{I started this post the first week of 2024… Normal life was interrupted by death and I never thought of this post again until I came across it looking for something else last week.  So a year-ish later, here it is, commemorating a decade in this home.}

{January 2024}. It’s the third day of morning temps in the teens, “feeling like” single digits.  It’s early morning, like I like it and it’s warm by the fire, like I like it.   Only a few steps to the kitchen to refill my coffee is too far for the best of fires to warm so the flames in the fireplace beckon me back. It’s a wood burning fireplace in a world of ceramic logs which flame at the flip of a switch.  Real wood is messy.  It has bark and splinters.  There are ashes to scoop and debris to sweep.  There is always a fragrant hint of smoke- even in July.  But that’s the way of a wood burning fireplace. The one I sit beside this morning is, by design, the exact match to the one in our last home… same stone and brick, laid in the same pattern…same hearth that Brighton and I love to sit on— even though we always stand up with some slivers of wood shaving attached to us.  And we wouldn’t change a thing.  

On a more light-hearted note, Jeff and I moved into our 5th decade in this house.  We hadn’t been in our 40’s long when we moved here… and honestly, 50 really snuck up on us.  {See paragraph above.}. Wow.  50!  People say, it’s just a number but there are times when I KNOW and FEEL I’ve been on this planet each one of the 19,000 plus days!  I have readers in EVERY room.  I appreciate a well lit space.  Hopping up from sitting “criss cross apple sauce” feels a little different and on some days it looks a little different.  Our supplement game is strong—as are our exercise routines.  I set up a table to wrap Christmas presents instead of executing from the den floor.  At night, we crawl in bed earlier and earlier—and we couldn’t be happier about it.  Also at night, I’ve gone from “give me all the blankets” to “don’t you dare turn the heat on”.   The other day, Jeff made the statement that we were officially old because we both have machines by our bed- one for snoring and one for cooling.  Ugh.  Then I thought, BOTH of them are really for me--  so I can get sleep.  Jeff… still making sacrifices for me.  That’s definitely NOT new in this decade.  

I could never have known what these 10 years would bring.  Life doesn’t always look the way any of us planned it.  Amidst all the time with family and friends, the laughter, the accomplishments, the games, the meals, the celebrations, the normal every Tuesday night we've experienced and witnessed in these familiar surroundings, there are parts I’d never want to live again. Regarding those particular moments, I can hold deep sadness and thoughtful gratitude at the same time.  Losing parents, friends, dreams, opportunities, connections hold rich treasures for me and yes, “life lessons” we tend not to learn in any other way.  Death in general is a teacher like no other.  And in it all, He keeps us.  

If I could choose, I’d do 10 more years right here, adding logs and stoking fires of real wood on my messy hearth.  I don’t mind at all.  But as long as He keeps us, I guess it doesn’t matter where.   So today as I enjoy sitting by the warmth in front of this familiar fireplace, I am content knowing the only familiar thing these next 10 years may hold could be Him.   I don’t mind that at all either. 

{The memories are abundant and strong. So much gratitude for the life and love inside these walls and the people we get to share it with.  With even just a handful of memories represented, my heart is full.}

   

Dear 2024, 

It’s almost the end of January 2025 and I am still trying to gather my thoughts on you.  We’ve all had years like you and you are bound to show up again, just disguised as a different number. I am not upset with you—I am just trying to figure out how I feel about you.  

Let’s get this out of the way first.  A lot happened with my kids—some small things, some large things—but that’s my kids’ business.  However, I am their mom—and because I love them with my whole self, I am affected by “all the things” which factors into a thing like you, 2024.  So, for the record, the ride my mom heart took found with every turn a security in a dependence on a God who is comforting, at work and worthy of my trust.  2024, I am happy to report, we are still standing and love each other. 

This picture was taken the end of November-- so there.

There’s no other way to say this, but you started off with a heavy hitter.  One of the heaviest of any year.  Losing daddy.  But those days out of your 365 held things for me I never knew how to anticipate.  Who does until it happens?  We do not ponder death often but after watching my dad, he gave me plenty to think about.  He let go of his full life with such dignity, it brings tears to my eyes.  I think he fought it as long as it seemed wise to him and then he surrendered with a humility, a quietness and a steadiness I won’t ever forget.  This may sound weird to you but he showed me when my time comes, I can do it too.  This loss I didn’t see coming so quickly, 2024, but your days held it and our family rallied together, remembered together and grieved together. 

Our custom has been to put grandchildren {now great} in the spaces of those we lost.

That led to something that overshadowed your days as a whole—decisions. You, 2024, held more decisions than I ever thought possible.  All that made up my parents’ home, all that made up 18 plus years of two childhoods, belongings of both sets of grandparents, even their parents—LIFE—in the shape of things, papers and photos.  From a Bible belonging to S. J. Potts from 1875 to the ketchup in the refrigerator that expired the week after he died—each item, piece of paper and photograph passing through my hands, sorting it into “keep” or not.  Thousands of items touched and regarded.  2024, even though at times I felt buried under the weight of decisions of a zillion small things and a few very large ones, I can see the surface very clearly—even reach it with my fingers and poke my head out from time to time.  It’s going to be fine.  And goodness gracious, SO MUCH to be grateful for. 

And 2024, I can’t leave this subject without mentioning what your days revealed about my brother.  There are years probably in the late 70’s and early 80’s I could have done without- my brother’s merciless teasing and just all around horrible behavior towards this little sister—all normal stuff, mind you, {I had some pretty horrible behavior of my own!} but, 2024, you held remarkable days for him as he helped lead us all through daddy’s sickness—driving him, taking care of him, sleeping over when he didn’t know what else to do, having countless conversations with the physicians, keeping all of us updated, tiptoeing around his daddy's dignity and loss of independence--- and knowing when to call me when he needed me.  What a gift.  From “hospice pizza parties” to tears of grief to handling every detail of the estate with joy and ease, you revealed things about my brother that only makes me love him more.  {You tell those few years in the late 70’s early 80’s that those ridiculous days didn’t do any permanent damage.}

Blake in his best role yet. {Although he nailed Daddy pretty well.}

Will I ever stop thinking about all of that?  I bet people wonder since it seems to be the only thing I ever write about now.  2024, you have made your mark with that loss but you had more to offer too.

Time, trips, meals and laughter with the best friends in the world. Experiences with my extended family that continue to fill to overflowing the family storehouses of love and commitment to one another. You held months and days of watching toddlers grow tall, infants grow into toddlers and babies birthed that only add to the joy of being family.  Jeff and I took 10 of your days to learn significant things about ourselves in Seattle and then headed to Glacier National Park to do some of that pondering again.  God was faithful to meet us in that span of time.  You gave days for a small church to grow under God’s mighty hand—where people have experienced community for the 17th time or for the 1st time, surrendered to a relationship with the One who has always loved them, learned what it means to look outside of themselves and be a part of something greater.  

These are special things on all your white squares, 2024. Eternal things.  Those, for sure, were your finest days.  Things that won’t be forgotten like the day I stayed home and read a book all day or when I bought that new shirt. Nope. I already don’t remember the name of the book or the color of the shirt but I remember the faces of those I love and of those I am just getting to know experiencing God’s love and personal care in a myriad of wondrous ways—in the hard, in the good and in the mundane. 

Do you know Psalm 90?  I bet you do.  Verse 12 specifically. After all, as “2024”, your time was created by God, allowed by God, ordained by Him.  In a sense, He numbered your days just like He does mine, I guess.  But as the one created by Him in His image, walking these actual days, I have to choose whether or not to “gain a heart of wisdom”--  to allow the God who made these days teach me something, empty me of my selfish, self-protective behaviors, fill me with His death and His life, shape me into something that can actually give Him glory…. Imagine that.   

It has taken me until the bottom of this second “page” but I’ve figured out your role, 2024.  You held the space that gave me the opportunity—to number my days aright and to gain a heart of wisdom—day by day by day.  I see your neighbor, 2025, before me-- many, many white squares—all brimming with possibility and opportunity and I have some choices to make. 

Even though we are 27 days removed from you, I won’t “put you to rest”.  You will go with me, shaping future thoughts and perspectives, providing a lens I didn’t have before as I walk through 2025. 

Well, 2024, I like you.  You did a good job…. God used the span of time He gave you-- holding the space for things that feel sacred to me now… things I'll never forget... things that changed me.  So, thank you. 

   

Hope.  There is nothing I can say about hope that hasn’t been said before but I find it very meaningful to try to put words to how it has bolstered me – or maybe “propped me up” is the better description--  for this last little while.  The great thing for you is that you can keep reading or pitch this piece of paper and move on into the rest of your day or evening.  I’ll never know.  : )

A month after celebrating Christmas last year with my extended family in Georgia, we lost Daddy.  I was with him for the week before and Blake and I were on either side of him in his bedroom of 50 years holding his hand as he went home for good.  We couldn’t have asked for anything sweeter.  Oh, but what a weighty loss.  Many of you know this weight—  the emotions, the decisions, the memories, the grief…and at the same time, the gift from God of being able to hold JOY at the same time.  Joy that he is free, that he’s in the presence of the Lord and that we have HOPE {full assurance} that we will see him again.  But we miss him and mom every day.  Thanks to many of you who showed and continue to show such kindness to and care for our family.  

For we do not grieve as those who have no hope… 1 Thessalonians 4:13

Clearfork Community Church continues to surprise, challenge and bless us on this journey of going from “planting” to “planted”.  We are meeting in the historic Ridglea Theatre off Camp Bowie with extra space down the sidewalk for kids’ ministry and midweek activities.  All of that is fine and good but it’s the people that excite me the most— how they show up—  to set up, make coffee, tear down, pack up, clean up, teach our kiddos, greet, sing—- ALL THE THINGS.  {And then there’s the blessing of sitting under the teaching of my favorite pastor.}  It’s an honor to be associated with this body of believers. 

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. Romans 15:13

On the family front, we are ALL a work in progress.  Julia and Brighton are moving steadily and surely into the adult world, making their own way.  We are grateful for them being right here in Fort Worth — able to have dinner, watch a game or just be in the same space whenever we want.  We know that might not always be the case so we are enjoying it while we can. For those of us who parent, I think parenting is quite possibly our most challenging role in life because of the drastic changes that happen as we parent— changes in us, changes in who we are parenting and changes in the function of the role.  I am ALL EARS if anyone has these overlapping seismic shifts figured out.  I am thankful that Jeff and I are experiencing all of this TOGETHER.  He’s a needed partner in every way.  Being parents with “adult” kids and at the same time losing your parents is not a unique position to be in but I do wonder often at this design.  Now that I know the questions I would ask, I can’t ask them anymore.  But I didn’t know the questions when I could have asked. So, as you can imagine. the Lord is using every bit of it to draw us to Him in humility and dependence, graciously making us more like Him. He wastes nothing. He is our Hope. 

We have this hope as an anchor for the soul, firm and secure.  Hebrews 6:19                                      

Where would I be without this anchor for MY soul?  His gracious gift of being His is humbling to me and unfathomable to me but very much my reality.  This HOPE is real.  Sure, steadfast, secure, eternal…. 

Feel the “thrill of hope” and REJOICE with this “weary world”.  He is here—His light has dawned. 

Merry Christmas. 

   

{Many people across the southeast have suffered from the damage of Helene in ways I cannot imagine  and this small piece of it in my hometown is in no way intended to minimize the obvious losses that are incomparable to these I write here.  My heart goes out to those experiencing great, grievous losses.}

If you’ve spent more than 15 minutes with me over the last month, you have heard that my hometown was hit hard by Hurricane Helene.  This one seemingly came out of nowhere. My family there went to sleep having secured porch furniture knowing that the expected 35-45 miles per hour winds would certainly stir some things around.  As the hurricane shifted east, our little town swayed, bent, twisted and literally broke in pieces under 103 miles per hour winds that decided to rest a spell over it.  It was not welcome.  As my brother tried to wait until the sun came up to assess the damage, all manner of things waited in the dark... not at all where they should be.  Just before sun up my brother couldn’t wait any longer and once he realized the roads were impassable in his truck, he set out with his flashlight to walk to the family drugstore that my dad opened up 50 plus years ago that he now runs. 

And, for him and the rest of the town, the next 2-3 weeks were a blur, smeared, uninvited, onto the history of our small town.   

Since Soperton is 115 miles from the coast, the effects of a hurricane look different for us. We are known as the “Million Pines City”—for the exact reason the name implies.  A cotton farmer planted seven million pines back in the 20's and we never stopped.  Timber, pines, pulpwood, pine straw—this is what we know.  

My friend, Margaret, wrote “There’s nothing like pine-tree green against a southern-blue sky,” and she’s right.  No one is necessarily going to call a pine tree pretty but we do. They are our pines.  They are the landscape we know.  They are the landscape of my childhood.  They are the familiar shapes that I expect in my peripheral vision when I walk by windows in the home in which I grew up, when I go for walks in the mornings, and when I drive to the store or to a friend’s house.  When I was there last week, the views I took in all over town were unsettling but the ones down our beautiful driveway onto the land my parents built our home in 1974 evoked emotion I wasn’t expecting.  Through blurry eyes, my vision felt askew.  I felt askew.  

The landscape was off. Trees that stood tall and proud just could not hold to the ground in that kind of wind and so now, they laid long – very long- and lifeless all around the yard.  

And like many families who have acreage of planted trees—either for their main income or for investment purposes—we look across those plots of land and thousands of trees are all the way down—some groups of them laying like pixie sticks--  and just as many or more are leaning having disconnected from their root systems and just won’t recover.   The emptiness of sky once filled and the leaning landscape kept throwing me off as I worked in the house and drove to different places.  

Askew. Off.  Not as it once was. 

They would tell you in 1974 our young family of four spent our first nights in the house that Christmas and how my dad shook jingle bells outside mine and my brother’s room from the balcony to assure us that Santa knew right where the Dennard kiddos were that Christmas.  

Those trees watched that formless yard take shape as shrubs and other trees were planted – most notable being the enormous azalea bed in the front, the dogwood trees in the back and the Japanese maple in the largest courtyard.  

They would tell you about three brides who wanted parts of their wedding day in the midst of them and how they stood as sentinels over the landscape for each one.  They knew no one really noticed but that's okay.  

They watched the dad who, after work, loved to be in his garden before dinner—taking a few minutes for quiet, satisfied by watching things grow, harvesting them and bringing them up to the house for the mom to cook them {or blanch and freeze for another time}. 

They would tell you about the sister who loved being outside—who found smaller trees with more branches to climb, who spent hours at the little creek in an imaginary world with the poison ivy to prove it, who turned a million flips on the trampoline and in the yard as a wanna be gymnast.  Those trees had to wince with every dropped baton as she practiced for half time shows for Friday night football games and probably wished they could provide more shade as she decided sun bathing was a good idea.  

If they could talk I know they would tell of the countless friends and family that drove down that driveway under and through them—over and over and over again—just to be together, to share a dinner, to go out for dinner, for EVERY kind of celebration, to feed the bird dogs, for a date, to drop something off, to watch a football game, to play a few hands of bridge,  or to come by for the purpose to comfort in the midst of loss...

They've held much under and among them.  They held the life of a family of four.  

If they could talk, they'd say something like that. 

{We are grateful for many things in the aftermath of this storm.  There was no loss of life.  We praise God for that.  As Denise would say, it's okay to hold grief and gratitude at the same time.  The people of the town rallied and cared well for each other.  Incredibly well.  I am so proud of my brother and how he led and worked tirelessly to make sure people had what they needed and how he continued to meet the needs of his customers from day 1.  His staff and his family served and worked right alongside him.  There is MUCH to be proud of.} 

   

As much as Daddy missed Momma, {They grew up together so he barely knew any life without her.} he tried to make the most of life in those nearly 7 years he had to live without her. He went out with old friends.  He fished. He made new friends.  He traveled. He sent birthday gifts.  He managed and cared for a home.  He fished.  He went to church.  He welcomed great grandchildren.  He shopped for Christmas.   He fished. He carried on traditions.  He fished. : ) He planted gardens.  He cooked meals for his friends {with help from Megan and then Mrs. Karen} and for us.   And he worked—at the drugstore with the people he loved so much.  I was so proud of him-- for the way he grieved and the way he chose to live.  I made sure to tell him and I found that note in his nightstand when I was cleaning out a couple of weeks ago.  I can hope that means it encouraged him.  

Going through my parents’ things has been ---well,  I don’t think there is a word fitting for this task.  I can’t think of one that encompasses such a thing. And is “task” even a good word for the experience that it is?  What word would hold so many things like grief, loss, sentiment, memories, surprises, quantity, joy, decisions, overwhelm, tears, keepsakes, eye rolls, chuckles, irritation….. ?   Like grief, this experience is pretty universal.  At some level, settling one’s parents’ affairs is just part of the human experience, but until it’s you doing the “settling” you just can’t know what to expect.  

I put myself to this task for an entire week at the end of July.  I had not planned on working the afternoon I arrived but just looking around, it felt daunting.  Thinking about it, looking at it all felt like work. Overwhelming.  The kind where you don’t know what to put your hands to first.  It’s a large home—home to our family since 1974.   I was almost five and my brother was 7 when we moved in and my mom didn’t care much for cleaning out.  To prove that, up until 2 weeks ago, there was still a box of Barbies in my room and original Star Wars figures in Blake’s.  The funny quote my mom would tell me, "I'd rather do other things.  You will do just fine with it when I am gone."  I had my work cut out for me. 

On day 1, I realized that photos were going to be the thing that slowed my pace to one of a cold snail.  It seemed that pictures  were showing up in almost every drawer or cabinet.  As I lay in my childhood bedroom that second night I couldn’t sleep for thinking of all the people- family and friends- I had “seen” that day and when I did sleep, I felt like I was at a family reunion, talking all night.   I decided no more picture sorting.   I needed sleep for the days ahead.  

Then there’s the thing where you feel you are poking around where you shouldn’t be.  My dad had the same armoire since before I was born.  {I found the receipt for it from a furniture store in Decatur. Yes, I did.}  I can probably count on both hands how many times I have opened the thing up in 50 years {it was forbidden territory}  but now I can say, I have exhausted its contents and have touched every little thing in it which wasn’t very exciting at all.  My favorite thing, though, was taped to the inside of one of the doors with the list of our growing family’s birthdays—Landry Kate and Brooks Blakely penciled in. Well, maybe another favorite thing was an old picture holder that went in a wallet with small studio or school pictures of Blake and me—progressing through the years.   I guess he showed us to some people.  But my point was, my younger self felt I was going to get in trouble for being in his armoire.  My older self felt I was invading his privacy.  I remember feeling this going through my mom’s things—but mainly her nightstand.  I bet there are close to 300 letters that my dad sent to her from Vietnam. Now that feels very private.  Does death mean there’s no more privacy?  Is it okay to read them?  Should I have asked her if I could read them one day?  Still undecided on that.  

I worked pretty much all day for the entire week.  I put my head down and after that first day of too many photos, I tried to take the emotion out of it—not think too hard about what I was doing.  But something was off—wasn’t settling well with me and I didn’t know what. I was having a little trouble on deciding what to keep and what not to.  Well, maybe a lot of trouble. SO. MANY. DECISIONS.  I was having trouble throwing things away, but I did. I had to and it wasn’t until I was back in Fort Worth that I realized what I didn’t like.  

I would hold something in my hand… KNOWING it had been special to someone but at the same time KNOWING I could not keep everything KNOWING as soon as I put it in the big black Hefty bag…

….it became trash. 

Just typing that makes me want to put both hands over my face and shake my head.  I didn’t like that. I didn’t like being the one, in 2024, who decided what was trash and what was not.  I love my family.  I am sentimental.  I want to honor those who came before me ….. but I couldn’t keep everything.  I had to make hard choices.  The pile of big, black bags made me sad. 

My week in Soperton came to a close.  For 6 days straight, I did my “job” and now, it was Sunday.  I got up as usual, went for a walk, made some coffee and went upstairs to get ready to go to Daddy’s Sunday school class.   Mom’s best friend, Brenda, still teaches it and I’ve gone with him {and mom} every time I’ve come home in the last decade or so.  While I was getting ready, I had the most powerful memory to date.  

For YEARS—probably all the way back to high school until, like, October 2023—I would probably be cutting the time close and I’d fly down the 14 stairs, make a U-turn into into the hall then into the kitchen and there Daddy would be—standing tall by the island, hair combed, face shaved, in a coat and tie and holding his Bible and the Sunday School curriculum under his arm….waiting on me.  

Did I know this was a significant memory?  Not until Sunday a couple of weeks ago, putting on make up in front of my 1984 light up mirror when suddenly the tears came, realizing he wouldn’t be standing there waiting on me to go to church.  That made me way sadder than a thousand big black bags.  There was a familiarity and a weight assigned to that experience every Sunday I’d find him there waiting on me and I had no idea until it was gone.   

I guess sometimes these things just take a while. 

And I’m here to feel the weight of every memory I can.