the summitt

On the day that we moved my oldest son to college, I walked into his room among the boxes holding his future. “Hey, want me to help you make your bed?” I asked smiling. We tidied the covers and I tucked his teddy bear in among the pillows. 

We drove east into the rising sun and Vol-land. The pit of my stomach turned and rumbled as I joined the throngs of parents pushing loaded carts vying for elevators. The dismal and exhausted dorm room has welcomed students since 1965. We packed as much warmth into it as we could leaving the white walls a blank slate. 

A college friend of Matt’s from Knoxville offered us respite in his beautiful home. Some of the most tender steak I’ve ever had the pleasure of eating settled my rumbly tummy. The fellowship warmed my weak heart. A few months earlier we had spent the weekend with Woody and Jennifer. We had told him Matthew may be attending UT. He smiled, took a sip of his cold beer and said, “You know if he does come to UT, he’s mine.” I’ve never heard such comforting words. 

On Matthew’s first night in the dorm, I spent a long and restless night at Woody’s with Matt and Sam. Awake from 3-4 a.m., I listed the things we could do to bring some life to the cell of a dorm room. Up to now, the males had given me a lot of flack. Being as I am outnumbered in this family, it added up to quite a bit! Boys don’t care about a dorm room. Boys don’t need it to be beautiful. Mom, (eyes rolling) I don’t care what comforter I have or if it matches Sean’s! But now everyone was brainstorming!

Sunday morning early, we arrived to the dorm early and dragged Matthew out of bed. We headed to the equivalent of Mecca for new dorm residents: Walmart. Zealous parents and students had ransacked the place. No hangers. No cork boards. A kind employee dug in a box to find shower curtain rings. 

Back at Alcatraz, I mean Massey Dorm, we added the Walmart-touch and the place livened up. As I placed pictures on the wall, Matt said, “It’s time to go.” Matthew’s tour of campus began in 5 minutes. “But can’t we just stay here and work on the room while he’s gone?” 

“No,” Matt said. No explanation.

“Is it against the rules?” I stammered.

“It’s time for us to go,” he gently reassured. 

We all rolled out the door into the hall with the force of a tsunami. There next to the elevators sat 8 or so freshman young men with the RA, Hunter. Awkward. We quickly hugged goodbye and I boarded the elevator with Rhode Island in my throat. I had been told not to look back. Afraid of what may happen if Rhode Island broke up, I checked my flip flops. On the ground, I kicked the gravel and spit out, “That was just awful.” Matt agreed. 

“We don’t have to leave on that note,” we both agreed. We decided to eat and return for a better goodbye. Now, if a parent had asked for my advice in this situation, I would have said, “Leave. Go on home.” Reason did not have the wheel.

Amidst tears, we found our way to the Old City, a quirky and whimsical part of Knoxville. “You have not told me about these shops,” I accused Matt. 

“These were not here when we dated 20 years ago,” he said.

“Yeah, right.”

I texted Matthew: We have a gift for you. Can you meet us after the tour to pick it up?

Shameful. We had visited the bookstore and bought him a lanyard for his keys. For me visiting the all-orange store traumatized me even more. I am an Ole Miss girl by heart. 

We proceeded as planned since we did not hear from him. Funny how my texts and calls are not answered even though the phone grows out of his right palm. He may have been strategizing: how can I get them to leave?

At last, the phone rang. “Mom, I’m pretty busy. I have something else at 4.” 

“We just wanted to say goodbye over. That goodbye was terribly awkward,” I explained. “It will only take a second.”

Our Odyssey roared back to campus. There on the corner sat Matthew with his tour. He hurried over to our car. We tried to park out of the way and out of sight certainly out of earshot. I said the things I wanted to say without an audience. Hugged him. Touched his face. Matt gave him a huge man-hug. We drove off. Again. 

Tomato Head Restaurant offered yet another respite. Good food is a comfort. Lazy Magnolia Southern Pecan Ale is brewed in Kiln, MS. From the first drop on my tongue I felt the love. Apparently, it is the only beer in the world made with roasted pecans. I needed a Mississippi touch. Outside, Sam danced in the water fountain. Then, we headed west: home. 

Some things remain private. The ride home. The tears. The talk. The snorts. 

The family who kept Joshua lives on one of the most beautiful stretches of road in the country. We rounded Del Rio and the stunning sunset bade us welcome.

The next morning I awoke before the sunrise aware of an emptiness in my gut. I’ve been reading a book about getting in touch with the gut: the seat of emotions, the home of the soul. I stealthily stole out to the patio. As I wrote in my journal, the pages turned golden under the sunrise. I checked in with the gut. Warmth, fullness, life. The emptiness is true: I miss Matthew. 

The life is truer. 

So much of parenting is negotiating endings, the unceasing process of disconnecting the strings that tie our children to us, preparing them for a life on their own. That has always been the ache and beauty of it for me – taking the deep breath and trusting somehow in the goodness of life, in God, in something beyond myself. – Sue Monk Kidd

Update on 08.14.2014 by gigi

Many of my friends are taking children to college, launching young adults into the crazy and chaotic world of college. Each year after we dropped my oldest son off at University of Tennessee, I reflect on that day and pray for my friends. Releasing is never easy. And it is essential. We begin the beautiful job of parenting with a series of letting go's. Blessings to you, my friends, as you walk this journey. For me, the hardest part was the drive home. Every day became easier after that. And now five years later, we are in a rhythm that suits us. You will live through this! Take courage!

Update on 05.12.2016 by gigi

I like to post this in May when my friends are all wigged out and sending their babies off to college. Let me tell you, I have two more to send one day... I WILL BE WIGGED OUT. So grab a box of tissue and read on. 

Happy 10th Birthday, Joshua

Ten years ago today, I was on bedrest in Baptist Hospital and Joshua tap-danced his way out of the womb. We like to tell the story at our house like this: Joshua entered the world via C-section like all McMurray boys. When the doctor pulled him out of my womb, Joshua grabbed a blue surgical rag on his way up. Dr. Growden’s jaw fell open wide at the site of this 4 pound baby boy gripping a quite large blue rag. He held onto it. “I’ve never seen anything like this in all my years!” exclaimed Dr. Growden.

Strength. A quiet strength possesses Joshua. I say it like that because it emanates from him something like his spirit shining through to say hello to the world. Once several years ago when Joshua had been wounded by life’s harshness, I drew a sketch of Joshua in my arms standing in front of the King of Kings in His Holy of Holies. That is what my soul could do for his soul at that time. Just bring him in my arms to Jesus. 

That sketch has come to mean a lot to me. I have begun to see it as myself bringing a younger wounded version of myself to Jesus. I can take my own inner child in my arms and bring her into the Presence. That is when inner healing happens. Being a mom is a lot like that. You see your children laugh, play, struggle, cry, grieve, push your buttons and you realize that it is pushing you farther in and making you a better person. 

In his ten short years, Joshua has done that for me. He has made me better. 

Every night as Matt and I put him to bed, we say thanks to God. Thank you, God, for choosing us to be his parents. We are blessed.

This is the Lord’s doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. Psalm 118:23

remembering Honduras

On the day we left our home of four years, the gravel crunched beneath our feet and I felt as if the Earth may fall away. The children lined up on the road at Rancho Ebenezer snailing their way to school on the first day back. We rounded the first bend in the steep dirt road to be greeted by two oxen pulling a cart and a Honduran man with a staff mumbling out commands only oxen understand. The man tipped his hat at us as the oxen seemed to imitate him with their horns. They saluted us goodbye. 

I memorized the road. The house with the geranium in a coffee tin stood as a reminder of my first trip down this mountain some 6 years earlier. The Honduran people had impacted me, changed me, with their easy smiles, gentle demeanor and determined generosity. On that trip we had inched down the road in a pick-up truck. Hondurans give pick-up a whole new meaning. When our load maxed out at around 20 people hanging off the sides and packed inside, we stopped and picked up four more walkers. The Hondurans smiled, scooched over and never uttered a word of complaint. The geranium house came to symbolize this people for me. They can do a lot with a little and smile the whole while. 

I swallowed hard and nodded goodbye to the pulpería (a small “corner” market) and the tears fell as my heart filled up with love. The soccer field across the street served as a local gathering spot. Just down the mountain, the health clinic and middle school buzzed with activity. We reached our top speed of 25 and hit the pavement a short while later. A fog of pollution and smoke hung over the city. I scanned the skyline and begged my brain to take it all in.

The crowded airport air hung around us like robes. Typical of the culture, the pseudo-line had dissolved into complete chaos. A short man with a belt-buckle the size of Texas pressed against my back. His breath on my neck was hotter than the sun. We held onto our boys and I tried not to wail out loud. My fingers read their faces like Braille. 

The crowd swallowed us up like a giant ameba and we had to let them go. The grief I felt was far heavier than Samuel in my arms.

The crowd pressed into a semi-circle around one doorway. Someone started shouting for us to let a disabled woman through. I remember looking on in a daze as the allegedly handicapped woman walked closely behind a man waving a walker over his head. 

Someone near me, an official I think, began yelling that I was getting high blood pressure and had a baby and needed passage. I might faint, he said, if they did not let me through. The crowd parted like so much Red Sea. Pressing forward in a stupor, I crossed the threshold of the security door with Sam (9 months) and Joshua (5). Matt and Matthew stayed with the crowd and the carry-on luggage. I located the correct gate and bee-lined it to the nearest window. I could not silence nor soften the sobs that wracked through my body. My forehead rested on the floor-to-ceiling-glass pane that separated me from the country I had grown to love and from my children. Desperately, I searched the parking lot below. I wanted one last glimpse of them. 

I felt a presence beside me. It was the woman of the walker. However, now she leaned on it and invaded my personal space. I was too emotional to notice and before I knew what hit me she enfolded me in some of the largest, warmest, most welcome arms I have ever been hugged by. I blubbered out some of my story and she comforted me with words I do not now remember. It had something to do with God’s timing and His sovereignty. Truth. I recognized it. Her words were right and healing and spoken with such kind compassion they did not sound cliché. She held me for a while – me and Sam with Joshua close by. I needed the words but mostly the arms. Finally, I looked up to see Matt and Matthew struggling like beasts of burden to the gate. He joined me at the window and we scanned to and fro. No sight of our boys. We boarded the plane and began our long journey away from Honduras and the children we loved.

While my family and I waited at the baggage carousel in Miami, I spotted the supposed handicapped angel. As I looked on incredulously, she heaved a giant trunk off the conveyor belt with the apparent ease of a wrestler. Was she handicapped? Had she experienced a miraculous healing? Was she a fraud? Was she a mirage? I do not know. All I know is that she was God’s perfect provision at the perfect time. 

Four years later to the day, I sit in profound awe of how He has provided perfectly for us. Often, I have questioned his timing. Lord, now? Or you want me to do what? Why? At times, the darkness of grief has enveloped me and I wondered if God was with me. On this side of it, four years later, I can say that He is true to His word. He never left me nor forsook me. 

I am grateful for the way Honduras changed me. I learned many lessons at the feet of Hondurans. One is the relevance of time. Another is the value of relationships. How to greet someone. How to hug. How to pray. How to serve. How to love. 

I went to Honduras to love Hondurans and yet their love profoundly changed me. 

a tribute to my grandmother

Like apples of gold in settings of silver is a word spoken in right circumstances. Like an earring of gold and an ornament of fine gold is a wise reprover to a listening ear.  Proverbs 25:11-12

In this verse the wise reprover is a person who gives practical advice based on divine revelation and her own experience and observation. The word can refer to the skillfulness of artisans which explains the analogy to jewelry. This is my inheritance from my grandmother. 

I’d like to honor her today by telling you of a time she, the wise reprover, blessed me like a skilled artisan. This story is just one interaction over the course of a long life. The story represents her life.

The apples of gold are delivered in just the right circumstances. There was a day in my life when everything changed. It was a critical juncture. The choices I had been making had been disappointing many. And I had a choice to make about my future. I was lost, disoriented. The entire map of my future lay crumpled on the floor in a heap. 

I called Momice to tell her of my circumstances. I don’t remember the exact words she gave me but one phrase sticks in my mind. She said, “You have never disappointed me.” Through those words and others I have forgotten, she breathed life-giving oxygen into my deflated soul. She spoke words of blessing when I really least deserved them.

Momice’s words pointed me to the path ahead. In so many words she said, “Remember who you are.” I don’t exaggerate when I say that the conversation changed me forever. It marked me and 19 years later I draw strength from it. At a point when I thought all was lost - when I was exposed, naked, and vulnerable - she spoke words of tenderness and kindness. She spoke words of eternity. Her gentleness was and is a compass for me.

The message resonated with my soul because she had spoken it to me all my life – in words, actions, in silent acceptance. She loved me without condition. That was her life. For those of us lucky enough to be loved by her – that was her investment. And she is honored today by us as she lives on through us. 

Her investment in my life is best portrayed by this conversation. Think about it. How many times have you received a rebuke or correction that marked your life or that picked you up off of a path of destruction and set you back on the path of life? Not many. Maybe not even one. A rebuke is best delivered with a lightness of heart, a twinkle in the eye and a soft snicker of hope for the future. I think that is how Momice lived her life. 

Momice gave me a taste of redemption. It left me hungry for more. She showed me that true redemption is when you are struck dumb by the enormity of your failure but struck even dumber by the enormity of God’s heart to cancel our debt. When you experience that, you are grateful. And this gratitude frees the heart to dole out to others what has been freely given to you. 

Zelda means “woman warrior.” Bernice adds some spice meaning “brings victory.” I did not find this out until later on in the year that she died. The meaning of it has hit me like waves over time. That is what she leant to us – the ones she loved. She taught us to fight. She taught us to win. Femininity was not lost on her because her victories were sweet without violence. Her gentleness was a compass to us. But make no mistake; she was a warrior for her family. 

The love Momice had for me enlarged my heart. 

I wrote about the conversation I had with Momice in my journal the week before she died. It is a privilege for me to honor her today and to share her golden apples in settings of silver with you. They are my inheritance.

unbound

Unbind

1.to release from bonds or restraint, as a prisoner; free.

2.to unfasten or loose, as a bond or tie.

Unravel

1.to separate or disentangle the threads of (a woven or knitted fabric, a rope, etc.).

2.to free from complication or difficulty; make plain or clear; solve: to unravel a situation; to unravel a mystery.

3.to take apart; undo; destroy (a plan, agreement, or arrangement).

 Looking at the two definitions, it makes sense that the unraveling would occur first. Before you can unbind, you would need to unravel. And the unraveling is in a sense an unbinding. 

When the unraveling begins in my life, I only think of the third definition. Undo. Destroy. I don’t typically see that God is at work underneath the fabric separating, disentangling, freeing me from complications or difficulties. I can’t see that He wants to clear up or solve my addictions and idols. I grasp for faith that He is indeed unraveling a mystery in order to show me more plainly His Face.

In the past 10 weeks, I have had a bit of an unraveling. Again. 

I started working 2-3 days a week. With a busy family of three boys and a husband working also, the change was overwhelming if only taken from a logistics standpoint. Soon I began to nosedive: physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. This does not mean that work was not good. I am aware of many blessings, gifts in returning to work. I enjoy my work. I can use an education and a language (Spanish), both gifts from God. This unexpected blessing is a provision financially for our family. And on and on. 

I hold both things: the blessing and the difficulties.

My tendency in the unraveling is to hunker down and hold on. To survive it. I grip the loose threads and try to knit them back together. I grasp for the unraveling fabric and attempt to hide behind it. Nothing in me wants to spread wide my arms and let go. Freedom? This does not feel like freedom.

I need time to be quiet. I need time to process. But life is coming so fast I cannot seem to get it all done. I really am demanding to UNDERSTAND. But God seems to be asking me to TRUST. I want to be the one to unravel the mystery. God wants me to just BE in his PRESENCE. And to worship the Mystery.

The unbinding, even the unraveling, is His work.