Amie's Literary Brain Dump

Us and Them

2011-03-26T10:41:00.001-04:00

The government winks
the economy sinks
and the Gulf Coast stinks
like dead fish
habitat on the brink
while the industry shrinks
but we all do the same
play the game
shift the blame
just keep it off my dish

BP-British Petroleum
It’s only fair to hold them
responsible but it ain’t us and them
its them and us,
them for us,
them because of us.
yeah, us –the users, the cruisers, the losers
the do or die gotta get mine
pushing the need to fill the greed consumers
no time to count the cost
consider the lives lost
for the gas in our cars
and these drawn out wars
or did you really think we were only fighting terrorism?

Operation freedom
the freedom to operate without fear, abuse, oppression
the push for women’s liberation
but if this is really the goal of the nation and its creed
then somebody please tell me
why the hell aren’t we in Darfur?
Or is this what happens when our moral high ground
hits a political no fly zone,
a no economic gain zone
a no resource to reclaim zone?
Only life and death hang in the balance.
No great tragedy of finance.

Oil bubbles in the sea
we wonder how this will trouble me?
Blood bubbles in the street
the slash of a machete across a child’s heartbeat
and we return to a familiar retreat
Better them than us.

Finale

2009-06-17T20:56:00.001-04:00

Fourteen months and one week later, my eyes popped open and I sat straight up in bed with one thought: I’m getting married today. I smiled to myself. Then came another sudden and pressing thought: Oh God, I’m gonna throw up.

I jumped to my feet and slumped over the toilet while the wonderful lasagna from our rehearsal dinner made an unexpected and unpleasant encore appearance. My dad came down the hall and peeked into the room. Being the loving, compassionate father that he is, he took one look and yelled, “Fran, she’s puking!” before breaking into hysterical laughter. “Like mother, like daughter.” I heard as he drifted back down the hall. Yep. Apparently, I inherited my mom’s wedding-day-hurling-gene. What can I say? I was a bundle of nerves.

I don’t remember many details about the ceremony. The music was nice. The bridal party was lovely. Tim sang to me. I do remember telling him that if he noticed me looking over his shoulder as he sang, it wasn’t because I was secretly in love with his best man. It was just because I was fighting the urge to cry and needed a distraction.

Probably the most moving part of the ceremony was when Tim and I sang together. “One Hand, One Heart” was the prayer song in the mock wedding scene from West Side Story; the scene that I couldn’t get through without crying because I could see our wedding day so vividly in my mind’s eye. No other song could have been more perfect.

“Make of our hands, one hand.
Make of our hearts, one heart
Make of our vows, one last vow
Only death will part us now.”

I guess you could say we had come full circle; a struggling stage romance that flew in the face of everyone’s expectations.

So, there you have it. Just a couple of clueless teenagers dazzled by firelight; college kids held fast by divine chords of love; and now –older, much, much older but still growing deeper in like, deeper in love, and deeper in yeah, that other “l” word, everyday.

Greater love stories have been told but…this one is all ours.

Oh, the honeymoon?! You didn’t really expect me to share everything now, did you? Hmmmm. ;-)

Overlooked

2009-06-14T21:26:00.003-04:00

No matter what I tried, the lump only grew larger. My shoulders ached and my eyes burned. How can I possibly get through this day? I was panicking. Tim broke into the silence. “You want to stop at one of the overlooks?”

Yes. Please stop. Please. I need out. I need air. “Sure.” I replied half-heartedly.

We pulled into the gravel parking pad at a more or less unoccupied look-out point. I got out of the truck and sucked in as deep a breath as I could hold. I was overcome. Just a few yards ahead was a step down to a large boulder. “I’m gonna go a little closer for a second.” I told Tim, praying he wouldn’t follow me. Now, I realize that standing on a rock overlooking a drop off when you are already somewhat dizzy with emotion may not be the wisest choice; but I had to have a moment alone. I needed to let just a few tears fall. Not enough to open the flood gates but enough to let the pressure off of the tap, so to speak.

Tim made no move to join me and I was so thankful. When I finally felt that I could look him in the eye without falling apart. I turned and headed back up to where he was leaning on the truck. When I reached him, he grabbed me and held me. Great. More hugging. Again my emotions surged. Swallow it. Swallow it. Then all the sudden I heard something I was not expecting at all. Singing. He was singing to me.

There’s a Steven Curtis Chapman song called “Go There with You.” (click here for lyrics) It was a favorite of ours and basically speaks of love that goes the distance. As he poured out the words with the voice that I had fallen in love with years earlier, I unleashed the swell and let the tears pour. And when he dropped to one knee, popped open the ring case, and asked in a cracking voice that betrayed his own emotions: “Amie Harrington, will you marry me?” I bawled like a baby. In fact, he had to confirm that the tears represented a “yes” response.

Oh my heavens, what a moment! It was like climbing off of an insane roller coaster –I was slightly weak-kneed but otherwise exhilarated.

Turns out, Tim had fully intended to propose while at the chapel but I wasn’t the only one churning butter in the pit of my stomach that day. The boy was scared to death. While lying in the grass by that pond he had been fighting the urge to throw up. It’s crazy to think that we had each spent the whole day wallowing in private misery.

We grabbed a couple of sodas from the cooler and started the trip back home. I was elated. Giddy. Relieved. Then suddenly very cold –I have no idea how it happened (though I’m willing to bet it had something to do with trying to open a can of pop while maneuvering my newly adorned ring finger to give off the greatest sparkle) but I dumped an entire can of Sprite in my lap. I was soaked through. Tim pulled off to the side of the road and I grabbed an extra pair of shorts and the blanket we had used for our picnic from the truck box. While driving down the interstate and under the cover of the blanket, I proceeded to change from drenched jeans to dry clothes.

Tim, at least feigning focusing on the road ahead said, “If I’d known putting a ring on your finger would finally get you out of your pants, I’d have done it a long time ago.” We laughed and speculated as to whether anyone else would believe my explanation for leaving in one set of clothes and returning in another. But of course, you believe me…right?

Happy Birthday or is it?

2009-06-10T14:09:00.002-04:00

April 18th, 1993 was a glorious day! The sun was out. The sky was blue. The birds were singing and my stomach was in a thousand knots. We’d made plans for the day to head to Callaway Gardens in GA. Callaway is a nature preserve of sorts with beautiful Azalea trails, butterfly houses, exotic gardens and yadda, yadda, yadda. You don’t need to know any of that. You do need to know that Callaway Gardens has this delightfully picturesque, little, stone chapel. It sits just above a peaceful lake and has a beautiful stained glass window which serves as the back wall. The perfect place for a wonderfully romantic guy to get down on one knee and pledge his love to a girl who’d spent hours practicing her surprised face.

We wondered down nature paths and watched turtles soaking up the morning sun along the edge of a pond. We held hands as we strolled around the butterfly house. We enjoyed a picnic lunch in a clearing. We were surrounded by beautiful serenity. My insides, however, were churning like class 5 river rapids. By early afternoon, we had made the rounds and seen all there was to see except the chapel. I thought my heart would explode out of my chest as we made our way up the hill to its entrance.

We stepped inside. It truly is a stunning place. The woodwork, stone, and stained glass together create this very intimate space that automatically evokes a certain amount of reverence. Patience. Patience. We walked around with others admiring its structure, and sat in the coolness of the wooden pews, and then…and then…

Then we went back outside. Huh? I was stunned. No. I was destroyed. I could feel my hands starting to shake and my chest tighten. I thought I would pass out right there in front of everyone. Tim made his way to the side of the pond and lay back in the grass, propped on his elbows. I settled on a nearby rock. We sat there. Not one word was said. He stared out at the water. I stared at the ground; forcing air in and out of my lungs and willing the tears back from my eyes.

After some time passed, Tim looked over and said, “I guess we should be heading home.” I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to speak. We stood up and he hugged me. I groaned inwardly. Why was he hugging me? I didn’t want a hug. I wanted a question. The question. I wanted a promise. I wanted a future. It was like being the runner up on some game show where they give you a really crappy consolation prize. “Amie Harrington you did not win the “Til Death Do Us Part” vacation package (aaaawwww) but we do have this lovely parting gift for you…a hug (applause).” NOOOOOOOOOOO! I wanted to scream.

By the time we made it back to the truck I was completely numb except for the painful pit that was now lodged in my throat. We drove the narrow streets through the exit and along the tree-canopied road leading away from the park. I knew I didn’t have the strength to keep the disappointment that had seized my being from showing all over my face. I stared out of the passenger window trying to breathe; trying to swallow; trying to understand. How could I be so stupid?

Playing Possum

2009-06-01T18:46:00.003-04:00

Tim finished up his first year of college and I managed to graduate from high school despite having cried through most of my senior year. We still had our occasional spats –like when I went to Panama City with a group of girls for my senior trip. Tim was not very happy. Historically, teenagers on unsupervised beach trips tend to forget the rules of exclusive relationships. Heck, they tend to forget the rules, period. Maybe it’s something in the formula for Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil or…I suppose it could be the unlawful and ungodly amounts of alcohol being consumed. Either way, Tim was convinced that something dreadful lay ahead and it involved me being tangled up on the beach with some oven-baked lifeguard.

The few days before leaving, he all but ignored me completely. I was amazed. Here he had spent a year in college and almost “fallen out of love with me” while I lingered faithfully and yet now, he couldn’t manage to trust me for one week. He knew better than anyone else that I was “a good girl.” He also knew that the girl I was traveling and staying with (one of his ex-girlfriends, in fact --not one previously mentioned in the story but still somewhat ironic) was the captain of an anti-drug and alcohol performance team at our school. But neither this nor anything I said would allay his fears. So, I did what a loving and loyal girlfriend should do.

I went anyway. One week of worry wasn’t going to kill the boy. And I had a great time. No alcohol, no life guards, not even a notable sunburn. (My girlfriend and I laughed as we had complete freedom from our parents but still spent an hour every day slathering on and reapplying sunscreen. Our moms would’ve been so proud.) I returned to my sweetheart just as I had left, only heavily freckled.

The months passed and we continued to fall deeper in love; deeper in like; deeper in…what’s that other “l” word? Oh yeah, lust. That’s the one. Suffice it to say we were steadily heading toward the moment of truth. Time to sink or swim. Fish or cut bait. Hitch up the wagon or put the horse out to pasture. Um, I believe Paul said it this way, “It is better to marry than to burn…” And it was getting harder and harder to put out those fires.

One Sunday afternoon, we were napping in Tim’s room and I roused to hear him on the phone with his best friend from high school. I picked up the conversation just as Tim was speaking in a hushed tone, “Of course, you have to be here. I need a best man, don’t I?” I froze. “Well, she has a birthday coming up, so…” Breathe slowly. I willed myself to keep my eyes closed. I didn’t hear another word of his conversation. My brain was spinning. I was so relieved when Tim, thinking I was still asleep, quietly left the room. I lay there for some time trying to gather my composure and not let on what I now knew: Tim was going to propose on my 19th birthday which was just around the corner. Now, all I had to do was wait.

Nutcracker

2009-01-15T15:32:00.001-05:00

“I don’t know if I love you anymore.”

Gulp. My stomach couldn’t have tightened anymore if he’d reached through the phone and physically punched me in the gut. I sat in stunned silence. Thanksgiving had just passed and while I was counting down the days until he’d be home for Christmas break, apparently he’d been counting the costs of having a “ball and chain” back home.

While the declaration itself was a direct hit out of nowhere, it wasn’t as though it had been all sunshine and roses. As I said before, it was tough. Trying to share each others lives through telephone lines was hard enough coupled with battling jealousies over the people and places that defined our greatly separate spheres of relationship. Throw in occasional weekend visits that were strained with the demands on Tim’s time coming from friends, family, and myself.

“So, what does this mean?” I was finally able to ask.

We had already purchased tickets to the Nutcracker Ballet in Atlanta. Tim suggested that we keep that date but not see or phone each other in the meantime. It would give him time to think about his “feelings” and then by the end of that date, he would tell me whether or not our relationship would continue.

Allow me to interject. Having two daughters of my own, I see this situation in an entirely different light. If one of my two girls were dating a young man who offered such a ridiculous proposition, I would encourage her to dump him, dump him, dump him! But being young and stupid, plus that whole sovereignty of God thing, I agreed to this arrangement and hung in limbo for two weeks.

I held up my end of the bargain and fought off repeated urges to dial his number, 478-2942, which as a matter of trivia sounds like The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Go ahead. Try it. Just hang up after you dial since I have no idea who owns that number now.

I picked out a dress and tested out some new hair styles. I wasn’t sure what about that night would help him make up his mind but I figured looking great couldn’t hurt my chances. Two days before the big date, I’m in my room (which was in the basement of my grandparents house) straightening up and such when down the stairs walks none other than Mr. Let’s-Not-See-Each-Other.

“Hi.” I offered a bit puzzled. “I think you’re breaking the rules.”

He looked sheepish and then moved to hug me. “I missed you.”

I hugged back while grasping to balance my emotions. The one part of me wanted to wrestle him to the ground and pin him there until he confessed that I was the one and the only one for him; the other part working to maintain a safe distance in case the end was near.

“I like your hair.”

It was one of my test looks. Note to self: hairstyle –check.

We discussed a few details, what time he’d pick me up, dinner before or after, etc. The entire visit lasted no more than ten minutes. The time I spent on my bed racked with sobs after he was gone was at least twice that. I hated what he was doing to me; hated feeling so powerless. I was just waiting for some epiphany to drop from the sky and hoping I wouldn’t do or say the wrong thing, if there even was a right or wrong thing. Excruciating.

He picked me up that Saturday afternoon and my mom insisted on taking pictures of us all dressed up. Smiling is not so easy when your stomach is in your throat. I wondered if those pictures would forever document our last date. Grim, but realistic. I don’t remember what we had for dinner or if we said two words to each other, but on the way to the ballet he pulled a tape out of the glove compartment and said that he wanted us to listen to it together.

A mix tape. Yes! It was a mix tape. Go on. Roll your eyes and shake your head. I know how silly it is but it was the early ninety’s for heaven’s sake and a mix tape was a vital component for every thriving couple, so there. You know you had one.

Every song earmarked a moment in our relationship from the theme song off of Andy Griffith –Tim’s parents had taken to calling me “Opie” thanks to my summer time freckling—to “More Than Words” the aforementioned ballad of put out or get out. We got a little more than halfway through the tape when we arrived at the Civic Center.

The ballet was beautiful and while things were still uncertain, it did seem like some of the tension was lifted. Every now and then Tim would lean over and say things to make me laugh. “I don’t even have to read the cast notes. Those white tights tell me more about that guy than I ever wanted to know.” Then a few minutes later… “When are they going to start singing?” I would stifle my laughter so not to disturb the ballet patrons who, as it turns out, are a very serious lot. Fortunately, we made it through the production without being escorted out.

Back in Tim’s red Ford Ranger, we played the rest of the tape and listened quietly. When the first side ended, he switched it over and played the last song. It was the clincher. “Somewhere” from West Side Story. Our West Side Story. The place where it all began.

As soon as we pulled into the driveway we fell into each other’s arms and Tim kissed me like crazy. Long, deep kisses full of assurance; soft pecks with whispered apologies; and strong, firm kisses that promised, “Never again.”

Long Distance Love

2009-01-15T15:21:00.002-05:00

Where did we leave off? Ah…

Tim’s graduation came and went and we grew closer with every summer day. But a dark cloud loomed over us. Come fall, he would leave for college in Indiana. It had taken so long to get our relationship off the ground and now we would be separated by hundreds of miles. It just didn’t seem fair.

My senior year started on a Monday and Tim was scheduled to leave on Tuesday. I skipped half of that first day, with permission, and we spent it together. All too soon the moment we’d been dreading for months was upon us. We stood in the driveway clinging to each other. I would’ve given anything in that moment if the world would just stop spinning, if the night never ended, if my mom would stop blinking that cursed porch light! (The universal signal for “date’s over, get in the house.”)

We stretched the time as far as we could with kisses, tears, and embraces. I knew that it was going to be physically painful to unwrap my arms from his shoulders and let him drive away. I stood on the porch and watched his break lights, tapped three times for “I love you,” until they faded out of view. I had no idea how we would make through an entire year apart. How would he be affected by college life, being away from home and the freedom that came with it? What would a long-distance love really be like on a daily basis?

Hard. Frustrating. Depressing. That’s how it really was. Every day presented a new challenge. We would talk on the phone two or three times a week (depending on how horrible the long distance bill had been the month prior). And while it was always good to hear his voice, it was the other voices I began hearing that caused problems. He’d tuck away into a closet to drown out the noise of music and laughter in the dorm room.

“What’s all the noise?” I asked.

“Just a bunch a people hanging out.”

“Ok. Who all’s there?” pressing…pressing…

“I don’t know…Jay (Tim’s roommate) Brett, Molly, Talitha, Trudy, maybe a few more.” He replied nonchalantly. “I’m not getting very much studying done.”

“Oh.” Cringe.

No, these are not the girl’s actual names. Close renderings (protecting the innocent and all.) But for our story’s sake, those were the names that were receiving regular mentions in our conversations. Names that haunted me in my sleep. These were college girls. I was just a lowly high-schooler. Yes, I know it was only the difference of one year but let’s be real…in the mind of a newly independent 18 year old guy, I might as well have been in diapers and still sucking a pacifier. I wasn’t sure how I could compete but I was determined to try.

I wrote to him pretty much every day -still have the box stuffed with letters to prove it. And he faithfully wrote back. But even in his writing I could sense that he was unsettled and restless. He seemed to be wandering into that first year college abyss of “finding myself” which made no sense to me because I knew exactly who he was: Tim Sexton -boyfriend and future husband of Amie Harrington. Simple. No searching required and certainly no sowing of wild oats. But my pragmatism wasn’t going to be enough for him. And long about November things took a nasty turn.

A Kiss is NOT Just a Kiss

2008-10-14T16:07:00.002-04:00

Since we were back together, Tim immediately called up the ex and informed her that he had made a terrible mistake and would not be able to take her to the prom because he could not imagine spending that night apart from the woman he truly loved. That is how it would have played out if it had been up to me. Tim, on the other hand, couldn’t seem to find the resolve necessary to cancel the date so close to the event. Yes, the boy had basically pledged the rest of his life to me but the next twenty four hours? Not so much. So, despite being overwhelmed with jealousy, I dealt with it and we moved past it. Well, almost. Here’s what actually happened.

I tried to keep myself busy that Saturday but it was impossible not to imagine where they were and what they were doing. I trusted Tim. Completely. It was the “funny” girl I had no confidence in. I had always gotten the vibe that she would gladly rekindle their old flame if given the right opportunity. Now, here they were spending twelve uninterrupted hours together.

After tossing and turning all night, I showered and headed to church. When the service ended, I made my way back to the car and there on the hood was a bouquet of flowers and a card from Tim. He told me that he had missed me and thought of me the whole night; how it just wasn’t the same without me. Picturing him miserably “going through the motions” of the night brought me a great deal of satisfaction. Idiot.

Just for a second, let’s fast forward this story oh, about 6 years. Tim and I are living in Milledgeville, GA where he is a Music/Youth minister and we are nearing our 4th wedding anniversary. While visiting with his parents one afternoon, we begin rummaging through drawers of old photos; laughing and reminiscing. Then, I stumbled across a pack of pictures with no label. I opened it up and there staring back at me was a picture of Tim and that girl kissing square on the lips. I was stunned followed immediately by ticked off.

“What is this?” I hissed while shoving the picture in his face.

“What? It was the prom…like…forever ago. Why are you so mad?” he asked in dismay over my reaction.

“Because all these years you had me believing that you were miserable. That you hardly had any fun all night because you missed me so much. Were you missing me when this shot was taken? I don’t think so.” I knew how ridiculous it was but I felt totally betrayed. “You didn’t leave flowers on my car because you loved me. You did it because you felt guilty!”

He tried to bring me back to reality. “In my own defense, can I just state the obvious? I married YOU!”

Sigh. I can laugh about it now but seriously, it took me several hours to get over the shock of it all. And the fact that we were married in some ways made it even harder. I wasn’t just looking at my high school sweetheart kissing his ex-girlfriend. I was seeing my husband kissing another woman. Convoluted as it was, it broke my heart.

But don’t worry; I’m not still bitter about it. ;-)

Missing You

2008-10-13T14:05:00.002-04:00

It was Thursday. Prom would be on Saturday. Counting down the days to a prom that you aren’t attending is annoying. Counting down the days to a prom that your ex-boyfriend is taking his previous ex-girlfriend to is excruciating.

I don’t recall what prompted the conversation between Tim and I after school that day. I’ve always just assumed that “playing hard to get” (even unintentionally) worked. Within a few short minutes we were laughing together.

“I’ve missed you” he said. “Maybe I could come by and we could hang out or something.”

“Yeah. Okay.” I replied casually; stifling the part of me that wanted to scream with excitement.

He stopped by that very night. We decided to go for a walk and have a late picnic at a small lake near my house. We brought along a few candles and a blanket where we spread out to eat along the bank of the water. We munched and chatted easily and before we knew it, it was dark. We moved from the grass to a large boulder and sat watching the night’s sky reflected in the pond. It was a perfect evening and a perfectly clear sky chock full of stars. Tim repositioned himself so that we were facing each other.

“I’ve really missed this. Just sitting with you and talking to you.” His voice was sincere but with a hint of frustration, like he was confused by his own emotions. “I have never had to work this hard in a relationship and I don’t know what that means. But I like you. I…love you, everything about you.” Again, he seemed as much irritated by the fact as he was passionate about it.

Looking down, he caressed my fingers and took a deep breath. “I know you have a lot to work through but I really want to see where this goes.” His eyes lifted. “I can see spending the rest of my life with you.”

Whoa. Tim was finally saying what I had known all along. There was only one thing left to do. After four months of fighting off vulnerability, I had to quit fighting. He leaned closer and our lips touched ever so softly. Then, seeing that I wasn’t going to resist, he pressed in firmly and fully. I could feel the warmth of his mouth and my toes curled in my shoes. My skin tingled from my scalp to the soles of my feet and everywhere in between. This was the kiss I'd been waiting for.

After a few minutes of reveling in each other’s affection, he snuggled in behind me and wrapped his arms around my waist. We sat quietly staring up into the night. Suddenly, a star shot across the sky. “Did you see that?!” We asked at the same time.

“I think we’re supposed to make a wish.”

“I know what I’m wishing for” he said.

I smiled. “Me, too.”

Not Funny!

2008-08-28T22:21:00.002-04:00

During the breakup, school was an especially difficult endeavor. It seemed like Tim was everywhere, laughing and cutting up with his friends while I felt like I could barely move from one room to another. My English Literature class was just down the hall from one of Tim’s classes. It had been a place where we would meet and exchange quick notes before dashing off to beat the bell.

You can imagine how surprised I was to look up one morning and find him standing beside my desk. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Force of habit, I suppose.”

Force of habit?! Are you kidding me? You ripped my heart out of my chest and now you have the nerve to stand here like nothing’s changed. Was it not enough for you to kill me once!?! “Oh.” I said distantly.

“Well, I guess I should get to class.”

I nodded. He left and I laid my head on my desk and cried.

The following weekend our school’s drama club was doing a performance of “Crimes of the Heart.” I went with my best friend, Dionka, and Tim was there, sitting with another girl. Lots of people speculated as to whether or not they were on a date but no one could confirm it. I tried hard to act like I didn’t care. I cared deeply.

After the play, we milled about congratulating the cast and visiting with friends. The prom was a mere week away and the whole place was abuzz with news of who was taking who. Somewhere in the mix, my best friend caught wind that Tim had chosen a date. We got in my mom’s car to leave and she broke the news to me.

“He’s going with somebody named Stephanie from another school.” She reported.

“WHAT?!”

Okay, we both had ex’s but this was the ex. The one he had dated for nearly two years; the one who was petite and bubbly and that his parents adored because she was just so entertaining. Her nickname was “Funny” for crying out loud. And she was everything that I was not in high school.

“Why her? Of all the girls on the planet he could’ve picked; why did he have to choose her?” I fumed as I put the car in reverse. I was so angry, so hurt, and so completely distraught until an unexpected thud and sudden jerking motion silenced me. I looked at Dionka. Slowly we both turned and looked out the back windshield. I had backed into a car parked a few spaces up. Not just any car. The Mac Daddy of all cars. Ca-di-llac. Ugh.

I kept my sensibilities long enough to pull right back into the space we had just vacated. I put the car in park and then crumbled into a heap of hysteria. Dionka ushered me out of the car and back into the Performing Arts Center where we searched frantically for our chorus teacher. She explained to him what had happened and he held me while I sobbed. Once I had regained some manner of control, he led me by the hand out to the cars and inspected both bumpers. Thanks to the providence of God and possibly the fact that it was 10 pm in a dimly lit parking lot; it appeared that neither car was damaged.

He turned the keys over to Dionka and instructed her to get us out of there and get me home for the night. Neither of us knew until after the fact that she did not yet have her license. I made it home safely that night; still stinging from the rejection by Tim and the humiliation of the accident, but safely home.

To the owner of the Cadillac that was parked in a PAC lot in Georgia sometime in May of 1991 –I’m very sorry…but it was really all Tim’s fault.

Salt in the Wound

2008-08-28T13:36:00.001-04:00

Johnny and I headed out that evening for a “Tim who?” night or so I thought. Our first stop was the movie theatre –two tickets to “Sleeping with the Enemy.” So far, so good. I was actually enjoying myself and things were going fine until Julia Roberts just had to move in next to a drama teacher dancing around his backyard whistling songs from West Side Story. Mine and Tim’s West Side Story. Johnny looked at me and grimaced as the tears began to well up in my eyes. I’m certain I was the only one in the crowd crying when Julia shot her demented husband.

We left the theatre and in hopes of redeeming the night, Johnny suggested we drop by the video store and rent a nice comedy. We made our selection and moved to the counter to check out where who should be working? None other than Tim’s best friend (and eventual best man in our wedding) Mike, of course. “You’re on a date! Whoa, you bounced back fast. Wait ‘til I tell Tim.” He chimed. With a new puddle of tears clouding my eyes, I ran out the door and waited at Johnny’s truck. He stayed behind and tried to clarify that we were not on a date and I had not bounced back; tearfully fleeing the store was Exhibit A to the contrary.

Well, the night was going swimmingly if you didn’t count the mascara now pooling under my eyes and the streak marks down my earlier press-powdered face. Johnny was beside himself with guilt for adding to my torment. I thought it best if he took me home but he would not give up that easily.

“Please, let me just take you one more place and if you don’t feel any better, I’ll take you home and you’ll never hear from me again.”

I relented and after a short drive we pulled up in the parking lot of E.W. Oliver Elementary School. What in heavens name are we doing here? I wondered as I followed him to the back of the school and out onto the playground.

“You’re probably wondering what in the world we are doing here?” he said. Obviously. “Well, do you see those monkey bars over there?”

I nodded. By this time it was dark and starting to mist but Johnny was undeterred.

“When I was in elementary school, there was a girl named Betty Lou Henson* who used to hang upside down from those monkey bars. She was the prettiest girl in the school and I wanted more than anything for her to notice me.”

I was wet and chilled but intrigued. He continued.

“I decided that the only way to impress her was to hang upside down just like she did. So, one day I climbed to the top of the monkey bars, got into position, and lowered myself down. I yelled, ‘Hey, Betty Lou, look at me!’ And do you know what happened next?”

I ventured a sarcastic guess, “She fell madly in love with you.”

“No!” he replied emphatically. “I lost my grip and fell to the ground. I landed square on my face and my nose started pouring blood all over my shirt. Betty Lou took one look at me, pointed her finger and laughed hysterically before running away with her friends.” He paused momentarily for effect. “And do you know what the point of this story is?”

I shot him a look that was something of a mix between confusion and amusement while shrugging my now very damp shoulders.

“The point is this. Sometimes you fall off the monkey bars and bust your nose and it bleeds all over the place. And it hurts for a while but sooner or later you’ve got to climb back up on those bars and try again.” I couldn’t help but smile at the insanity of it all. “Now I better get you out of this rain before I top the night off by giving you pneumonia.”

The evening ended as Johnny serenaded me in my front yard with the theme from Love Boat. At that point, I could’ve said the heck with Tim Sexton. Here stood a guy who was willing to make a complete and utter fool of himself just for me. And I had little doubt that, given the right indicators, he would have grabbed me up and smothered me in another deep though somewhat less than satisfying kiss. But my heart. My heart was still pining away for the guy who didn’t seem to want me.

More Than Words

2008-08-04T15:58:00.002-04:00

Having gone on a real first date we would normally come to the part of our story where I face, yet again, that crucible of relationships: the kiss. But much to Tim’s chagrin, that wasn’t happening. As you now know, my past experiences (read: disappointments) were almost enough to keep me from any future attempts at titillating tongue wrestling; but there was an even greater force behind my reservations than just past failures.

There was no question that I was completely in love with Tim. I envisioned us holding hands, hugging, and kissing, all those things that couples were supposed to do; but when we were together –screeeeeech –it was like a mental slamming of the brakes. No matter how much I wanted to grab that boy and lay one on him, I couldn’t do it.

In the year and a few months prior to meeting the man of my dreams, my ideology of love and relationships had taken some hefty blows. First, was the devastation brought on by learning that the couple I admired most in the world had fallen prey to the web of adultery. This was followed shortly by news that someone very close to me had become pregnant and decided to abort her unborn child. My wonderfully naïve ideals about sex and intimacy were suddenly challenged by reality in a fallen world. I became fearfully convinced that physical affection of any kind between the opposite sexes was a slippery slope doomed to end in a puddle of immorality and heartache.

So, for four months Tim endured a girlfriend who showered him with love letters, words of affirmation, and romantic prose all the while keeping him at arm’s length. Poor sweet boy.

Oh, wait, did I say endured? What I meant was…dumped. Dumped twice to be exact. Come on, I admit my part in over correcting based on other people’s actions but I’m not letting him off the hook that easy. The boy actually bought and played for me the cassette single of the song “More Than Words” by Extreme. If you aren’t familiar with it, let’s just say it’s the melodically veiled, 80’s rock ballad version of “put out or get out.”

(I must interject here and say that this is why Tim was reluctant about my writing of this story. “You’re going to make me look like a jerk.” “Oh honey” I assured him, “I’m not going to make you look like anything. We’ll just let history speak for itself.” ;-))

Our first break up lasted only a week. The second lasted almost a month and came out of nowhere. It was a Sunday, Tim’s senior prom was about a month off, and we’d traveled with his family to visit his Granny in North Georgia. Unbeknownst to me, Tim had decided that this trip would be the ultimate test of our relationship. Either he was going to get open affection from me or I was going to get kicked to the curb. I thought it had been a pleasant trip. At least as pleasant as being an outsider to a family gathering can be.

He drove me home later that night and we went inside to chat with my parents for a few minutes. My dad, ever the kidder, jabbed at Tim by saying, “Man, I wish you would break up with her before the prom so I don’t have to buy some expensive dress.” Ha. Ha. Chuckles all around. I walked him out to the front porch and he proceeded to dump me. I couldn’t believe it and my dad was even more dumbfounded. “What’s wrong with that boy? I was just joking!”

I was destroyed. I hardly ate. And I slept a lot because it was the only time I didn’t feel like I’d been punched in the stomach. I still believed we were meant to be together, I just couldn’t understand why God hadn’t let Tim in on the picture yet. Friends tried to perk me up but I couldn’t seem to shake the blues. I remember having a friend, Jeff, over to watch a movie. I slept through most of it and when I walked him out later that night he said, “You were smiling in your sleep. It’s the first time you’ve smiled in days.” Yep, it was that bad.

Then one afternoon I got a call with a familiar voice on the other end. It was Johnny. He’d heard about the break up and wanted to take me out. No strings attached. Just a fun night with a friend to take my mind off of Tim. He definitely had his work cut out for him.

UN-harried

2008-07-22T11:37:00.002-04:00

I distinctly remember my reaction to Tim’s hair announcement. I nodded slowly and smiled as though completely unaffected by it. On the inside, my mind was racing. Why is he telling me this? Dang, he has really nice hair. But why is he telling me this? The answer to that question was far more frightening than the prospect of a twenty-one year old bald guy. The answer to that question shook me to the core and confirmed what I had already begun to suspect –that we were going to be together for the long haul.

For weeks I had been grappling with an overwhelming feeling that Tim would be the last guy I would ever date. High school sweethearts standing the test of time; sounds gloriously romantic, doesn’t it? At sixteen years old, it was only slightly romantic and abundantly terrifying! I was raised in the era of “date around” and “play the field” so finding Mr. Right so soon seemed… kind of wrong. And yet, I was completely taken by him. It was an intense inner struggle. Case in point:

There is a wonderful scene in West Side Story where Tony meets Maria at the bridal shop where she works. After a brief encounter with Anita, Maria’s cautious but sympathetic friend (who is also her highly protective brother’s girlfriend) the two love struck teens begin dreaming of their future together. In the most tender and vulnerable of moments, next to the death scene (oops –did I give away the ending?), they create a mock ceremony and exchange heartfelt wedding vows.

Tim and I had been sent to a room to rehearse this very scene. It was going okay until we hit the vows. Sitting in that tiny room, the Driver’s Education room to be exact, my mind’s eye flashed forward and I could visualize my wedding day with Tim standing opposite me at the alter. I was overcome. I tried to force the lines out of my mouth but all I could do was cry. Tim kept asking me what was wrong. I knew he must’ve thought I was crazy and I wasn’t about to attempt an explanation. Well, it may have never occurred to you since we haven’t even gone on an official first date but I firmly believe that we are going to get married and that makes this scene uncomfortably real for me. No doubt Tim would’ve run screaming from the room. Instead I stammered, stumbled, and sniffled my way through until I was no longer reduced to tears.

We did eventually go on a first real date to the post-play cast party. My parents were there along with fifty of our closest friends. Talk about safe dating. It was at this same party that my chorus teacher, ten years my senior, told my parents that he loved me. Gulp. But that’s another story.

The Plays the Thing

2008-06-28T21:41:00.000-04:00

A couple of weeks passed, and soon auditions for the next musical began. West Side Story was a long time favorite of mine. I loved the music, the story of star-crossed lovers flying in the face of racial taboos. I wanted the part of Maria so bad and I knew I could be great at it. Tall, lanky, red-headed, fair skinned girl portraying a petite Puerto Rican –I was perfect for the part.

And auditioning for the part of Tony, was none other than Tim. Nothing much had happened since our bizarre camp fire encounter. Nothing at all except that I thought about him constantly. Then one day a few of us were standing around talking about who might play what role and very casually Tim said, “I hope you get to play Maria so I can kiss you.”

Whoa. I blushed like crazy and started sweating nervously from the palms of my hands to the soles of my feet and everywhere in between. It was the answer to my unspoken question. He had been thinking about me since that night. Oh, how the possibilities began to roll around in my head.

Tim was so cute. He had beautiful eyes that changed from green to brown depending on his clothing and a glorious head of soft, brown hair. (Stop snickering. It’s true.) I remember a couple who attended the church I grew up in. They were both young and attractive and they sat directly in front of the youth group. All through the service, the wife would run her fingers through the back of the guy’s hair. All of us teenagers would scowl and mock them behind their backs but secretly, I dreamed of the day that I could run my fingers through my own husband’s locks. Yeah, yeah, back to the story.

The auditions came and went and in true “High School Musical” form the results were posted on the chorus room door. We flocked to the spot like seagulls to a clam bake. The list was posted, as the original playbill, in order of appearance. Near the top of the list under “The Jets” there he was, Tony: Tim Sexton. And farther down the page, I breathed a great sigh of relief; under “The Sharks” -Maria: Amie Harrington. Yes! I knew I could make the late Natalie Wood proud –especially since I would be doing my own singing.

Rehearsals began and Tim and I were spending every afternoon together. He offered to give me a ride home after practice one day. We got into his little orange Volkswagen and had not even made it out of the school parking lot when he turned to me and said, “I feel like I should tell you that I’ve been to the dermatologist’s office. I have male-patterned baldness and will most likely lose my hair by the time I’m twenty-one.”

Come again?

Sparks

2008-06-25T09:12:00.001-04:00

I’d visited the church of Mike and Tim several times and was getting to know them and some of their friends (all a year ahead of me in school) a lot better. My interactions with Tim up to that point had been few and far between. I knew from the year before that he’d been in a long-term relationship with a girl from another school and that she was popular, bubbly, and hilariously funny.

I also knew that he had dated a girl from our class with a, ahem, questionable reputation.
They had been co-leads in a school play and as the mini-me, high school version of Hollywood went, they were a stage romance that lasted right up to the curtain call. Take away the play and they had nothing in common. And it seemed she had far too much in “common” with far too many other guys.

So, ultimately I knew three things about Tim: he was a Christian and openly so, he had a few rough relationships behind him, and he had the voice of an angel. The first time I heard him sing, I told my mom that I wanted to bring him home, sit him on my dresser, and let him sing me to sleep every night.

In November of 1990, both Tim and I attended the birthday party of a mutual friend. There was lots of food, people, and a camp fire in the back yard for roasting marshmallows. That’s where a group of us had gathered until it began to rain very lightly. The girls in the group ran for the house, fear of wet hairspray driving them in like cattle. The guys were quick to follow. But for some reason, I didn’t move. I just sat there in the quiet, watching the flames dance and hearing the tiny “tssss” of rain drops hitting the hot coals. And there, sitting directly across from me was Tim.

We didn’t say a word. Just sat there staring at the fire, sneaking occasional glances at each other. I don’t know how much time passed but I think we would have sat there all night. It was as though something was drawing us into that moment and neither of us was willing to break the spell. Unfortunately, someone inside took note of our absence and yelled out the door, “What are you doing? It’s raining.”
As we rejoined the party there were several odd looks and questioning remarks, “What were you guys doing out there?” I couldn’t have answered that question to save my life. I never could explain what happened that night but I know beyond a shadow of a doubt –that’s where it all began.

Break Up Scene -Take Two

2008-06-21T11:18:00.002-04:00

Shortly thereafter, I was asked out by another guy from our class. I wanted to go on the date, and although I still wasn’t sure what Johnny and I were classified as, I knew I had to talk to him first. We met in the chorus room one night after a school event so I could tell him in person.

“Why do you want to go out with him? He’s not your type and he’s a total jerk!”

“Well, maybe I want to find that out for myself.” (stupid teenager)

--cue sad romance movie soundtrack—

“But I love you.”

And there it was. I suddenly felt like someone was sitting on my chest and I couldn’t get a good breath. We had never said it. Never even implied it that I could recall. We’d written to each other a hundred times and every letter ended the same way, “Always Your Friend.” Friend! Not “I love you,” not “Love ya,” not even just “Love.” And yet here he was saying it; and I knew I couldn’t say it back. I just stood there, trying to move air into my lungs.

He stood to his feet, grabbed me by the shoulders, and kissed me hard on the lips.

With that, I turned away and left the room. Tears streaming down my face and in a moment of bizarre irony, I grabbed the girlfriend who had employed me to fix her up with him many months prior and said, “I think you should go check on Johnny.”

I did not love him. But hurting him sucked. Of course, now, he too is married and were he to read this would likely be thinking thank God she left the room. Oh, and in retrospect, he was partly right. The other guy wasn’t a total jerk but he was definitely not my type.

So, Johnny and I parted ways but we didn’t completely lose contact, not for awhile. As a matter of fact, he will show up again later in the story.

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire

2008-06-21T10:50:00.001-04:00

Johnny was a unique guy. To this day, I hold an appreciation for his personality and character. He had a quirky humor and was known around the choral/drama circles as the guy who began sentences with, “I’m not gonna blow sand up your tails” and the like. But he was also a gentleman. I remember one occasion in particular when he had stopped by unexpectedly and my parents weren’t home. I invited him in but he refused to sit down until they returned. For like ten minutes he literally paced around the living room because he didn’t want them to think that he was too comfortable being there unsupervised.

He picked me up for the movies on the night of the big break up. As we headed to the theatre we chatted about our day. “How’s Mitch?” he asked. I took a deep breath. “Um, I broke up with him today. So…” I shrugged. “Really?” It was just one word but we both felt the weight of it. It was heavy with questions and possibilities but nothing more was said about it.

By the end of the night, a movie between two friends had taken on the feel of an official date and so it was not a great surprise when he kissed me goodnight. “I wondered if you would let me do that,” he said. I let him. But I was really beginning to wonder about this kissing thing. Maybe it was me who was lacking the skills to really pack a punch. It just didn’t seem like the kind of kiss I would want to spend the rest of my life with. But Johnny was a really sweet guy and he seemed to care about me so, we spent most of the summer together and then wrote to each other often when he headed off to college.

We would catch up on his weekend visits home and talk on the phone a lot. He had this habit of keeping me on the phone until very late at night and then refusing to hang up with me. He would say “I’m gonna let you go now.” And then just as I said “goodbye” he would restart the conversation and stall for another five minutes, and then another, and then another. It was sweetly annoying in a -dang, I really want to get off this phone but how can I hang up on him when he’s only doing it because he likes me- way.

During the week, I was enjoying my junior year of high school and making new friends. I’d met a couple of new guys in my chorus class and one of them invited me to their church. His name was Mike and his best friend’s name was Tim. I decided to take them up on the offer and made plans to join them for a Friday night youth gathering. Johnny called earlier that afternoon, having come home for the weekend, with apparently big plans for how we would spend it together.

When I explained that I had made other arrangements for the night, he didn’t take it very well. And for the life of me I couldn’t understand why he was so upset with me. I’d never thought of us as an exclusive item. We were just “hanging out,” right? Id-ee-ut.

What the Heck?

2008-06-17T11:42:00.001-04:00

The taste of foot was still lingering in my mouth when he said, “Can I come see you?” And before I could grab it and stuff it back down my throat- “Sure.” With that, I had clenched the deal and re-enrolled myself in the “You Big Fat Idiot School of Dating.”

It was even worse than before. Not only did I hate him and his…his…breathing; I hated myself, too. I remember riding in the car and Mitch would reach over and lay his hand on my thigh and a voice in my head would be screaming “WHY MUST YOU TOUCH ME?!!!” Then another voice would reply “Well, idiot, maybe it’s because you are too co-dependent to be honest with him and break off a relationship that you clearly have no interest in.” oh. yeah.

He is married now and I’m sure could care less but I’ve occasionally wondered if I should send an apology card. “Roses are red, Violets are blue, I should’ve dumped you the first time the sound of your breathing made me shudder with waves of nausea but I didn’t because I was an idiot. Sorry ‘bout that.” Nah. But for the record, I do admit that I was wrong. Now, where was I?

Oh that’s right, graduating summa cum laude from the YBFISD. I dragged things out for several more weeks all the while finding ways to avoid goodnight kisses at the end of dates and being aloof but friendly when we were together. It was during this time that I was portraying Rapunzel in our school’s performance of “Into the Woods.” And it was during this time that a girlfriend and fellow pseudo-thespian enlisted my help to express her feelings toward a certain guy, we’ll call him Johnny, in hopes that he would pursue a relationship with her. It’s a tricky situation when you are spending more time with a guy than your friend who is madly in love with him. And even though I truly did campaign on her behalf, he just wasn’t interested…in her.

About a week into summer vacation I got a phone call from Johnny asking if we could “hang out” sometime. Yes, technically I was still with Mitch but I saw no harm since Johnny and I were just friends. So, one Friday night, Johnny came to my house and we hung out in my driveway until well after 3 am. Oh, put your eyebrow down –nothing happened. We just talked. But it did start my wheels a-turnin’. What if? Being a complete yellow-bellied chicken had kept me from ending things once and for all with Mitch, but maybe, just maybe, I’d found a new motivation.

The next week, Mitch and I grabbed some lunch (we worked together at a business owned by his father), went back to his house to eat, and that’s when I broke the news. Broke like a piece of glass being dropped off a ten story building. A deafening shatter. It was ugly. He was hurt. In fact, he left me sitting there at the table and his mom had to drive me back to work. If she hated me for what I had just done, she never showed it. She was very understanding. Still, it was the longest three minute ride of my life.

I felt horrible and I felt relieved. The relieved part quickly and completely replaced the horrible part. That night, Johnny picked me up for a movie.

Heavy Breathing

2008-06-14T12:08:00.001-04:00

By spring of my 10th grade year, something had changed. My eyes had been opened to the wide world of high school boys. Yes, Mitch was also a high school boy but he was the same high school boy I’d been dating for two years. These were different high school boys. Different and exciting. And what’s more, some of them actual took note of me. Different, exciting, and flattering. You see where this is going, don’t you?

I was not a cheerleader, not on drill team, and had no reputation, so it wasn’t like I could have my pick of the litter, but the attention I was getting stirred questions, doubts, and an awareness of discontentment that I hadn’t allowed myself to investigate before.

It was like sitting down at the theatre and popping in a mouthful of stale popcorn. It’s not very satisfying but you’re at the movies, it’s what you’re supposed to do, and everyone else is eating it. So, you just keep chewing the warmed-over fluff and disdainfully picking the husks out of your teeth. Then one day, you make a startling discovery; the candy counter. There are Junior Mints, Mike & Ike’s, Snow Caps -an endless supply of sweet, different, and exciting choices. And you wonder why on earth you’re still choking down popcorn.

I knew that my feelings had changed (by the way, no one was feeding us the “dating is practice for divorce" theory back then so don’t judge me too harshly) but I didn’t quite know how to end things. I really didn’t want to hurt him and in many ways I didn’t know who I was without him so, for the sake of personal security I did the only thing I could do –strung him along for months. Things went from bad to worse as my new found disinterest rapidly spiraled into total disgust. I let things go way too long. When I began to dread the smell of his Jeep Cherokee, or wanted to punch him in the head for saying stupid, made-up words like “wondabon,” or worse yet, could feel the angst gurgling in my stomach when he, God forbid, breathed too heavily, I knew I had really blown it.

I broke it off. Whew! And then four weeks later suffered one of those “absence makes the heart grow…” forgetful moments. I forgot all the reasons why I’d broken it off to begin with and found myself calling him and saying something that was true but horribly misguided. “I miss you.” Idiot. Even as the words escaped my lips I regretted them. I didn’t miss him. I missed a relationship. I missed having someone. I missed familiarity. But it was too late. I’d thrown the hook and he’d jumped back on the line without hesitation. What the heck do I do now?

It’s the Most Embarrassing Time of the Year

2008-06-11T09:52:00.001-04:00

Despite my less than enthusiastic reaction, we made the transition from good friends to couple and for the next two years we were pretty much inseparable. I don’t remember one single argument between us; which might seem extraordinary except for the fact that I don’t remember much of anything from those two years. Honestly. I can pull up a snippet here and there but I can conjure up very few streaming video replays in my mind. I know that we kissed and I’m guessing we did it fairly often but I can only recall one specific incident –the most embarrassing one.

It was Christmas of ’89 and my Dad had gone hog wild with the decorations. He had “decked the halls” all the way to my bedroom which was strung with lights and had two atrocious, three-foot tall, Christmas candles anchoring each side of the bed. I assume that Mitch and I had gone into the sacred chamber of my bedroom to view the spectacle and what can I say? The mesmerizing glow of ginormous, plastic tapers was all too beguiling. We commenced to making out on my bed.

The next thing I remember was my Mom’s voice. “Amie? Are you home?” It was a sympathetic ruse. She knew that I was home. I knew that she knew that I was home. And she knew that I knew that she knew that I was home. I can assure you that the humiliation of the moment did more to inflame my cheeks with red heat than the making out session had accomplished. “Time for Mitch to go home.” He made a quick exit. Mom went back to sleep. I tossed and turned in my bed dreading the next morning’s confrontation.

“I could hardly tell if there were one or two people out there!” Mom scolded. To this day, I think that had more to do with her grogginess than our unbridled passion. Remember, I was a good girl. But I accepted my fate and endured the long lecture without dying from embarrassment…

that is, right up until my Dad decided to offer his own sage advice. “Just remember young lady, upper persuasion leads to lower invasion.” Gasp and cringe. Did my Dad just say “lower invasion?” ugh. I wanted to disappear from existence. Like Lily Tomlin in the Incredible Shrinking Woman, to just shrink into oblivion.

Somehow I survived. But aside from this and a few other highlights, the relationship is a blur until things started going south. I remember that stage vividly. Like fingernails on a chalkboard.

Kissing Cousins

2008-06-09T10:29:00.001-04:00

You remember the goon’s cousin that I mentioned earlier? Well, his name was Mitch*. He entered the scene when his family began visiting our church. Mitch was our first up-close encounter with a real life nerd. It wasn’t just that he was nerdy in appearance; he really was smarter than the rest of us. But aside from having an unusual love for science and a somewhat disproportionate shnauz, he was a great guy with one glaring flaw…he was completely infatuated with my sister.

In sharp contrast to my classic goody-two-shoes routine was my sister, the rebel without a cause. She was your typical school-ditching, club-hopping, sneaking-out-of-the-window-on- the-weekends, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants, party girl. And this crisp seemed, khaki pants, tucked in polo shirt, loafers with argyle sock wearing honor student couldn’t have been farther from her type.

Week after week he would show up at our house with a date proposal and week after week he got shot down cold. Soon, a new ritual began forming. Mitch would ask her out for some activity, she would offer her usual heartless rejection, and he would casually turn to me and say, “Well, do you want to go with me?” I had no expectations and nothing to lose so I accepted and fell naturally into place as the good friend.

This hanging out phase continued for about a year even though both Mitch and I dated other people (the cheating, rumor spreading, kiss-killer for example). As our friendship grew, he became less the nerd and more the really funny guy with a dry wit and sarcastic sense of humor that I enjoyed even though I didn’t always get it. (I had yet to tap into my natural gifting in this area.) It was during this time I began to notice that my friend role, which included meeting and gauging his new dates, was becoming more and more difficult. They were all annoying, stupid, flighty, and none of them were…well…me.

You can imagine my elation when he informed me that he and the last ditz, er, uh, date had parted ways and he wanted me to take her place. We were at Stone Mountain Park, GA. The most romantic spot in the world if hundreds of under-aged, over-boozed, hormone-crazed teenagers making out on beach towels; coming up for air just long enough to pipe out a sluggish and slurred rendition of Charlie Daniels’ “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” is what you consider romantic.

My response? Silence. Complete and utterly awkward silence. Thinking back, it’s hard to pinpoint the reason for my hesitation. Fear and nervousness? An express desire NOT to look like one of the aforementioned “get a room” losers? The fact that I had built the moment up in my mind to such a degree than it was impossible for reality to meet my expectations? Yeah, it was probably one or all of those.

*Name has been changed to protect the innocent –me. I don’t want to be sued for slander.

Famous Last Words

2008-06-07T11:38:00.002-04:00

I’d gotten off to a rocky start but I was undeterred. I had long since outgrown those sixth grade days of weeding through the yearbook, searching for potential suitors, while listening mournfully to the Air Supply Greatest Hits album. “I’m all out of love, I’m so lost without you.” They just don’t write songs like that anymore.

But that was the past; I was now part of a great generation of young women who knew the profound truth that “love is a battlefield.” And I had tasted the empowerment of punk rock prostitutes who could scare off the vilest of pimps by the mere rhythmic shaking of their bosoms. Never mind that I had no bosom to speak of.

Love was out there. Unfortunately, so were silly but deeply felt crushes which never resulted in relationships. I was the one that guys would flirt with when their actual girlfriends weren’t around. Not because I was a tramp. On the contrary, I was a “good girl.” But I was the fun girl. In retrospect, their steady girlfriends had one thing in common; they were ultra-prissy-pants. The type with perfectly painted finger nails, hair curled and Aqua-netted just so. I was girly enough with my pink floral sweaters and oh yes, pink Converse tennis shoes but I was also a bit of a tom-boy. I didn’t mind if my hair got tousled or if I got thrown fully clothed into the swimming pool. I was approachable; a friendly flirtation when it was convenient.

There was one guy in particular. His sister was a good friend even though she was a year or two older than me. He and I were the same age. He began dating a girl in our youth group and they continued that relationship off and on for years. But when I would spend the night with his sister, he and I would stay up all night watching stupid Monty Python movies together; laughing and laughing. We would sit cuddled up on the couch and talk about everything under the sun and my heart would flutter at how perfect it all seemed. I had every reason to believe that he would dump his well-endowed steady and declare me as his true love. Ah, but the next morning we would head to church, walk into the youth room and I was suddenly invisible. He was a jerk. I was nice. Nice, forgiving, and stupid which meant this cycle was repeated time and again.

What those guys saw as a little innocent flirting behind their girlfriend’s back wreaked havoc on my tender and naïve emotions. Not to mention giving me more than my share of dirty looks and threats to have my butt kicked. Luckily, no one was willing to risk their Lee press-on nails for the likes of me.

Even so, I plodded on believing that a serious, long-term relationship would come my way because that was what teenagers of my time were expected to have. I just didn’t know it would come looking for my sister first.

The Worst of Firsts

2008-06-05T09:53:00.002-04:00

I went on my first date when I was 13 and in the seventh grade. It seems so very young to me now especially considering that my date was a senior in high school. Before you start sending scornful letters to my parents, it wasn’t all that scandalous. We were in church youth group together and our destination was a Christian school, band-boosters bon-fire. Oh yeah, wild and crazy kids we were. And you should also know that I literally begged my poor parents to death, even to the point of enlisting my Art teacher to debate on my behalf. I coerced him into offering the ever so logical “if she’s proven herself to be trustworthy and it’s a safe group environment, holding her back may only spur future rebellion” argument. Shameful manipulation.

It is at this point, looking back, that I wish my mom had said, “Amie, this isn’t about us not trusting you. It’s about the fact that you are an idiot and have no idea what a complete waste of time and energy this will be.” Admittedly, I would have still followed with a string of pretty, pretty, pretty, pleases and been just as determined as ever because as stated, I was an idiot.

The big date proved uneventful unless you count the butterflies in my stomach and the uneasiness of being eyed by a bunch of snotty Christian school girls I’d never met before. But it did lead to future dates and eventually to that monumental milestone known as the first kiss.

You dream about it. Envision it. Your eyes lock and he tilts your chin into position while his other hand softly clasps the back of your neck. You lean into each other and then…WAKE UP because that ain’t the way it happened. I never pictured it taking place in the back seat of a car with the goon’s cousin (who will come up again in the story) gaping at us in the rearview mirror like some ten cent peep show. If the guy who bequeathed to me this memory ever happens to read this –no offense. But seriously, I could’ve been licked by a cow and remembered it more fondly than that.

So, the unspectacular first date led to the unpleasant first kiss which led to a few other firsts in my life: the first time of being cheated on by a boyfriend, the first time of spending an insane amount of money on said cheating boyfriend for Christmas, and topping the list…the first and only time said cheating, ex-boyfriend spread rumors that I was pregnant and had been excommunicated from my home church.

How a guy whose kiss repulsed me could imagine that we had done more than that was beyond me. Even so, I had made my way into the grand and troubled world of teenage relationships by picking a real winner. Surely, it could only get better from here.

BOOK MARK

2008-06-05T09:47:00.002-04:00

This post marks the official beginning of the story! Scroll up from here to read the entries in the correct order. Thanks for your willingness to waste time on my silly stories. =)

Comments can be made on this site by clicking the "comments" link at the bottom of each post.

An Issue of Blood

2008-05-05T17:47:00.003-04:00

Notes and Outline

Mark 5:25-34 “Now a certain woman had a flow of blood for twelve years, and had suffered many things from many physicians. She had spent all that she had and was no better, but rather grew worse.

When she heard about Jesus, she came behind Him in the crowd and touched His garment. For she said, “If only I may touch His clothes, I shall be made well.” Immediately the fountain of her blood was dried up, and she felt in her body that she was healed of the affliction.

And Jesus, immediately knowing in Himself that power had gone out of Him, turned around in the crowd and said, “Who touched My clothes?” But His disciples said to Him, “You see the multitude thronging You, and You say, ‘Who touched Me?’” And He looked around to see her who had done this thing.

But the woman, fearing and trembling, knowing what had happened to her, came and fell down before Him and told Him the whole truth. And He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace and be healed of your affliction.”

Three basic components of every story
1. Where they were. (past)
2. Where they are. (present)
3. Where they are going (future)

The classic fairy tale, Cinderella, for example, starts out by telling us that Cinderella’s mother has died, her father has remarried and then shortly after, he dies also. Where she was.

Then we find out that she is being cared for and sorely mistreated by her wicked step-mother. Where she is.

And lastly, we find out that she is the one Prince Charming has been looking for and they will spend the rest of their lives “happily ever after.” Where she is going.

Bible as an example
Where we were –Fallen, separated from God, under the law and judgement
Where we are –able to reunite with God through Jesus Christ, under the blood and grace
Where we are going –the ultimate showdown and our conquering Hero taking His rightful place on the throne

A. Her Past (where she was)

1. She was suffering
“Now a certain woman had a flow of blood for twelve years…”

a.) Physically suffering
b.) Emotionally suffering

Leviticus 15: 19-27 laws regarding blood issues
Deuteronomy 24:1 regarding divorce
John 9:1-3 overall attitude of the day regarding sickness.

She is alone, she is sick, and she is an outcast. This brings us to the next thing we know about her past:

2. She was searching.
“…and had suffered many things from many physicians.”

3. She was spent.
“She had spent all that she had…”

B. Her Present (where she is)

1. She is full of faith.
“When she heard about Jesus…”

What stories would she have heard?
Matthew 8:5-13

Why did she choose to touch His garment?
“She said, if only I may touch His clothes, I will be made well.”

2. She is full of fear.
“The woman, fearing and trembling, knowing what had happened to her…”

Why was she full of fear?

“And Jesus, immediately knowing in Himself that power had gone out of Him, turned and said, “Who touched me?” But His disciples said to Him, ‘You see the multitude thronging You, and You say, ‘Who touched me?’ And He looked around to see her who had done this thing.”

Why did He wait for her response?
Genesis 22:1-14 Abraham and Isaac

3. She is at His feet.
“She came and fell down before Him and told Him the whole truth.”

C. Her Future (where she is going)
“And He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has made you well. Go in peace, and be healed of your affliction.”

Women want two things:
-to know who we are (identity)
-to know where we are going (direction)

Summary: Where are you in the story? Suffering, searching, and seeking? At His feet? Full of faith or fear or both? Hiding from your own story? Do you know who you are in Him and where (or at least how) you are going?

(movie clip: Black Beauty)

You Can't Whistle While You Work if You're Sucking Sour Grapes

2008-01-21T14:44:00.000-05:00

Snow White: the delicate flower of a woman with porcelain skin, ruby red lips, and a voice that enchants forest animals near and far. She’s the “fairest of them all” and thereby the prime nemesis to the wicked and infinitely vain Queen. In addition to this she’s the headmistress of the world’s first (and perhaps only) home for dwarfs. A dwarfanage, if you will. But apart from absolute beauty, maternal instincts, and the advantage of animators to maintain her girlish figure –what’s she got that we ain’t got?

In a phrase –pucker power! (“You do know how to whistle, don’t you?”) Funny thing about whistling; it’s impossible to frown and whistle at the same time. Go ahead. Try it. Poise yourself in front of the mirror, draw the corners of your mouth down despairingly and just try to pipe out a tune. Can’t be done.

So, it doesn’t seem like a stretch to say that all this “whistle while you work” stuff may have reflected a greater attribute than merely luscious lips. Our pasty white princess has a happy heart. It’s a good thing otherwise Sleepy, Sneezy, Dopey, Bashful, and well, you know the rest, would never have stood a chance. And without a happy heart, neither do your husband or children. But don’t take my word for it.

Proverbs 21:19 says,

“It is better to live alone in the desert than with a crabby, complaining wife.” (NLT)

And again in Proverbs 27:15

“A nagging wife is as annoying as the constant dripping on a rainy day.” (NLT)

If anyone had a reason for being a bitter old nag, it’s our girl, Snowy. Her life was far from perfect. Here she is fluttering about with her chirping little bird friends when some woodsman drags her to the middle of nowhere in order to kill her. Sure, he spares her life but she has to leave friends, family, and homeland only to find herself shacked up with seven half-sized bachelors, most of whom appear old enough to be her father. She had plenty to gripe about even before she took a bite of that poisoned apple.

Just suppose that Prince Charming came riding up on his noble steed only to get an earful from Snow White’s vertically challenged roommates about how dreadfully irritable, demanding, and impossible to satisfy she was; and how peaceful their lives had been since they stuck her in that glass coffin. Do you think for one moment he would have given her a life restoring kiss? I think it’s safe to say he’d have galloped right on by in search of some other fair maiden. Perhaps a damsel locked away in a tower accessible only by her own glorious hair. But that’s another story.

Maybe, if the Scripture had been written in fairytale language these Proverbs would have come to mind:

“Better for a Prince to live in his own dungeon than in a beautiful castle with a hateful Princess.”

Or…“A nagging Princess is as annoying as the constant fire-breathing of a treacherous dragon.”

What about you? Are you glad of heart; warbling about in sweet melodies? Or have the sour grapes of feeling overworked, underpaid, and under appreciated sucked your cheeks in tighter than a kissy-fish face? Are circumstances stealing your joy or is the joy of the Lord your strength?

We can honestly admit that we all have our moody moments; but for the sake of our families and the testimony of our Savior, let’s lay aside malice, anger, and bitterness (Eph. 4:31) -those sour grapes we’ve been sucking on for too long; and taste the sweet fruit of kindness, tender-heartedness, and forgiveness (Eph. 4:32).

Come on ladies, put some gloss on those fabulous lips, smack ‘em together like you mean it, and get to whistling. It’s possible that even the “Grumpy-est” dwarf in your life will soften under the refrain of your happy heart song.

Cinderella Should THANK Her Stepmother

2008-01-16T12:58:00.001-05:00

Oh I know, I know –she was a wicked stepmother but the way I see it, this little cinder girl owes her dysfunctional family a great big “thank you”. Without realizing it, they were molding her into a help meet suitable for a prince.

What is it that we envy in Cinderella (besides her uncanny ability to communicate with mice)? I believe there are many things: her work ethic, her resourcefulness, her inner beauty, and of course, the ability to snag her man. But how did she acquire these characteristics? The answer is one simple word -service. Cinderella spent her childhood and youth serving ungrateful, undeserving, and completely self-absorbed people. In this training ground, she learned everything she needed to win the affection of Prince Charming and to truly live “happily ever after.”

From a purely practical standpoint, this girl was a homemaker extraordinaire. She could cook, clean, do laundry, scrub floors, wash windows, sew…the list goes on and on. It seems that no job was too large or too small thanks to the narrow-eyed demands of Mommy Dearest.

And those sisters of hers…yikes! Is it any wonder Cinderella was a woman full of humility? After all, she saw narcissism at its worst with those two. Cinderella quickly learned what not to do from their sniveling, whining, and selfishly sour dispositions. And again, we have the queen bee herself, perpetuating the distorted self-images of her own daughters’ while unwittingly ensuring the spotlight for our sweet heroine.

Cinderella realized early on that she would receive no pay, no recognition, and no appreciation for all of her hard work and sacrifice; yet she goes about her tasks joyfully, singing even. Another endearing trait built up in the midst of adversity. Not only does she have the necessary skills and humble spirit to serve but she does so with cheerfulness.

Okay, maybe a “Mother of the Year” award isn’t in order, but it is interesting how the stepmother’s efforts to burden, shame, and enslave Cinderella instead empowered, inspired, and prepared her for the most important role she would ever play. Cinderella’s heart of service is a shining contrast to the “world” around her.

So, what’s the point? (Besides the fact that being home with four children causes you to search for spiritual meaning in fairytale animation.) What merit does this story have for today? Well, let’s look at another literary heroine…our dear friend the Proverbs 31 woman. The focus of her “excellence” can also be summed up in one word –service!

Skillful service – She “works with eager hands” (v.13) and “sets about her work vigorously; her arms are strong for her tasks.” (v.17)
Humble service – She brings her husband “good, not harm, all the days of her life” (v.12) and “she opens her arms to the poor and extends her hands to the needy.” (v.20)
Cheerful service – “She is clothed with strength and dignity; she can laugh at the days to come.” (v25)

Are we serving our families “heartily, as to the Lord”? (Col 3:23, KJV) Do we begrudge the calling God has place on our lives as homemakers, wives, or mothers? How are we responding to the sometimes grumpy, demanding, selfish, whiny, and impossible to satisfy people God has placed in our lives? And how is He using them to prepare us for His blessing?

You want the fairy tale don’t you? Back in Proverbs 31 we see what happens as a woman chooses to serve God and others skillfully, humbly, and cheerfully.

“Her children arise and call her blessed; her husband also, and he praises her: ‘Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.’ Charm is deceptive and beauty is fleeting; but a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised. Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gates.” (verses 28-30)

Now that’s what I call a happy ending.

(Scripture references are from the NIV)

2007-11-23T11:03:00.001-05:00

Lovingly dedicated to Isabel Delia Harrington

The following stories are based on the lives of Wyatt and Isabel Harrington. The author has taken certain liberties while trying to remain true to the essence of the story.

I'll Take That One

2007-11-23T00:13:00.000-05:00

The dance hall was warm and only a few couples shuffled arm in arm along the wooden floor, under the watchful eye of their adult chaperones. Isabel Rampy and Arliss Sears sat in their party dresses, swapping secrets and casting flirtatious glances at potential young suitors. Arliss was the first to notice the two boys across the room. She tugged at Isabel’s sleeve while staring starry-eyed in their direction.

“Oh, Liz,” Arliss giggled nervously”, I think their looking at us.”

Liz, which the Rampy family decided was somehow short for Isabel, peered around the bodies of her classmates to see what sort of specimen her friend had discovered. She didn’t expect much since Arliss was know to swoon over anything in coveralls.

“The one with blonde hair”, Arliss explained, pulling her in for a better angle. “Isn’t he handsome?”

Liz recognized him as Steven Burgess. He was a year older than them, a tall lanky fellow with fine blonde hair and light blue eyes. Aside from his exceptional height, his features were rather plain and Liz had hardly given him a second look when he playfully slugged the shoulder of the boy next to him. James Wyatt Harrington quickly retaliated with a few air jabs toward his friend’s ribs. He and Steven laughed and poked at each other. A breath caught in Liz’s throat as he glanced her way.

Wyatt was average in height and had soft brown hair that curled up in the front. His lean but muscular frame and the warm brown tone of his face and forearms told of a summer of hard work in his daddy’s fields. He and Liz were the same age but he had fallen behind a grade and wouldn’t be allowed to graduate with his class. His strong square jaw and thin lips would have given him a stern face if not for the sparkle in his smiling gray eyes--beautiful eyes that were looking right into hers.

She turned away to realize that Arliss was still chattering, oblivious to the heat that warmed her cheeks and the sudden dampness in her palms.

“Isn’t he incredibly handsome?” Arliss pressed.

“He’s okay.” Liz responded, stealing one last sideways glance at Wyatt. “But I’ll take that one.”

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

Best Friends

2007-11-23T00:12:00.000-05:00

The rain was pouring off the aluminum window coverings and beating down on the withering shrubs below. The growing heat of summer days always brought with it the fury of late afternoon thunderstorms. Liz stood behind the screen door leading to the back porch, her head resting against the doorjamb. She watched intently as the dark clouds rolled across the sky. The great masses of cool air colliding with stale heat were marked by thunderous booms. Lightning streaked through the sky and flashed over the trees that lined the creek bank in the lower pasture. A chill ran up her spine as she wondered if Steven Burgess had seen the bolt of light coming for him like a fiery arrow. Had he been too far out in the field to reach shelter? She didn’t know the circumstances, only that the result had been fatal. Liz tried to force herself to pray for his grieving mother and father but her heart and mind could only think of one person.

Wyatt had been Steven’s best friend for years. She’d seen them often since the dance last fall but could never bring herself to speak, only to smile shyly and hurry past. Liz was sure Wyatt had passed her off as a silly schoolgirl crush and nothing more. But at the funeral tomorrow, she intended to make sure he knew that she was interested in much more.

In a small town like Weedowee, Alabama, everyone knows everyone, and a funeral can seem like a family reunion. Bear Creek Methodist Church was filled to capacity. The service was difficult and the Pastor’s voice could hardly be heard above the sobs of Mrs. Burgess. Liz and her family sat near the back of the sanctuary. She craned her neck trying to pick Wyatt out of the crowd but she could hardly see over her aunt Molly McManus’ big black hat with it’s purple plume sticking out of one side. Why anyone would wear something so gaudy to a funeral was beyond Liz’s understanding. It’s not an Easter picnic for goodness sake, she thought as she settled back in her chair with a sigh of frustration. Hmph!

As the Pastor signaled the beginning of the procession to the graveside, Liz finally saw Wyatt. He was the third pallbearer on the left-hand side, serving along with John’s younger brother, George, and several cousins and uncles. She watched Wyatt as they passed her row. His jaw was firmly set and his lips were drawn tightly in a narrow line. He was fighting to control his emotions. In contrast to the tension over most of his face, she could see that his eyes were soft and moist with tears. A quick prayer rose in her heart. Please give him comfort, Lord. Then she added subconsciously, use me to comfort him, Lord.

The twenty-third Psalm was read and the Pastor spoke a final prayer then shared a personal word of encouragement with Mr. and Mrs. Burgess. The crowd of supporters left in small clusters as the family members made their way to the fellowship hall for a meal prepared by the ladies of the church. Eva Rampy was head of the benevolence committee and would remain at the church until the meal was finished. Liz knew that her mom would be calling on her for kitchen help soon but she had to talk to Wyatt first.

He was still standing at the graveside, staring at the ground that would soon be home to the body of his friend. Liz hesitated to break into the moment. Instead, she walked casually between the grave plots, glancing at the headstones as she went. Generations of Rampys and McManuses, her mother’s side of the family, had been laid to rest in this cemetery, so she neither felt nor looked out of place.

After a few moments, Wyatt looked up from the ground. His cheeks were damp with tears and Liz recognized her opportunity. Slowly and purposefully she approached his side. He never looked her way. Not when their shoulder’s touched or when she slid her slender fingers into his palm. Not even when she gently declared, “I’ll be your best friend now, Wyatt Harrington.” She knew that she belonged beside him and the tightening of his fingers around her hand assured her that he knew it, too.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

The Big Day

2007-11-23T00:11:00.000-05:00

Hearing the truck coming up the dirt drive of her parents’ home, Liz took one last look in the dim mirror. She’d chosen a crisp white blouse and navy skirt with matching shoes and handbag.
The skirt hem lay just above her slender calves and was fitted to show off her petite waistline. The cotton blouse was buttoned all the way up to the ruffled collar and dark brown locks of curl brushed the tops of her shoulders. She took a deep breath before walking onto the large front porch.

Her mother and father sat quietly rocking. She knew that for their sakes she would hold herself in check but it had been three long years since she’d seen Wyatt. He’d been serving as a Military Police officer in the army, stationed first in England, then France for nine months, and then finally in Germany. He entered the service on September 27, 1942 and had been discharged yesterday, September 9, 1945. While constant letters had warmed her heart and occasionally flushed her cheeks, nothing could compare to this moment. As Wyatt stepped out of the truck in his army dress uniform, heat filled her belly and her heart raced. He was more handsome that she had remembered. Breathe, Liz, breathe. She could feel his eyes moving up her body, taking in every inch like a long cool drink of water. When at last they met her own, she could stand it no longer. She couldn’t recall her feet touching the ground as she ran into his arms, only the feeling of being swallowed up in his strong embrace and his warm lips against hers.

Liz remembered herself and quickly pushed away from his arms. She nervously wiped at the fresh creases in her skirt and then forced her gaze to her parents. Gripping his cap in his hands Wyatt addressed them.

“Mr. Rampy, Mrs. Rampy.” His voice was confident but respectful.

There had been no need to ask for permission. Both Liz and Wyatt were twenty-six years of age and a nine-year courtship left little doubt as to his intentions. Still, he waited silently for a sign of their approval. Without any change in his countenance, Liz’s father gave a subtle nod. Liz let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Suddenly, her legs were swept from under her as Wyatt hoisted her into the truck cab and jumped in beside her. She waved her hand out the window as they sped down the dirt road and out to the main highway which would lead them straight to the Weedowee Courthouse.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

Sister

2007-11-23T00:09:00.000-05:00

“My little woman, Daddy’s little woman…” Wyatt sang and swayed the tiny little girl gently in his arms.

“Put her back, Wyatt, you heard what the doctor said. She’ll catch pneumonia.” Liz looked up from her quilting. “Put her back in the box.”

“I know what he said but she needs fresh air. Her colors not so good.” Wyatt replied still humming between words.

Patricia Jane was born on April 2, 1947 with a hole in her heart. The prognosis was grim and after seven long days in the hospital, Wyatt and Liz had finally brought their little girl home.

Wyatt lowered her into the pasteboard box and covered her with a soft crocheted blanket. He shifted the liquor bottle full of hot water toward her tiny feet and smiled at the warm pink glow coming back into her cheeks. The physicians instructions had been very clear -–absolutely no drafts, keep her warm. The box was completely airtight and had replaced the beautiful cradle Wyatt had crafted with his own hands. Liz hoped and prayed that some day Patricia Jane would be well enough to sleep in it.

Almost two weeks passed and Patricia seemed to be holding her own. There were a few close calls and while Wyatt and Liz’s hopes grew with every gurgle and coo, their worst fear was never far from mind.

“She’s my sweet girl. Yes, her was done it.” Liz chattered as she worked on the evening meal. After kneading out the biscuits, she washed her hands and peeked around the corner at Patricia. She was like a China doll with her fair complexion and fine strawberry blonde hair. But Liz noticed that her eyes seemed a bit dim.

“What’s the matter, little one? Are you sleepy?” The sweet face turned toward the sound of her mother’s voice.

“That’s it, isn’t it? Well, a short nap will do you well before Daddy gets home. He’ll want lots of sweet kisses from his little woman so, we’d better let you rest up now.” Liz tucked the blanket around the frail arms and legs. Patricia’s fingers and toes felt colder than usual so Liz carefully scooted the makeshift crib toward the window where she could warm up in the late afternoon sun.

The table was set and bowls of steaming mashed potatoes, green beans, and crispy fried chicken filled the house with a delicious aroma.

“Mmmm” Wyatt exclaimed as he came through the front door. “Smells good in here.”

He dropped the mail onto the counter top. “And how’s my little woman?” he asked as he made his way across the room.

Liz gave a few details about their day as she poured the ice tea. A glass in each hand, she turned toward the table but stopped mid-step. She knew immediately that Patricia wasn’t doing well. Wyatt lifted her gently. Their poor sweet girl groaned and squirmed with each labored breath.
Dinner was forgotten, and for several hours they tried to comfort her. They took turns warming the whiskey bottle and hummed soothing lullaby’s but it was useless. Patricia Jane continued growing weaker.

When they’d tried everything they knew of to do, Liz and Wyatt bundled her up and drove to the hospital, in vain. Patricia Jane passed away quietly; just two short weeks after her life began.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

A New Beginning

2007-11-23T00:08:00.000-05:00

As Wyatt entered the hospital room, Liz looked up at him and could not contain the swell of tears that filled her eyes. Not understanding the source of her emotion, Wyatt attempted to comfort her.

“We’ll get another girl, yet.” He encouraged. At his words, Liz began to sob even harder. Why, that was the farthest thing from her mind. Maybe someday they would have a girl but for now she was thankful, so thankful for the precious baby boy nuzzled in her arms. After Patricia Jane, she had feared that another child was impossible or would suffer a similar fate as their little angel. But here he was, a perfect healthy baby boy, sleeping peacefully. Jerry Wyatt was truly a miracle to her.

She didn’t bother explaining, but let the tears flow from a heart overwhelmed by God’s grace.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

The Big Woods

2007-11-23T00:06:00.000-05:00

Liz slid out the back door and down the porch steps. She slipped the tight black pumps off of her aching feet and wiggled her toes in the cool red dirt of the driveway. She’d been working in that hot kitchen for hours and needed a breath of fresh air. Throwing the dishtowel over her shoulder, Liz couldn’t help but notice the soft white glow of the moon blanketing the fields and casting long shadows across the meadow. It was a beautiful night.

Since James Fred was born she’d had very little time to herself. Silently, she thanked the Lord that he was finally sleeping through the night. It had been six years since Jerry was a baby and she felt so much older this time. Why, most of her classmates had teenagers by now and here she was nursing a babe. But what a beautiful baby he was and how faithful God had been to give her two precious boys. She stared into the open sky full of twinkling stars and thought about her sweet Patricia Jane.

Shouting in the distance shook her from her thoughts. The voices grew louder as they got closer. “Fire! Fire in the big woods!” Liz hurried along the rocky drive toward the front of the house.

Wyatt leapt from the porch, nearly knocking her off her feet. “Get in the house, Liz” he threw over his shoulder in a scolding tone.

A flash of anger momentarily replaced her panic. She hated when he spoke to her like a child but she obeyed and moved quickly to the front door. Jerry was waiting--his blue eyes wide with fear. Liz drew him close. She heard the engine of the tractor rumbling and then watched as Wyatt drove down the drive and along the dirt road.

“Be careful, Wyatt,” she called out as he rounded the bend in the road. He waved his hat in the air and then disappeared out of sight. She tightened her arms around little Jerry’s shoulders and stared helplessly at the growing glow of the burning pines.

Hours passed and the fire continued to burn closer and closer. Liz knew that if the men could not stop the flames they, and most of their neighbors, would lose their home. She stroked the hair of her oldest. He was finally sleeping, his head gently pressed in her lap. What a brave young man he was. If anything happened to Wyatt, she knew that Jerry would valiantly step into the role as head of their home. A dull ache formed in her chest and she forced the lump back from her throat. Lord, I pray he’ll never have to fill those shoes. Please protect our men. As fatigue began to settle in her back and shoulders she refused to let her eyes close in sleep. Instead, she hummed softly to herself until the wee hours of morning.

“There’s an all seeing eye watching you, watching you. Every step that you take…” her voice trailed off as she saw a lone figure walking toward them. She squinted through dry, tired eyes. Jerry awoke at her movement and he too set his focus on the approaching man. “Mama” he said, “it’s…”

“Wyatt!” Liz ran to meet him and threw her arms around his neck. His skin and hair were gray with ash but he was home. All night the men dug trenches and back burned the heavy brush to head off the flames and at last the fire was out. Through the heart of community, the love of neighbors, and the grace of God, every home was spared. As they made their way into the house Liz was overcome with relief and soon after, exhaustion. She wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed. But the stubborn sun insisted on rising and James Fred let out a hungry cry.

She groaned at the stiffness in her body and knew that come nightfall she would be ready to collapse into bed –-her soft bed still made from the day before, in her cozy bedroom, in her still standing home. Thankfulness alone would get her through this day.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

Farewell

2007-11-23T00:01:00.000-05:00

The family was called and gathered from every direction. Children, grandchildren, and even great grandchildren came together for those final days. Time and again the emotional scene was played out with its unwilling actors. They would file into the sterile room expecting the end only to return to their post and again wait, while struggling with the uncomfortable mix of relief and regret.

Liz was the steady watchman, unyielding in her devotion to Wyatt. She held his still, pale hand in her own feeble grip as though willing him her own strength and breath if need be. She carefully raised herself from her wheelchair and bent over him, “I love you, Wyatt.” Her voice reflected the pain of a divided plea. How she longed for him to open his eyes to life and yet she knew the sweet peace that death would ultimately bring. If true love had been given the power of resurrection, there is no doubt that James Wyatt would have risen from the bed and walked, perhaps danced, out of the room. But God’s infinite wisdom extends well beyond human emotion and His will was to call Wyatt home.

One last time the family drew nigh to say farewell. It was amazing how the last three days had moved so painfully slow, hour by hour, minute by minute, heartbeat by heartbeat. But in the final moment, Liz knew that sixty years together had passed much too quickly. In silent sorrow she left the hospital. It was Thanksgiving Day. The usual parades, football, and feasting were far from her thoughts. But somewhere beyond the brokenness, her heart was thankful. Thankful for the family and friends who surrounded her and for the years of memories she would treasure. Though her future was frightening and unsure, Liz was certain of her past. Her life had been blessed by the love of her best friend, Wyatt. God had been faithful to Isabel Harrington and He still is even now.

Amie Sexton
Copyright 2002

The Bridge

2007-04-28T15:09:00.000-04:00

This is a poem I wrote a while back after watching 20/20 or 60 minutes (one of those newsy shows) about a documentary of people who commit suicide by jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. It was very sad to say the least. They also interviewed a guy who is the only known survivor of such a jump. The thing that caught me was when he said that he had given himself an out; if one person (one "angel") spoke to him, he wouldn't do it. But no one did. The show, the documentary, and then the poem all convicted me. I wondered how many times I've hurried through a crowd without making eye contact with anyone around me? Was someone out there desperately needing to be acknowledged, even if just one glance? And did they still feel invisible after I walked by?

People are hurting and while I have no delusions about saving the world, I have tried to slow down, catch eyes, and smile -just in case.

The Bridge

by Amie Sexton

Standing on the bridge’s ledge,
Waiting for one soul to tune itself to my silent scream,
One second glance that says “you are not invisible.”
“Your life is not dispensable.”

Would one hand reach out to jerk me back from the dark abyss?
To shatter the deafening voice hypnotically persuading me
That my pain is inescapable;
The choice is irreversible.

But if I turn back now I’m even less than the nothing I was when I climbed to this place of despair.
White-knuckled grip lets loose the rail; awakened life clings to life all the while death rushes near.

Grasping breath. Mere seconds. What was my hell? It has just begun.

A higher fence? There is none this empty skin can’t scale
And guns or pills would work as well.

Which train I ride is not the point;
It’s the wreckage wrought, the inevitable result.

What is this life? Where is God?
How is it that He hides so well among His people?
Are they His people who pass me by-
Dangling in suspended time;
Unaware of the hollow heart reflected in hollow eyes?

Grocery Woes

2007-03-21T09:18:00.000-04:00

by Amie Sexton
excerpt from "Decorating with Weeds"

This is an area where I can truly say, “I’ve tried it all!” We are a family of five and while my three children are still young, they have huge appetites. We’ve actually had neighbors who wanted to watch our kids eat just for the fun of it. Granted, we may be lacking in entertainment here in rural North Carolina but hopefully you get the point. And I’m not complaining. Sweets and snacks are strictly limited at our house and so my kids eat plenty because they aren’t full of junk. But these big eaters are hard on our budget. I can only imagine the damage they will do as teenagers!

I’ve tried shopping once a month, twice a month, every week, during store sales, and so on. I’ve cut coupons. I’ve cut out pre-packaged foods. I’ve cut corners. I’ve created menus and shopping lists in every form imaginable. If stacks of grocery related paper products could evolve into pot roast we’d be eating like kings every night. Still, it seemed no matter what I tried, we were always low on food and even lower on money at the end of the month. So, where did all this planning and re-planning get me? Back to the one thing that works in my life…simplicity!

We have a basic menu for breakfast, lunch, and dinner with a few extra recipes on standby just to keep life from being too monotonous. I try to think ahead. Not months ahead. There are women who do this and my hat is off to them but a week at a time is about all I can handle without going into information overload.

I can’t share about groceries and budgeting without sharing what has become a favorite story at our house.

Pond Scum Soup

Sounds disgusting, I know, but it’s actually a very delicious soup made with spinach, onions, ham, and chicken broth. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t win any prizes for presentation. My husband officially named it after the very first time I served it to the family and how could I argue with him? It really does look like, well, pond scum.

A while back we moved into a new house that lo and behold has a pond practically in the backyard. One night as I was just about to dish up a batch of soup, Tim and I wondered what the kids would do if they thought we were really eating pond scum. Being the type of parents who aren’t afraid of inflicting minor emotional trauma for the sake of a good laugh, we decided to try them out.

Tim headed out with a large mixing bowl in hand and called all the kids to help him collect our main ingredient. Now, just the thought of scooping dinner from a pond would put average children over the edge. Not my crew. They trouped down to the water’s edge just as cheerfully as ever and as Tim dipped into the slime and algae, my oldest son excitedly declared, “Dad, this is great! This is a lot cheaper than having to buy it at the store!” A boy after my own heart.

Believe it or not, we sat down for dinner and the children ate without a word of complaint. It was only when I began serving seconds and asked if they wanted it “with or without tadpoles” that their eyes grew wide with horror. The rouse was up and we let them in on our little secret. We have trained our kids to be thankful for whatever food is put in front of them but even I was impressed by how far they were willing to go.

Queen of Slobness

2007-03-21T08:45:00.000-04:00

by Amie Sexton
excerpt from "Decorating with Weeds"

Is "slobness" a word? Either way, here are my credentials:

1. I am a natural born slob.
My mother is rejoicing to see that I’ve moved past denial.

2. I am a natural born slob who is also a rebellious slob.
You know, the one whose mom forced me to fight my natural slobness as a child and therefore, I choose to use slobness as a symbol of my independence.

3. I am a natural born slob who married another natural born slob.
Although, to this day, Tim claims to have only become a slob after years of my example. Right!

Have you ever dropped in on a friend and heard “come on in but the house is a mess” only to find that “a mess” in her world means the ceiling fans haven’t been dusted in two days and her coffee cup is still in the sink? Oh, the horror!

Well, this was never the case for me. If I said “sure drop by but the house is a mess,” I actually meant A MESS! As in: “I’d offer you a seat if you can just help me move this laundry” or “I’d love to get you a drink but I’ll need to wash a glass first” or even a “just in case, could you leave a current photo by the door on your way in? It makes the search and rescue go so much faster” kind of mess.

There you have it. My full confession. The housekeeping gene; that part of my mother's DNA that triggers sudden, random urges to clean something, definitely skipped a generation.

My Take on Decorating

2007-03-17T22:35:00.000-04:00

by Amie Sexton
excerpt from "Decorating with Weeds"

This is one area of organization that actually comes easily for me. You see, I am a minimalist in decorating. Less is definitely more! Less knick-knacks, less dust-catchers, less photographs…more meaningful artwork, more conversation pieces, more classic and/or current photos.

At the risk of offending hundreds of trinket lovers out there, let me share some examples of minimalist verses hmmm…what should we call it? How about shelf-stuffer decorating?

By name, the shelf-stuffer is one who does just that –stuffs shelves. The minimalist looks at a shelf with more than 3 items on it and instantly chooses one item to eliminate. The shelf-stuffer looks at a shelf and immediately notices a three inch block of unoccupied space. Merciful heavens! She begins combing the stores for the perfect piece. With great satisfaction, she finds the world’s smallest basket. It’s absolutely adorable and completely useless. It’s too small to hold anything. Doesn’t function follow form, anyway? Well, practical or not, it fits the space. A shelf-stuffer success!

But what about my collectibles? The reader asks. I’ve pondered this question and here’s my take. In general, collectors are just shelf-stuffers with a little more class. Collectibles are fine to a degree. The problem usually arises in the area of display. Perhaps you are a collector of teddy bears. Who can resist their rustic charm and plump bellies? So, how best can you show off your collection? Grouping is key. A nicely arranged group of teddy bears says, “I collect bears.” One or two bears donning every shelf, chair, bed, or other horizontal surface in every room of the house says, “I’m still working through the emotional traumas of my childhood.” You want people to share your appreciation for cuddly teddy’s not question your mental stability.

There’s another thing to consider regarding collectibles. Ask yourself this question: Is this a collection or an obsession? Not sure how to tell the difference? Let me give you an example. Suppose you’re a big fan of snow globes. You go to a local flea market and find a snow globe not currently in your possession. What do you do? Can you walk away? Or do your palms get sweaty and your hands start to shake with the mere thought of turning your back on the orphaned snow globe? If so, you may need to reevaluate your condition. And certainly, if seeing a snow globe ever brings images of building an addition onto your house for the purpose of storing your beloved treasures… “do not pass go, do not collect $200.” Seek professional help immediately!

While I’m already in deep, let’s talk about photos. Ladies, I’ll be the first to agree that little Binky Boo was the cutest thing in kindergarten, and in first grade, and second, and third, fourth, fifth, sixth…but give me a break, the kid’s in college now. Buy a photo album or scrapbook and fill it with Binky’s first twenty years, then place it on a coffee table or bookshelf for easy access. It’s time to say good-bye to Binky’s wall of fame. Puddy in those nail holes, give the wall a fresh coat of paint, and then choose a flattering, recent portrait of Binky and hang it with pride.

Wait a minute, what about that timeless photo of Binky and Grandpa fishing off the dock with a brilliant sunrise striking the water? Okay, it’s not current but it’s a classic. By all means frame it for the world to see.

A classic photo is one that brings back a memory or tells a story. Maybe it captures an era of simpler times that onlookers can appreciate. I often place a copy of our engagement photo out for viewing. It nicely captures the age in which my husband had hair and it evokes a response from the viewer –laughter!

We cherish photos because we cherish the memories they represent. Pictures share bits of our lives and history with friends and should be glimpses of the things we value most. But we must still be careful. People can get nostalgic about strange things…remember Binky’s first chest hair? Believe me, if anyone wants to see that picture, they’ll ask.

The Infamous Info-mercial

2007-03-17T22:28:00.000-04:00

by Amie Sexton
excerpt from "Decorating with Weeds"

We’ve all seen it –a beautiful woman in a string bikini, thighs the size of your forearm, flawless air-brushed tan, perfection right down to the shape of her navel. She smiles from the TV screen and boasts “I went from a size 8 to a size 0 in just two short weeks. If I can do it, so can you!”

This woman has obviously never struggled with her weight. She wouldn’t know a stretch mark if it attacked her on the street and her biggest dilemma during swimsuit season is choosing between the blue bikini and the red one. Unlike those of us in the real world who clamor around the department store searching for that one suit that lifts, tucks, firms, cinches, controls, minimizes, and hides all at the same time.

My first reaction to her claim is an admittedly selfish desire to see this waif of a person thrown off balance by a strong wind and sent plunging head first into the crystal waters of the oasis-like swimming pool behind her. It’s not a completely heartless fantasy; after all, at size zero, I’m sure she will float safely into the skimmer where they can fish her out and wrap her up in a nice fluffy dish towel. No harm done.

I’m drawn from this delightful daydream by the voice of the announcer assuring me that these are “real people with real results.” Well, by now I’m so disgusted with the scam before me that I can barely stomach my third Entenmann’s chocolate covered doughnut. Alas, I turn the channel and my appetite is restored. Whew! That was close.