. The mission board invited us for a two day conference to interview and discern a location. Hours passed with no direction. "Stressful" hardly seems adequate to describe the experience. Tears prepared for overflow. I turned toward my husband in despair and glimpsed a curio cabinet I had passed many times during the day. I stared. Why hadn't I noticed it before? Sitting on one of the shelves was a small statue of a hand with a child carved on it. "See, I’m still holding you," God said. And He was.

It was spring, 2002, when our overseas adventure ended, and again we longed for directions that seemed slow in coming. A myriad of emotions swirled inside once more. God’s voice seemed blocked by the inner turmoil. In desperation I cried, “OK, Lord, how will you show me this time that we are still in the palm of Your hand.” (I admit to wondering if we still were. My faith was wavering.)

Not many days later I walked into a nearby Christian bookstore. There on a sale table just inside the door was… (Drum roll please)…an olive wood carving of a hand with a child in it. Though it would yet be several months before we received His directions, it was a comfort knowing we were still not forgotten.

It is now Spring, 2007, and we have been in our new place of service almost five years. Life is pretty settled, at least for now, as the statue sits serenely on my desk. I suspect though, life being what it is, a time will inevitably come when once again I will need a clear reminder God’s still there holding my family and me. I have no doubt that somehow, someway, when I least expect it but desperately need it, God will find a remarkable way to once more assure me I am still remembered and forever kept safe in the Palm of His hands.

“The eternal God is a dwelling place, and underneath are the everlasting arms…” Deuteronomy 33:27 NASB

©Drewe Llyn Jeffcoat 2007