and two sisters who used to have one



Growing up, we had a plum tree in our backyard. Its harvest was abundant but neglected and forgotten, left only to produce the delicious stone fruit that would inevitably fall to the ground to become a food host for some brood of bugs. So forgotten that our mom recently denied even having such a tree. Hence our reason for beginning this online journal. For mom. For dad. For ourselves. A humble attempt to archive tidbits of our pasts and presents that without such might be long forgotten like that one plum tree.

That Time We Tore Down The Fence


Life’s taken some turns for us these past six months as we answered a stirring in our hearts to change things up a bit. Some of it so quickly its taken a sec to process the changes. So that’s what I’ve been doing. Processing. We sold our little house in Austin. The one with the big oak tree out front and the wooden tree swing. The one with our handprints in the concrete pad out back where the kids and neighbors played basketball as I watched out my kitchen window. The one where we raised toddlers and newborns and where we cared for my dying mom. My throat is closing and eyes welling up as I think about the people we gathered around our table for shredded pork tacos and special sauce, cheese trays and wine, coffee and Quiche, pizza and ranch dressing, or just plain old cereal or leftovers. Truth is the food was just the invitation to the more important thing. Time.


The things I will always miss the most about that little spot in the world are our neighbors. We had several amazing ones on our little block but we go furthest back with the ones directly to our right as you walked out the front door. We could never get grass to grow in that area because of all the little feet making a quick turn off the front porch.

To Kristin, Gaylen. Freddie, Camden, and Cooper. To your various exchange students, various family members, various tenants that lived in your bungalow out back, various dogs, cats, hermit crabs and strays.

Thank You.

Thank you for teaching us more about love than just about any humans we have ever met. Thank you for being game to cut a hole in our fence with wire cutters so the little kids could easily go back and forth. The fence we eventually took down all together. Thank you for not thinking it odd for me to be scavenging your back yard at 6:45 a.m. in my bathrobe on a school morning looking for misplaced shoes. Thank you for going in with us on those picnic tables we put under the tall front yard Sycamore trees where we so often combined forces to come up with complete meals. The tables Kristin strung cafe lights above as it basically became our very own real life Pinterest set up.

Thank you, Kristin, for bathing my kids, doctoring their cuts, and doing things no neighbor should have to do, Gaylen, as you hear the singing words of a 4 year old saying “I’m doooone….” coming from YOUR bathroom as you walk in from work. Thank you for sitting by my mom’s bedside as she was sick. Thank you for sneaking in to our house and wrapping our doors with wrapping paper and switching labels on our canned foods. For months I’d think I was opening tomatoes and it would end up being peaches. (Then I would just sneak into your house and borrow a can of tomatoes.) Thank you teaching me how to fold crepes, how to use a table saw, how to use a smoker, and how to use those weird claw things that shred meat. (Great Christmas present for someone who is likely to shred meat) Thank you for sharing cups of coffee, bottles of wine, and various groceries we were out of. (most usually tomatoes, milk, eggs, or cumin powder)

The thank you’s are honestly endless and the sadness I feel as that season has come to an end reminds me of a quote that comforted me when we lost our mom. “That which brings you much sorrow, does so because it once brought you much joy.” Your family was (and continues to be) joy personified to us.

I’m so glad we tore down that fence down together years ago and that walls have been coming down slowly ever since allowing us to be more vulnerable, more present, less guarded, less resistant, more whole, and more at peace. The tearing down of walls that let the light in to our stories of brokenness and let healing begin. I’m still a work in progress.

At the moment, I’m scouting out a place for a new long row of picnic tables in the front yard our new home in the world. (This time under tall Pine trees.) A place where we can put in practice what you all  taught us. How tables really do bring people together.

Thank you for being the kind of neighbors that became family. I think at one point we decided the Paulson’s + the Dozier’s could equal the Paulzier’s? We are better because of you.

With great love from Colorado,

Cristi, Ben, Adelyn, Gunner, Creede, & South (Paulzier)

Trying to bring into play all I learned from the great family of Greenbay Packers we used to live next to. The ones who sometimes channelled their inner Kenny G and played the saxophone on their back porch, or the ones who wore cowboy boots with swimsuits, or the one’s who had parties with 50 plus foreign students from China (who loved to zip line) and taught them how to make s’mores. The ones who were ALWAYS up for an adventure and who set out on a big one this year living missionally out at Community First Village in Austin. Apple dumplings and cheese curds are now forever a part of my vocabulary and I like it.

Here is what I don’t like sometimes and often resist. Change. Kids starting high school is dumb. Kids graduating high school is dumb. Moving is dumb. But those sarcastic dumb changes comes with the territory of growth. And growth can be smart. And high school kids and college kids are funny. And they can drive themselves places and wash their own clothes. And moving? Moving makes you clean out your attic. Not gonna lie, that felt really good. You don’t even have to move to do it.

It’s been emotionally hard sometimes. And that has been ok.

To grieve the end of anything is ok and usually necessary. You can stuff it but the need to grieve will keep surfacing. So do that part. And then, with time, it will become what you make it. It will become how you choose to see it. How you honor the memory of it and how you choose to let it grow you.

Hoping we can all grow and change and be thankful in the process.

“When you have more than you need, build a longer table, not a higher fence.” 

IMG_9684 Arms Up

It’s fun to have an article post this morning on  I knew the publishing date weeks ago, it still snuck up on me today and feels like such a gift as we are remembering this time last year. Well now the tears are coming just typing this intro as I am missing this woman. Our mom and our friend and our phone call on the hard days and on the good. Here is a little snippet, then please click on the link to continue reading….20151030-Dozier-Isolation

It’s been one year since that beautiful October morning. My house looked like the aftermath of a wild tailgate party. There was an enormous RV in my driveway with the awning drawn out, tables and chairs and empty cups scattered around. A barbeque pit stood in my front yard while my porch held coolers and a huge white banner.

It was my 38th birthday, but more notably than that, it was the first morning I had woken up after losing my mom. This hadn’t been a party. This had been hospice care.

The hospital cot in my bedroom that held all 90 pounds of my sweet, fragile mother and was now empty. The cancer had been too aggressive, her body too tired, too weak to sustain more treatments, and she was sent home to be surrounded by family.

We were there beside her as she had taken her last breath. In tears, I fumbled around determined to quickly unhook her from the tubes administering medicines to keep her comfortable. After all, she wasn’t in pain anymore………..

Please click here to continue to read, comment, and share…..Thanks so much.

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Huddled Over Grace

I sat on the floor of the shower holding a bottle of white, liquid soap. My head was tilted up as streams of warm water rained down my face washing away fresh tears. The cries were fewer and farther between, but they still came at times. Grief would come in waves they told me, and it has.

Three months earlier, we had lost our mom to cancer and, that day, I was headed back to her house to face the cabinets, drawers, and closets, not just of her things, but of her memory and of my memories with her. I didn’t want to go but, more truthfully than that, I didn’t want her to be gone anymore.soap1 I looked down at the nearly empty bottle of soap in my hand. It had been part of a present from our mom to my sister, Amy, and I. A simple, soap and lotion, gift set in the midst of the complicated twists and turns of cancer life. A little gift labeled and branded Pure Grace.Hug

I remember standing there the day she gave it to us hugging in my kitchen, the three of us arms intertwined, heads touching, staring at our shoes…huddling over that simple gift of soap, lotion, and grace. Unspoken words rumbled through our minds as we asked someone to take a picture, not because this was the first time we had ever huddled that way, but because current circumstances and possibilities gnawed within us.  We wanted to capture how we loved each other.

Not long after that day, we were back in my home again. This time a hospital bed was set up in my bedroom for our mom, and my house had become a revolving door of nurses and friends and family from all over stopping by each day to bring food, or flowers, or letters, or candles, or paper goods, or drinks, or to pick up laundry, or kids, or just to stay and visit….or to say goodbye. This was hospice care. This was the unwanted end we had been fighting against, however, a beautiful, loving end if there had to be one.

Amy and I spent most the time on either side of our mom, our arms sometimes intertwined, our heads sometimes touching hers, huddling over the gift of grace in our mother and clinging to the gift of grace in our God. The grace that gave us the courage to whisper in her ear, “It’s ok to go home.”

And so I sat on the floor of the shower gripping that bottle of white liquid soap, that now nearly empty bottle of Pure Grace, and it registered, gratefully, that true grace is never empty.

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in your weakness.”  2 Corinthians 12:9

And here I was sad, and weak, and in need of much grace…but not the kind that comes in a bottle because, at the end of the day, we all know that’s just soap. But true grace. The kind that helps you face loss with hope, the kind that helps you choose forgiveness, thankfulness, and joy. The kind of grace that gets you up off the floor of the shower and is never almost empty because it never runs out.

The day I sent Amy this post to preview, she sent me a picture of the Giving Key she happened to be wearing that day….Sometimes our lives work like that….

His grace, thankfully, never runs out and with such grace, an end is transformed to a beginning.

Choose grace,


Word of the Day: Embetter

We’ve been given the gift of a mother who, quietly and by example, has taught us to face challenges with hope, courage, and joy. Joy isn’t necessarily happiness, though often the two go hand in hand. Its more of an inner strength, perspective, and trust. Its a condition of the heart that is quick to be thankful and quick to forgive. Not to say that you do not have tears, or suffering, or anger, or overwhelming thoughts of hopelessness, but, rather, to say that you do not stay there. As our family faces this most current struggle with our mom’s cancer, we have once again been reminded that there is a crossroad and a choice.

images 2

In my journey to understand my own pains, I’ve come to understand joy more and more….so I wrote a little thing.  It applies to any struggle in life.

Judy’s Joy

Joy is the good you choose to see…when the bad is most evident.

Its choosing to be thankful…when the wrongs are ever present.

Its knowing something can be gained…from a difficult circumstance.

An opportunity for hope…when hope is given a chance.

As the flames of pain surround you…there’s a cleansing taking place.

A fire refining the soul…revealing an amazing grace.

Its not what you had planned. You plead it to go away.

“This is not my story. Not my story.” Over and over you say.

Blame and anger beg to take root, but a greater gift awaits

For the one who stands with courage…looking for His face.

Its a search for the road less traveled. A search to listen and to find

God agreeing and gently saying, “No. This is not your story. Its mine.”

When I try to make sense of the heartaches in life, I just can’t. A life lost too soon, cancer, disease, betrayal, infertility, poverty, abandonment, disaster, abuse….All of these and more squeeze questions from our inner most soul. The how’s and the why’s consume our minds, but what about the could’s and the will’s?

Could this be a trial we are facing that will form us into someone we would not have been otherwise? Will we let it break us to a point where we are stripped of a pride that hinders us from trusting in a bigger story? Will we fight the change or will we allow ourselves to be molded and formed, for the better, by the hands of life? Could the fires we survive, the fires meant to destroy us, actually be the exact picture of redemption someone else later looks to for encouragement in their own, similar battle?

With pain, comes choice. Let it embitter you or let it embetter you.

[embetter (verb) to make better]

Grieve your loss. Yes.

Then, search wholeheartedly for your gain.

Here’s to a “beauty from ashes” story. No matter what you are facing. Its there somewhere waiting to be found.



A forever reminder of the truth that while we may not get to choose the things that happen to us in life, we do get to choose how we will respond to them. A tribute, stenciled in her handwriting, to the person who continues to choose joy….our mom.

We would love to hear from you….what are you choosing?

A Thousand Miles, a Sad Mess and a Pecan Pie

“I could never love anyone more than I love my sisters”. Name that movie. (okay, its a book too)  Little Women. Amy and I watched it years ago and have been quoting it to each other ever since.  How deep is a sister’s love? Deep enough to drive cross country with multiple young children.  Yes. Twice. Did I say twice? Oh yeah, I did. Well, maybe I drove there for Amy and maybe I drove there for the most delectable pecan pie I’ve ever had….and I am not a pecan pie person. I am apple pie all the way…..but we’ll get to that later.

She lived in a postcard town in North Carolina. So cute.  An old, classic Victorian, yellow house, with an American flag on the wrap around front porch, is where they called home. The street was lined with such houses, all different colors, all old, with lush landscaping.

yellow house

If you walked out the front door and turned right you’d run in to horse stables down the road, surrounded by colossal pine trees and picturesque riding trails.  Just being there, you wanted to own a pair of riding boots. On the other hand, if you turned left, you’d run in to a downtown main street straight out of a small town movie set.  Train tracks, with a tiny train station, an ice cream parlor, a yoga studio, a movie theatre, a library, a park and dozens of charming shops and restaurants. Gorgeous, vintage red brick…everywhere.  There is a particularly preferred store called The Mockingbird and a particularly appetizing restaurant called Chef Warren’s.  Warren happened to also be Amy’s neighbor. He and his wife raised chickens and an organic garden whose crops he featured on their menu at times.  Fresh food, french pressed coffee, and hands down the finest pecan pie. Ever. But, again, we’ll get to that later.


My last trip to the Carolina’s, we took our trusty black Suburban. This car has been with us since we became a two child family and carried us everywhere tried and true. “Old faithful”.

We rolled up to the sweet yellow house in Southern Pines, unloaded and fell fast asleep.  Old Faithful had done it again.  Road trip success. Check.


The next morning, we awoke to towering pines and a quaint town.  We started up “Old Faithful” only to hear a dreadful screeching noise coming from under the hood.  Whaaaattt??? “It’s probably just a fan belt,” I thought to myself. “Yeah, definitely a fan belt.”

I drove my screaming car to the parking lot of the cute repair shop, also on Main Street.  I waited for their inspection of the fan belt. Time passes and Mr. Car Guy looks at me, looks at my car, squints his eyes, and proceeds to ask me ,”Do you happen to be in the market for a new car?”  I nearly choke and sputter back to him, “What are you trying to say?”

“Well, it seems you need a new a engine?” he says.

“Old faithful!!” I think to myself. “Why have you forsaken me?”

I breathe deep, wish my husband was standing here handling this situation, wish it was just a fan belt, and then consider this one of those character refining moments as I reflect on the circumstance.

Hmmmmm. New engines, those can’t be cheap. I mean that’s the main part of a car, right? And my husband is in Austin. I’m not going to buy a car here without my him. “Well, I guess we got to get it working.”

Mr. Car Guy states, “Oh wait , ma’am , we can’t fix it here. You have to be able to drop the engine. We can’t drop the engine.”

Long story short. (or short story long) We end up towing “Old Faithful” a couple towns over where we buy a used engine. Just as I suspected, not cheap. Our stay with with Amy (or Bebe, as my kids call her) goes from one week to three weeks as we wait for the engine overhaul.  We make crepes every other day and eat Warren’s amazing pecan pie.

Towards the end of our stay, Amy and her husband leave town for a wedding. That same evening a huge storm rolls in to Southern Pines. Lightning, thunder, wind…the whole deal. The baby starts throwing up at midnight. Nice. I am thinking he is having a terrible reaction to some bites he got on his face earlier in the day. I have no car. I am in a strange town. My sister is gone. My husband is gone. These are good times.(insert sarcasm)

I speak to one of our best friends back home who’s a family doctor.  After several questions, his diagnosis is that it is just a stomach bug unrelated to the bites. Whew. I’m relieved. Kind of.  In the meantime, there is still throw up. Oooohhhh how I love throw up. Wait, no I don’t. But, still, here I am covered in it. Its a sad mess really. Midol take me away.

Then, in the middle of giving the little guy a late night bath, the power goes out. …The power to a hundred year old house….. A house that belongs to my sister…..A sister that is not there.

I am solo and am sure a breaker tripped. It’s pitch black and my mind (not my body) wanders to the breaker box.  The breaker box that is under the house….In the basement. The basement you enter through a secret door that lifts up out of the floor. Repeat, out of the floor. The secret door that my sister will not even go down by herself. Being that the house is in North Carolina and one hundred plus years old, it potentially was some sort of hidden room that was part of the underground railroad. But that’s just my wild imagination. Who knows?

I am NOT going down there at two in the morning in the middle of a thunderstorm. No way. I’d rather sleep with the power off. Which I do.

Fast forward. Baby ceases to puke. The sun comes up. Power lights up. Sister comes home. Husband shows up. (love him) Car is fixed. (love it) Everything is back as it should be.

“Old Faithful” is on the road again. When it’s all said and done, I am thinking two things.  “I am not doing this trip again for a looonnnng time.” (sorry sister) and “Thank goodness I got some of Chef Warren’s pecan pie.”

And yes, I will share his recipe. He does so on his website and we made it this past Thanksgiving. Then we devoured it and thought happy thoughts.

Chef Warren’s Pecan Pie

This is their most requested recipe.

Yields two 9″ pies. Any extra filling can be refrigerated for up to one month.

Preheat oven to 275 degrees

4 ounces unsalted butter

8 ounces unbleached flour

2 pounds light brown sugar

12 eggs

4 cups of Karo syrup

1 tablespoon of vanilla extract

1 teaspoon of salt

3 cups of pecan pieces

1 cup of pecan halves

2 pie shells – par baked at 400 degrees for 10 minutes

Cream together the flour and the butter. Add the light brown sugar and then beat in eggs, two at a time. Add Karo syrup, vanilla, and salt. Mix in one and a half cups of pecan pieces per pie. Fill the shell and then top it off with half a cup of pecan halves. Place in the oven on a cookie sheet at 275 for approximately 2 hours or until set. He recommends letting it sit overnight in the refrigerator and serving it the next day. The pie freezes and defrosts well, so you can save the for those special occasions.

There you go. Chef Warren’s Pecan Pie. Make it for Christmas. He does not give a pie crust recipe, but may I highly suggest a homemade crust. It really does make all the difference and can be made ahead of time as well.  The one I use is from Ina Garten….use it for pies and quiche…AMAZING. Here’s the link to PERFECT PIE CRUST.

Thank goodness Amy has moved back to Texas and thank goodness Chef Warren shared his recipe for pecan pie.

Peace Child,



“Old Faithful” running strong.

If You Name Your Baby “Hamburger”, I Won’t Judge

When Amy and I were younger we weren’t allowed to have candy on any day other than Saturday. Saturdays became known, appropriately and affectionately, as “candy day”.  We’d wake up, eat breakfast (maybe), and then head straight for the lower cabinet in the kitchen which housed the sacred wooden salad bowl filled with the forbidden foods. As we lifted the bowl with both hands, we’d journey ceremoniously to the living room where we would plop down on the carpet and indulge ourselves through episodes of Smurfs, Saved by the Bell, and Alvin and the Chipmunks.

On a different note, “Candy”, itself, could have been Amy’s name. For some reason beyond me, our dad was lobbying for the name back when Amy was born.  “Amy” won out and it’s a good thing if you ask my, oh so humble, opinion.

Of course, I’m not one to talk about names. Our fourth little bundle of joy goes by the name “South”.  After three days of deliberation and no official name, the panicked birth certificate lady busted into our hospital room needing it.  We were getting ready to leave so I guess we did need to make it official. After hitting a little opposition to the potential name, we had decided to wait a couple of days to be sure. Then, my husband said it. His name would be “Christopher South.” (“Christopher” is Amy and I’s mom’s maiden name and “South” is short for South Fork, a quiet mountain town in Colorado that is our heart and soul)

He would go by his middle name. (Christopher was too normal.) It made perfect sense to us and now it was in writing.

An odd sort of  confirmation had come our way the day before the papers were signed.

I was nursing our new little guy in the corner room of the maternity wing. Random sports clips were playing on television and I was partly paying attention, partly wondering when my next pain meds were coming, and partly thinking to myself, “Can we call this baby South?” That’s when it happened…..

South Africa had recently won a big soccer game. As I glanced toward the screen, BOOM…up popped a Rastafarian soccer fan being interviewed, He was an older gentleman, in dreads, and an enormous, multicolored hat with five letters disproportionately large across the top of it. SOUTH. Not South Africa. Just simply “South”.

Was that a sign??? If I followed some sort of Rasta spiritual movement, I might think so….But I don’t.

But truthfully, I mean, who would name their baby “South”?

Uh….well….this girl.  However,  that is exactly the type of questions we got from people close to us after we announced his name. (which is tough for someone with people pleasing tendencies….hello….me)

Actually, it was more like this…

Them: “Well, I’m not calling him South.”

Me: “Okay, well that’s what he goes by.” Smile. Nod. Heart race. Question myself. Doubt myself. Doubt my husband. Google “how to change your baby’s legal name.”

I began referring to little South, not by name, but rather in more generic terms calling him simply “the baby”.  At times, I would try calling him different names to see how it felt and became borderline obsessive compulsive over the issue. Combine this with crazy hormones, chapped nipples, (yeah I said nipples) sporadic milk let down, and extreme lack of sleep, and there is an issue. And the issue was full-fledged…Baby. Namer’s. Remorse. Public places with my newborn in tow became a dreaded experience.  It was sooo not normal. I would be able to feel the tiny baby lovers approaching me, almost like a sixth sense. My blood pressure would rise as inevitably they would ask, “How old is he?” and then, “What’s his name?”

Ugh. What is wrong with me?

Over dinner one evening, with some long-time girlfriends, I was sharing my dilemma. They listened, encouraged, and then one of them so wisely stated, “I mean, come on , it’s not like you named your baby ‘Hamburger’.” Relieved, we all smiled, shrugged in agreement, I felt better, then we ordered margaritas. But here’s the deal.  What if I did name him “Hamburger”? Celebrities name their children after food all the time, and there is probably a good story behind it. People should respect that.

(Okay, “Hamburger” is a little extreme, but I won’t judge.)

In fact, I know a sweet little boy named Chili.(Yes I said Chili)…And there is a Cedar, a Ridge, and a Canyon… A Denver, a Dallas, a Houston, and a Hondo (small south Texas town). I’ve met a North, an Easton, and a West. So why not South?

I’ve since grown a little of the proverbial alligator skin and am working towards giving up on people pleasing as it’s an impossible line of work.  I now own South’s name. I love hearing my kids and family call him “Southie” (his nickname) and can’t imagine him being anything else.

I sometimes wonder if Amy would have been named “Candy”, would her life be any different???

My thought is…

I’ve come to believe and stand by this mantra: “It’s not the name that makes the person but, rather, the person that makes the name.”

Can I get an amen???


P.S.  Our other boys are named after Colorado towns as well. Creede (a small town close to Wilderness Ranch where my husband worked several summers) and Gunnison (the town where my husband went to college and where we lived when we first got married). Our daughter’s name is Adelyn (just because we liked it). So here comes the kicker. After baby number three, I find out that Ben’s great-grandfather’s middle name is….wait for it….Durango.  Well there you go. It’s genetic.

Tears. Midol. Clomid.

Warning. I will mention periods in this post. Yes, the girl kind. So if you’re a guy (ahem, my husband) and you’re reading this…….girls get periods. We talk about them sometimes. Makes the world go round.

Day 1: Tears.

Monday morning I woke up bright and chipper for work at 3:45am. BAM! My monthly friend decided to show up. I was kind of shocked because I hadn’t been acting completely wonkers in the days leading up. Normally, I’m a wreck and it’s super evident that my period is coming. Well, there she was!!! Then, it hit me…… “Dang, I’m not pregnant.” I guess I haven’t really been on my raw-organic-vegan-gluten-free diet that prepares my body for conception or seen my husband lately, so I wasn’t too surprised. Even so, the disappointment was starting to set in.

What now??? I know!!! I’ll just dress cute and comfy for work and my day will be better.

Well, my friends, sometimes what looks cute in your head will be the weirdest outfit your co-workers have ever seen. Bobby: “Hey, you headed out to the frontier later?” Lunchbox: “Where did you get that ugly sweater? You look like Harry from ‘Dumb & Dumber’ Bwaahahahaha!!”

Is it really that bad of a sweater?

Long story short………. I have to leave the room to go cry. Yes, real tears. Because of a sweater. I go into Alayna’s studio and she asks what is wrong. Me: “The guys are making fun of my sweater.” The second those words left my mouth, I knew that was cleeeeaarly my period talking…not the “real” me. Hormones have a mind of their own. As I head back to the studio, I tell myself to “pull it together and stop acting crazy.” My pep talk didn’t do much…… I finished the show as a super unpleasant version of myself. I was a straight mess. Oh, and working in radio is really awesome because days like that are on podcast. Forever. Sweet.

Day 2: Midol.

There wasn’t enough Midol to get me through Tuesday, but I survived. By the way, if you’re a woman and you don’t use Midol….You.Are.Missing.Out. Midol makes everything better. I take it even if it’s not my time of the month. When feeling especially tired…….pop some Midol with a Mountain Dew and you’ll be golden. I don’t “officially” condone this concoction, as I know it’s not healthy and I’m the queen of health. Side note: If you haven’t checked out our chocolate cake blog post……you should do that next.  Can you say HEALTHY??!!! Mmmm… I need some of that cake right now.

Anyway, our good friends had a baby on Monday, so on Tuesday afternoon my brother-in-law texts me about going to the hospital that night. While holding my friend’s baby, I realize how tiny and precious he is. I want a tiny baby. Should I make a break for it??? No. Don’t be stupid……. I’m not going to really take my friend’s baby. Thought about it though. Sorry. If these said friends happen to read this blog….. you can trust me around your kids. Promise.

As we leave the baby ward of the hospital………. I noticed all of the babies born that day. Geez. And this was just at one hospital. I tried not to get all Debbie Downer on myself, but I couldn’t help but wonder, “Seriously. Why can’t I just have a stupid baby?” Quick. Pop a Midol. Good night.

Day 3: Clomid.

Well, what do you know??? I got a call from a friend saying: “WE’RE HAVING A BABY!!!! And we weren’t even planning it!!!!!”  Yay. Losers. Just kidding. They aren’t losers. I’m happy for them… duh! They weren’t even trying!!! That’s.Just.Great.News. I know you can’t tell by reading this, but deep down I truly am excited for them. For real.

I call my sister to vent.  We both are crying and she decides to ask me about Clomid. Oh, Clomid?? You mean that bottle of pills I’ve had for….ev….er, but can’t bring myself to take??? While on the phone, I go grab the bottle and realize that I’m supposed to start Clomid on day 3 of my cycle. Ummmm… It’s day 3!!! Perfect. My sister: “Whoa. This is totally meant to be.” Me: “Okay, lets not get a head of ourselves…..this stuff might not work.”

I have reservations about Clomid because I just think that if I was meant to have a child in my belly….. it would happen on its own. I mean, Snooki has a baby……. surely my time will come, right? Clomid has me scared of conceiving multiples…not sure I could handle twins or triplets.  Annnnnnnd then there’s all THESE side effects to deal with:

Hot Flashes – Bloating & Abdominal Discomfort – Weight Gain – Mood Swings

Nausea & Dizziness – Headaches – Abnormal Bleeding – Blurred Vision

Sounds awesome, right? I also have weird thoughts that in 20 years we may find out that babies born on Clomid are aliens. This is the stuff that keeps me up at night.

At times, I think that we aren’t ever going to have biological children. It’s just not something the Lord has in store for us. Adoption, however, is something He’s been very clear about and….. lucky for us….. that’s a great way to have children!!! Perfect. We feel called to adopt no matter what. Adoption is actually another blog post in itself. Ugh. Adoption. I get why they make the process difficult, but WHY IS IT SO DIFFICULT? I have to check my fruit often when dealing with adoption: Repeat. Feel better.

To my future children by way of another mama…. we look forward to loving you. Caring for you. Holding you.

To my possible future children by way of Clomid that I JUST started taking… No, baby, of course mama doesn’t think you’re an alien.

To others going through anything similar to us right now… you are not alone.

Love and peace child,


An Awkward Motion Above the Head

Basketball. There’s a ball. There’s a basket. Whether it was from the sideline, the court, the couch or the driveway,  you’ve  seen it, played it, loved it, or hated it. In my husband and I’s family,  basketball is just something that we know…something that we do. Okay, not so much me. I’m usually in the kitchen making a chocolate cake or changing a diaper or finding the first aid kit, but I do know the rules and I can hang with the best of them in a game of horse.  Our dad played college ball. Amy and I went several rounds on our hoop growing up. The hoop that stood on an aggregate driveway. The aggregate driveway that had thousands of tiny pebbles in it making your dribble awkward and rollerskating darn near impossible. (Here I end the divulgence of completely irrelevant information.) My husbands grandfather was a coach and there was always a ball at any family gathering. We enjoy the game.

This past week we drove home for a family funeral. My husband’s Uncle Doug, the eldest of four boys, passed away from complications with cancer. It was sudden.  Life is that way. Funerals are the time you rally around the loved ones left by the life lost. It’s a time you recall the best of times and even the funniest of times. Uncle Jay (number 4 in the line up and a pastor) led the services and told stories about Doug’s love of backroads, his way with words, and his faith in Christ.
Uncle Rich (number 3 in the line up and, incidentally, a basketball coach) wrote a story about his older brother. I wanted to share it, not just for the story, but more so for what happened afterward. If you know anyone with a love for the game please pass it on.
“The ‘Brother’hood of Basketball”
By former Medina, former Hallettsville, current Sonora Lady Bronco Basketball Coach
and brother to a basketball official
“The basketball official just signaled travel with an awkward motion above his head. I am scouting a game film late in February. If you are scouting late in February then you really should be focused, but I find myself watching the referee and not the game. There he goes again – the slightly overweight, middle aged official – is hustling beside the high school players on a fast break. I think to myself… ‘this guy thinks he is an official at the state tournament’. The video is an early tourney game in Central Texas and I have never seen an official try so hard. Again, I find myself watching the basketball official and not the game. More hustle and more calls above his head. I am all by myself in a dark room just sitting watching the game film with a huge smile on my face. Then it happens – BOOM! – the official’s face comes right in front of the screen. It is my brother. It is his first year to be a basketball official. Our dad was a high school basketball coach. We both played college basketball. We both love the sport. My smile gets bigger with every hustle play by my brother and I find myself laughing out loud with every call he signals above his head. My focus on scouting is lost. I give up on the video work and call my brother. I ask him about his mechanics and officiating. He tells me that he was making his calls “high in the air” and “so the fans could see the 
calls”. At the exact same moment in time, we realize how funny both his officiating and his comments were and we laugh. Not the regular laugh but the big belly laugh that hurts and brings tears to your eyes. That laugh will last forever in my mind….
Thank you to all the organizations that make basketball possible. Thank you to all the coaches, players and fans that love the game.
Most of all THANK YOU basketball for giving my brother some of the greatest memories and experiences of his life.
Rest in peace my brother….”
This story was emailed to friends, family, and acquaintances in the basketball community. It basically went viral within circles of coaches, players, and officials in the sport.  As Uncle Rich shared the story again the day of the funeral, he added that the response to the tribute he wrote for his brother was unexpected. A slew of emails, an offer for it to be published, and then this. One particular referee contacted Uncle Rich letting him know that, come Friday night, first call of the game, he was going call it high in the air, hands above the head.
My father in law (number 2 in the line up), then,  invited us, as a group, to raise our hands above our head and signal the call for traveling.  We all, including Uncle Doug’s wife, mother, children, and grandchildren, raised our hands high in the air and rotated our fists one over the other.  I’m sure we looked ridiculous, but it was the best kind of ridiculous. Tears welled up as I pictured officials, possibly across the state of Texas, doing the same come Friday night after the whistle blows.
May we all be more intentional to cherish the life we live and honor the lives of those we love.

Elevators, Waves, Tumors, and Peace

As little kids we took a trip to the beach and stayed in a tall hotel with an elevator. In the spirit of things,  Dad, along with his swimsuit and flip flops, packed a blender and all the fixings for piña coladas.  Genius. He’d wake up in the mornings and go get giant halves of fresh papaya and limes and spoons. At night, we’d eat out and I remember having my first taste of calamari and finding out what it really was. Who knew squid could be so good?

During the day, I guess our parents let Amy and I wander around by ourselves. We had two elevators on our floor and we felt so grown up going up and down in our own private elevator cars.  A game was inspired by our antics. We’d  each get in our own elevator and push the button of the agreed upon floor to race to. Ready, set, go! Adrenaline rushed as my doors closed and I pushed the button. My doors opened as the winner. “Yes!” I thought to myself. I waited in front of Amy’s doors so I could humbly  rub it in her face, only her doors never opened. I waited a while. Nothing. Did she push the wrong button? She was only 4 years old. Could she even read? I don’t remember. I went back up to the floor of our room and found someone from management walking with Amy. My heart dropped. I was in trouble. Somehow she had ended up in the lobby wandering around lost. Well, there went that game…Lame.

We went to the beach. Amy walked around with her heart shaped sunglasses and Shirley temple hair. Adorable. She had a cute overbite and was probably running her motormouth non-stop. There was a trend happening in the area, at the time, with flip flops that had no straps. They just basically stuck to your feet. I have no idea how. They just did and oh how I wanted some. No luck….such a bummer. We’d play in the waves, and I practiced my gymnastics skills in the water one back handspring after another. At some point, in mid flip, a huge wave came crashing into my back. My back popped, salt water rushed up my nose, and the air was smacked out of my lungs. The feeling was panic and I crawled to shore waiting for the air to come. It finally came. Note to self: Do not flip in waves.

I was reminded of that last story in a church we visited this past week here in this small town. We sang a song about the waves of life. How sometimes they are few and far between and how other times they come one after another, knocking you down repeatedly as you wait for the air to come.  I could relate physically and emotionally to the song and to the message in it.  The waves have seemed quite repetitive the last couple years. My favorite part of the song said this…

“Though the water is raging

I will not overwhelm you

I’m preparing you for what is yet to come

And who you’ll be

Peace child

Be at peace child

There is life beneath the waves

You are not lost

I am with you

Let me wash your sins away” This past summer our mom was diagnosed with squamous cell carcinoma. Just recently, she had her follow up visit to see how the six weeks of chemo and radiation had worked on the cancer that had been growing in her body. Our mom, Amy, and some close friends drove to MD Anderson for the tests and appointments.

My heart raced as I received the phone call from mom. The day had come. The day I knew she would have some answers. After weeks of torturous side effects of radiation and chemo and weeks more of waiting, there will be answers. Did it work? Part of me did not want to know. The other part only wanted to know if the news was good. I hear my mom’s voice on the other end of the line as I sit a thousand miles away. Deep breath. I wait. She speaks. “No evidence of a tumor what so ever.”

I melt into my seat and breathe a sigh of thankfulness. I repeat the news to the kids and my husband and smiles and love erupt into cheers. I remember the prayer I overheard my son whisper the night before alone in his bed. A prayer for his “Marmie”….a prayer that the cancer would be gone.  I remember all the doctors, and radiation techs, and nurses and the chemo infusions and the late nights, the pills, the waiting rooms and the suffering mom underwent over and over and over and I sing to myself…. “Peace child

Be at peace child

There is life beneath the waves.”

Mom, Dad, Amy, Ben, and my husband’s family are coming up to Colorado for Thanksgiving. In the spirit of things, along with his beanie hat and snow boots, Dad better pack his blender and cream of coconut because we are gonna make some piña coladas up in here!

The toast will be something like… “To getting lost, to getting knocked down, to the unexpected and uncontrollable, and to resting calmly in the storms of life.”

Or maybe, to shorten things up, it will go more like…. “To elevators, waves, tumors and peace.”

Peace child,


I added these pics and then remembered they were taken just a couple days before mom’s diagnosis…you never know what tomorrow holds.
***Lyrics to “Cleansing Waves” written by Denise Chaney. Pagosa Springs, Colorado.

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