Manna From Mayhem || 8, 9, 10, You're Out

Mawwiage. Mawwiage is what bwings us togeva today. Mawwiage, that bwessed awwangement. That dweam wifin a dweam. – The Princess Bride

(Man, I hope my kids love that movie. It will give me an excuse to watch it again.)

One of God’s sweet graces in this life is marriage. Those who’ve had an unsuccessful and/or unhappy one will balk me on that one! What makes a marriage successful? Heck if I know. Jonathan & I are fumbling our way through it just like everyone else. Today is my wedding anniversary. Ten years ago, I stood on a beach in my bare feet and made a commitment to a dashing young man. I had no idea what marriage was all about. My thoughts of grandeur included a swelling heart each time I awoke to find my groom sleeping next to me and a swoon of pride as he slayed our dragons. I hate that our society fills us with these ideas of endless passion and unsustainable emotional highs. I heart a good love story like the next chick, but we stuff our expectations of marriage into a pearly white wedding and top it with a tulle bow and don’t think about what comes when there’s more stinky breath and screaming kids than buttercream icing and champagne.

If we depend on another human being for our happiness, we are destined for disappointment…and maybe divorce. God promise in marriage is not someone to love us unconditionally. That’s His role. At its base, marriage is to bring glory to Him through teaching us to love...not to BE loved. We just take it upon our selfish, human selves to make marriage about us and our need to be precious to someone. That’s a pretty heavy load for another person to take. Hey, I need you to always be on top of your game and think I am awesome and tell me so repeatedly and never make mistakes yourself because I want to be happy and you are responsible for making me happy. Yeah, that sounds fun. Sign me up for that.

It’s not fair to him or me to put that expectation on his shoulders. My husband is not a knight and last time I checked he didn’t have any shining armor mixed in with his dirty socks. He is fallen, just like me. He is sin-filled, just like me. He is committed, just like me. And that is where I believe the blessing in my marriage lies. In the commitment. The marriage itself is not the blessing. It’s the commitment to that marriage that holds the bounty. Knowing he will come back and love me again after I’ve nagged him to a nub is much more beautiful than the white dress I wore twice ten years ago that lives a box under my bed. I’d much rather have his shoulder to cry on after a hard day than pretend my life is a big bonbon.

And that is what my husband provides. He is not the end-all, be-all of this life, providing me air to fill my lungs. God is the breath-giver at our house. He is not Ward Cleaver, all brushed and polished and at the ready with a handy life lesson for our little angelic brood. He is raw and loud and messy (Lord, is he messy!). We are certainly not the picture of piety, falling over each other to be the servant. I often wonder if people think we even like one another, with our pithy comments and endless sarcasm! I push him to the fringe of my periphery because I’m too busy and leave him feeling like an extra in my production, hanging onto whatever remnant I throw him at the end of the day. He leaves me with too much of the burden at home and pretends not to notice I’m folding laundry/making dinner/lighting my own skin on fire with my seething anger. We meet nose to nose at our absolute worst (and we are not so cute at our worst!) and wonder what the heck we were thinking marrying this fool. And, then the dust settles. It dies down enough for me to look past his atrocities and see my partner. God gave me this man to love. This man who makes life a little easier, a little more lovely. So easily, we blame. We point. We forget. Then commitment comes swooping in, super hero cape flying. We are reminded of all we have in one another and that together we one heck of a force to be reckoned with. If it weren’t for the commitment, we would move on and miss the blessing.

I look back at my 25 year-old self, all her dreams and hopes riding high on a shiny silver ring slipped onto the finger of a 26-year old man with his own little set of hopes and dreams. If I could whisper to her through the wind of that sunny day on the beach, I think I would say “He will never live up to your expectations. He can’t, so don’t ask it of him. But, he will provide for you the opportunity to love. Be thankful.”

My marriage isn’t a fairy tale. We’ve got a long way to go on this little dusty road. But, it is mine. It is the one God chose, and I am so fortunate to live in the confines of our mutual commitment. Lord knows, there are days I’d like to run him over with my car…repeatedly. And, I’m sure my only saving grace on many days is the fact that he doesn’t want to go to jail for manslaughter. But, we stay. And we love. And we grow. And I am thankful for yet another of God’s graces that I most definitely do not deserve.

Fourteen years since I dove out of a moving car, raced across the parking lot to tackle my best friend with a “haven’t seen you all summer” hug, and wondered “Why is my stomach doing a little flip flop? It’s just Mud.” Now we sing a lot less Marvin Gaye, and I’m fairly sure if we tried to stand on a table and salute The Breakfast Club’s rendition of “Jessie’s Girl” or “Come On Eileen” that one of us would end up with a broken limb. And, I’m pretty sure neither of us would’ve agreed back then that the perfect anniversary gift would be a new dishwasher. I am in awe of what we’ve accomplished together and know, even in our crappiest of crappy moments, we are committed to us. Maybe, one day, I’ll be less obsessive and he’ll be more neat. Maybe, I’ll learn to not hold everything in and he’ll learn the virtue of patience. Maybe not. Either way, we are more Pancho & Lefty than Romeo & Juliet, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Happy Anniversary, Jon. I love you more than wine & cheese, and that is sayin’ something. Now, Dude, pick up your dirty jeans off my clean floor and stop offering to book my room at the nuthouse early so we can get a discounted rate. Seriously.

Hoot & Holler || It's The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year

It's finally here.

The day our children wait for so patiently all year.

It's time for football in Starkville.

Tomorrow.

 We will clang.

We will laugh. 

 We will sing.

We will make memories.

We will love every minute, win or lose.

(But, we'll hope for win.)

Go State.



Announcing Mississippi State Mini Sessions!

Are you planning to attend a Bulldog football game this fall?  I'm excited to announce mini sessions will be available on the MSU campus on all home game days!

The 411:

The answers to your questions:

Session may be held in any accessible area on campus.

One location per session.

Sessions are limited to five subjects.

Sessions will result in 10 images.

All Muddy Feet Photography products and prints will be available to MSU mini session clients.

Christmas cards will only be available through Nov 5 (Tenn-Martin) game.  Sessions on Nov 12 (Alabama) & 26 (Ole Miss) will receive 8x10 print.

Only two sessions will be held each game day.

Session fee is due at time of booking.

Call or email Erin to book your session today!

662.571.4465

muddyfeetphoto(at)yahoo(dot)com

Manna From Mayhem || Noodles of Knowledge

I wrote this post last fall when Celie started kindergarten, but it never made its way to the blog.  It's as relevant now as it was 12 months ago.  And now I am Facebook friends with the teacher I speak of, so maybe she will see this post and get an unexpected warm and fuzzy in her heart today!

Teaching.  There’s an occupation I could never do. Being a teacher is hard. They are expected to deal with children the parents can’t (or won’t) discipline, mold the little mutants into scholars, spend their own sad wages to accomplish it, and be happy about it. They are superheroes with dry erase markers instead of capes. Few people in life can influence a child like a teacher. I had my fair share of poor ones, but I also had some great ones. Teachers who truly wanted me to succeed in life and tried desperately to throw noodles of knowledge at my head, hoping something would stick.

One such teacher sticks with me to this day. Her name is Mrs. Sandifer, and she taught me high school English. I went to a school the size of a thumbtack , so Mrs. Sandifer was my English teacher for my entire high school career. Mrs. Sandifer was not the coolest of teachers. I venture to guess she did not receive a plethora of love notes from students, and she wasn’t about to let you spend her 50 minutes of class time doodling or discussing last week’s football game. Mrs. Sandifer had a serious love of the English language and an equally serious desire to burn that love into the hearts of her students. The problem? We could’ve cared less. It was only after I left those hallowed halls that I appreciated her efforts.

Upon entering college, I magically knew how to compose a resume, address a letter, and properly encase it all in an envelope. I was able to communicate with others via written word and make myself understood. I knew the difference between weather and whether and their and there. Have these seemingly small knowledge bits helped me as an adult? I solidly believe they have. As far as I know, I have never been judged an idiot because I cannot eloquently compose a sentence. I’ve been judged an idiot for a myriad of other things, but that’s a topic for another day.

I am often asked to preview and review communication at my job, because “you know big words”. I’m not kidding. That’s actually been presented to me as praise. I cannot begin to know what doors have been pushed slightly ajar for me, simply because I used correct syntax. If it weren’t for Mrs. Sandifer, I might not cringe when I see misspellings and other grammatical horrors than run rampant today. Oh, the horrors out there. It’s a buffet of dreadfulness, I tell you.

I’ve only seen Mrs. Sandifer twice since leaving my hometown, but I took both as opportunities to express my gratitude. I know she is unappreciated. Most teachers are. But, I hope on those two nights she lay down knowing she’d made a difference in the life of one kid. And that kid is much obliged.

Is this blog post (or any of the others I’ve written) always grammatically correct? Doubtful (see, incomplete sentence). But, in a world where the English language is mutilated with reckless abandon, I know there are Mrs. Sandifer’s out there fighting the good fight. Maybe their fight is with math or science, but they push forward and squeeze whatever knowledge they can into their pupils’ brains hoping a couple of noodles will stick.

Two questions for you (technically, three):

1) What teacher has influenced your life? Have you thanked them?

2) What English atrocities drive you nuts?  Because I just want to know!

The bridge I crossed to and from school for 13 years.



He also told them this parable: "Can the blind lead the blind?  Will they not both fall into a pit?  The student is not above the teacher, but everyone who is fully trained will be like their teacher." - Luke 6:39-41

Manna From Mayhem || God's Plan

Last month I attended a Sip & See. These estrogen-laden events are normal fare for new moms to show off their little bundles and us ladies to amply “ooh” and “ahh” and make a general fuss. This time, however, was different. First of all, the sipping was some ah-mazing mint tea. Yikes, it was good. But, the seeing was not the typical passing of a single digit weighted lump of peach skin and wrinkled fingers. This seeing was of a vibrant, 17 month old who toddled from room to room, pulled items from tabletops, and pretended a table leg was a horsey. This child was one of the most beautiful visions I have known in this life. She looks nothing like her mother or her father, all almond eyed and buttery fleshed. She likely didn’t understand the words being spoken to her, and she only says “Mama” and grunts noises. There is nothing wrong with this child in the physical or mental sense. If anything, Evelyn is more special than most children I know.

Two years ago, Evelyn was in a mother’s womb.  Maybe unwanted. Possibly unloved. Potentially loved so much that her mother gave her up, knowing the life she could give Evelyn was not enough. Across an ocean, my friend, Amy, prayed for healing in her heart. She & her husband longed for a child to nurture. A longing I imagine is crippling on the days friends welcome new babies and announce second or third pregnancies. They filled out boxes of paperwork and waited patiently for God to move. And waited. And waited. Through the months, Patrick & Amy were faithful in their belief God would answer their prayer. The adoptive process is long and arduous, even after a couple is matched to a child. A picture here. A gift mailed there. Wait for this clearance. Hold for that process.

Eighteen long months after their application for adoption, they traveled to South Korea and finally met their daughter. A 13 month old who had no idea who they were or how much they love her. I cried buckets as the pictures poured in from the other side of the world. And now, four months after her arrival in her new home, I was watching this tiny person look up at her mother with adoring eyes and cling to her as strangers milled around. God answered Amy & Patrick’s prayer. He answered it big.

There are a multitude of lessons I have learned from Amy and her family this last year. I could fill four or five posts with them. But, what has struck me most about their journey is their steadfast faithfulness and how God’s plan for our lives is so much greater than what we imagine. Amy’s testimony is one of enduring faith and patience. She remained focused on God’s grace and glory throughout their wait. Amy has repeatedly found scripture to place on her blog and emails and cards that better describe her feelings than any words she could form herself. And, God has granted them a blessing more vast than the ocean crossed to access it. She doesn’t have Amy’s blue eyes or Patrick’s smile. They did not see her first steps, and her first word was spoken in a language they do not understand. Not exactly what a woman dreams of when envisioning her future children. But, only God loves Evelyn more than her parents. Amy cannot now imagine her life without that precious face. Nothing she saw in her dreams was so glorious as Evelyn. Maybe not the path she would’ve chosen with its thistles and briars, but one that led her to straight to the door of undeniable grace of motherhood.

What prayer are you fervently praying? Is God not answering in the way you desire? Hold fast to your dwindling hope, friends. For God’s plan is greater than anything our feeble and tainted minds can conjure. After all, who could weave a story so touching and create a family so beautiful as He?

For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. - Jeremiah 29:10-12

If you’d like to have a good cry, visit Amy’s blog and see joy and love blossom on your screen. This post of their first moments with Evelyn breaks me down each and every time.

Manna From Mayhem || The Wall

You may or may not have noticed my blog absence over the last six weeks…all one of you who read my blog (thanks, Daddy!). Truth is I’ve had a Manna post in mind for that entire six week chasm and great intentions of writing it. Every week it was on my list, and every week it got smothered by other priorities. But, my inability to make headway on my to-do’s plays oh-so-well into the palm of this little post. So, you forget that I abandoned my post for a while, and I’ll forget that you didn’t call/email/telegraph/morse code me begging me to fill you up with Muddy Feet goodness. I am a little bitter, by the way.

I’m a busy girl. Me and you both, right? Between a full time job, driving an hour each day to reach said job, ensuring my husband and children eat more than corn dogs and mac & cheese each day, running Muddy Feet, keeping my house from being featured on Hoarders, and bathing every third day, I am in constant motion. All those balls in the air are a devil to keep churning. And every now and again, I hit The Wall. You know the one. Runners know it as the drop in energy they experience when they’ve taxed their body past its desired limitations. It literally feels as if they’ve run smack into a wall, and their body does not wish to keep going. To finish the race, they must push through this harsh and painful experience. To put one foot in front of the other is excruciating, yet they must do it over and over and over. Muscles are screaming, lungs are begging for more oxygen, brain neurons are firing messages yelling “For the love of all things sane, please STOP!”

Oh, I wish my Wall was a physical one resulting from exercising myself into a toned, fit oblivion. But, that’s not the wall to which I am referring. I’m thinking of juggling so much and running so fast until this brick wall rises out of nowhere and lays me down like a Sugar Ray Leonard right hook. My juggling balls are all nicely rotating, each patiently waiting its turn to be thrust back into the circle while I deftly maneuver them in perfect form…until I hit The Wall. I’m left dazed and confused and usually angry.

The Wall is brutal. It takes me from happy, loving mother; dedicated, adoring wife; industrious, dependable employee; and motivated, innovative business owner to a grumpy, overwhelmed, disappointed, and unpleasant me. Tasks I complete every day become burdensome. My children’s incessant questions and constant monologue of “Mama, mama, mama” pave a direct line to my last nerve. Nothing outside my skin has changed. My family’s needs haven’t drastically increased or my workload doubled. It’s only within my soul that the storm is raging and the upheaval has occurred. The Wall and I play this game over and over. Round and round we go. I feel like the kids on that crazy Wonka boat. The ride is not fun anymore but I can’t get off.

But, why? Why can’t I have a servant’s heart and be a master juggler and be happy about it? Because I put my trust and joy in something other than God. I pile up all these unimportant tasks and let the weight of the world disrupt my faith. I forget this little journey is not about me. It takes me a few days (ahem, weeks) to refocus and remember what truly matters. No one outside my brain cares if I stick a few balls in my pocket and juggle a little slower. No one cares if I kick a few balls under the couch to hide with the dust bunnies. And when I finally remember that God is patiently waiting for me to hand it all to Him, The Wall meets its match and shamefully crumbles.

Next time The Wall hijacks my path, I hope it won’t take me quite as long to call on my Father to help me up. But, I’m hardheaded. I’ll likely beat my head against The Wall awhile before hearing God’s calm…again. So, if you see me with a goose egg on my temple or bruise on my cheek, just know I’m fighting The Wall and remind me God is a much better fighter than I.

How do you fight The Wall in your life? I’d love to hear how you calm the seas and find Peace in the midst of the craziness.

When I said “My foot is slipping,” your love, O Lord, supported me. When anxiety was great within me, your consolation brought joy to my soul. – Psalm 94: 18-19

Hoot & Holler || The Annual Summer Football Ad Scramble

For longer than my lifetime, my high school has been selling ads for their football program in which people place pictures of their children, grandchildren, pets, and a sundry of other important individuals.  My picture appeared at the tender age of one.  Since my niece was born 12 years ago, my Dad has joined the ranks of using his business ad to shamelessly promote the cuteness of his grandchildren.  Seriously, people buy it for the pictures.  I look at it every year and don't pay one bit of attention to the ads.  Just looking at the cute kids, thanks.

Since my kids were born, I was dragged into the malay of creating and choosing pictures for my Dad's ad.  It's not as simple as choosing a cute picture.  My Dad insists on pithy phrases to accompany the image.  Anyone who knows us understands we are nothing if not pithy.  Every summer we know the dealine, and every summer we scramble the last week to assemble a decent package.  This year, we finally thought about it prior to the last minute and held a mini shoot at my Dad's hunting camp in June.  Granted, Dad waited until the week of to pick an image, and we found out the ads were to be in color this year AFTER we submitted in black and white.  Sigh.  Maybe next year we'll get it right.  Maybe.

These are the rejects.  I'll share our winner after the football programs come out.  The cuteness of the 9 and 12 year old variety are my niece, Abby, and nephew, Jack.

We didn't have a theme for this one, other than extreme cuteness.

  

Bettin' on the Rams.

Hear it.  See it.  Speak it.  Love it.  Go Rams!

(my favorite, but not my Dad's choice)

And speaking of shameless promotion, if you have real estate needs in Tallahatchie County you should call my Dad.  Dont' tell him I sent you or he might charge you an annoyance fee.

Gerry Speir, Broker & Owner 

Delta Sunset Realty

662.647.8777

http://deltasunsetrealty.com/