'A Cheerful, Perky Companion'

Eleven-year-old Mary Margaret shares some thoughts about her little brother:

Many people think that little brothers are a pest, and they can be, but my brother Jack Henry is also a cheerful, perky companion who I am lucky to have. Whether we are playing Wii, or doing our Bible lesson, or just rolling around on the floor, I can't help but enjoy it when he is around. Although he does not appreciate many of the same things I do, he is fun and easy to play with. One of the things that we do have in common is that we both like to keep our rooms neat and tidy. Jack Henry can almost always brighten my day by his cheerfulness and imagination.

One of the things I like most about Jack Henry is his cheeriness and good attitude. Most of the time, he just goes with the flow and enjoys life. When his favorite team loses a game, he will just brush it off. When our family had to stay in an apartment for a time, he did not have many of his toys or any of his friends to play with, but he did not complain. I love Jack Henry because he is sunny and content.

Jack Henry also has a very broad imagination. He loves to play with his Webkinz, pretending they are real. When I come into the kitchen for breakfast, Jack Henry is sitting at the table with two of his Webkinz perched on the side of his cereal bowl, as if they were all sharing breakfast. I can sometimes hear him in his room, with his mini basketball goal and his Nerf ball, pretending he is in the NBA. I love and admire how Jack Henry is so imaginative.

Baseball Practice

Worth a Thousand Words

Cato Institute scholar Andrew J. Coulson suggests you're not doin' fine, Oklahoma.

Remembering You

Before Anne Marie was born I read a lot about other babies who had CDH. As I would read the blogs of these CDH babies, I noticed that many times it was clear after about a week that the baby just wasn't strong enough and wasn't going to make it. Then there were other babies that at about four weeks or so could begin to be weaned off the ventilator with the hope of coming home. These babies still had a long road ahead of them, but it was a question of how long they would be on the vent rather than wondering if they were going to live. And then there were a few babies that fell in the middle. They were touch-and-go for weeks. They would do well at times and then have setbacks; it was a back-and-forth of progress and backward steps. Most of the times these babies didn't make it and it was always heartbreaking. To see these parents come so far. To see these doctors try so hard and see the babies fight for so long and then die after about six weeks.

After reading about one of these babies, I remember asking God to take Anne Marie quickly if he was going to take her. I told him that I didn't think I could make it if she were with us for weeks and I got my hopes up and then I had to let her go. The pain that these parents went through, the weeks in the hospital fighting so hard, thinking their baby was going to come home only to have to say goodbye. I just didn't think I would make it if I had to do that.

And now, I hate to think what would have happened if God had answered that faithless prayer. The days and weeks I would have missed with Anne Marie. Those 37 days in the hospital were some of the hardest and best days of my life. I wouldn't wish that pain on anyone and yet I wouldn't trade it for anything.

And now it has been three months since our girl took her last breath that night and went to heaven. I know that each day brings me one day closer to heaven and to seeing her again, and yet it is also one day farther from the last time I was with her. I find myself in the middle -- so far away from her on either side.

I'm remembering you today, Anne Marie. I still remember what you felt like in my arms, how your skin felt on my lips. We love you and miss you every second of every day.

Evolution Is ... Laughable

FOX 25 Reports on School-Choice Legislation

KOKH FOX 25 in Oklahoma City ran a story tonight on some school-choice legislation being considered at 23rd and Lincoln. As I told anchor Andrew Speno, politicians blocking the schoolhouse door are going to find themselves on the wrong side of history.

State Sen. Jay Paul Gumm, also interviewed for the story, is an upstanding citizen (and a courageous pro-life Democrat). But for the life of me I can't figure out why he keeps insisting that public schools "give every kid a chance to become everything God intends for them to be," when that is one thing they demonstrably fail to do.

Journal Record Editor: School Choice 'A Darn Good Idea'

"We can't fix a system that doesn't work," Ted Streuli wrote in yesterday's Journal Record. "Rather, we have to build a new system and vouchers can help create it."

Happy Valentine's Day

Jack Henry and Mary Margaret making Valentine cookies


Concentration


Mary Margaret, future homemaker

 

Jack Henry taking a timeout from making cookies to watch
E*TRADE baby commercials with Mrs. Quinn

 

Just yesterday Lincoln was this size ...

 

... Now he's all dressed up to go to the Winter Ball

 

Lincoln, Jack Henry, Mary Margaret, and Lillie

Resisting the Nanny State

In a presentation last week in Virginia Beach (click here and scroll to the 36:40 mark), historian Allan Carlson mentioned some encouraging "pockets of resistance" to the overweening state. I asked him (at the 119:30 mark) what public policy can do to help.

An Anchor

Brandon and I had to make a quick trip to Dallas on Monday. We drove south on I-35 and as we got closer to downtown and closer to Children's Medical Center, the memories started coming back.

I remembered driving that same stretch of highway numerous times a day. Sometimes it would be early in the morning. I would be listening to the Kutless CD my friend Kym sent me and the traffic would be heavy. Sometimes it would be late at night. I would be listening to Selah and thinking how strange it was that it was midnight and there were still so many cars on the highway. So Monday we drove that all-too-familiar route. I knew the names and numbers of the upcoming exits: Mockingbird (433B), Inwood (432A), and the exit we used to take, 431 to Medical District Drive. That route is imprinted in my mind. I would exit right on Medical District Drive, turn left, go under the overpass, drive to the green parking lot on the right, and pull in. If it was early in the morning the parking lot would be crowded and I would have to park at the top. If it was late at night, I could park close to the skybridge.

I would walk across the skybridge and be greeted by the people working at the front desk. Sometimes they would say, “Are you guys still here?” (If Brandon was with me he would always tell them it was good we were still there -- because the alternative would not be good.) I would squirt my hands with hand sanitizer, wave to the sweet, blond, young lady in the gift shop as I passed on my way to the C elevators. Inside the elevator I’d push 12, the very top floor. When I got out of the elevator, I’d check in with the desk on the ICU floor so they could “beep” me through the doors. Sometimes I would stand there for a few minutes and chat with Heather, one of the ladies at the desk. She would ask how Anne Marie was doing, ask about my other kids and how they were doing, or she might tell me about what she had been up to. And then I’d go through the double doors to Room 254 to see my girl. No matter how many times I made that trip each day, no matter how early or late it was or how tired I might be, I couldn't wait to get there. Room 254 and my beautiful girl.

I wish that was the route we had taken Monday -- up to floor 12 to see Anne Marie. Instead we drove past the Medical District Drive exit and I looked over to the left to see Children’s and I tried not to cry. I knew it would be hard going back and I knew I would be sad. We could have stayed in a different part of Dallas, but I’m glad we didn’t. And when we got to our hotel room I looked out our window (see below) and in the distance I could see Children's, our former home away from home. Somehow it seemed right. A part of my heart is still there and, as sad as I was, I was also glad to be back.


I stood at our hotel window remembering something I had recently read in a book entitled From Grief to Glory.

Hetty Wesley expressed the deep, heart-wreatching sorrow that some parents, particularly mothers, feel when their children’s bodies are laid in the grave. Real grief is not easily comforted. It comes back like ocean waves rushing up the sand, subsiding back, only to roll in again. These waves vary in size, frequency, and intensity. Some are small, lapping up around the feet. Others are stronger; they foam the water around you and cause you to stagger. Then there are the overwhelming waves with an undertow that can turn your world upside down and drag you into deep waters.

To this I would add that sometimes I see these waves coming and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I am caught off guard and from out of nowhere the memories and sadness overwhelm me. And then sometimes, like Monday as I passed Children’s, I know the waves are coming. The memories are stronger than ever, the ache just as fierce. The waves seem to drown me and I miss Anne Marie so much I can hardly stand it.

The passage goes on to say:

In times like those, the mourner desperately needs an anchor. And, indeed, God has promised his people a blessing if they patiently endure. He has guaranteed the promise so that we might lay hold of the hope set before us. This hope is the anchor of the soul, and it is sure and steadfast (Hebrews 6:19).

I stood at our hotel room window looking over at Children’s and thanked God that He is my anchor. That while I am in the deep waters He is with me. Yes, my overwhelming sadness is still there, but God keeps me from drowning in my sadness. And I thank God for causing me to love Him more. A love that comes from a heart filled with gratitude for all He has done for me.

I Actually Think Oklahoma Lottery Ads Should Feature Kids

Sacred Memories

I have a box in my room filled with "sacred" things. I wasn't sure if sacred was the correct word to use, but after looking it up I saw that one definition is "regarded with reverence." All of the things in this box are Anne Marie's. Things I regard with reverence and that remind me of her -- the time before she arrived, her time in the hospital, and the time after she died.

There is the blanket, hat, and baby cocoon that my cousin crocheted and sent to me in Dallas. I remember when it arrived and I remember laying it out on the table picturing Anne Marie all snuggled up. There are several baby sleepers from friends and family. There is Anne Marie's little Bible from my aunt and a hankie stained with mascara from the funeral. There is a little dress from her grandparents that we dressed Anne Marie in after she died and the blanket that was also Lillie and Mary Margaret's that we wrapped her in as we held her. There are little booties, burp cloths, a knitted hat, and OU socks from dear friends. Anne Marie wore those little booties and socks -- some of the only things she was able to wear. I used the burp cloths to prop up her many tubes and shield her eyes from the lights in her room. And there is my old cell phone with text messages saved on it. I remember being up at the hospital, hearing the text message sound, and opening my phone to read a Scripture verse or words of comfort. There are two little thermal blankets I used to keep Anne Marie warm, and bows I clipped onto the wire on her forehead. And there are the many cards and letters we received -- from new friends and old, from family, and from strangers. Words of comfort that I have read over and over.

There are also things I have of Anne Marie's that are not in the box. On my bed is Anne Marie's little lamb, given to her by her grandparents the day she was born. This little lamb stayed by her bedside day and night. When I think of a lamb, I think of Anne Marie. And there is the necklace with all my kids' names on it that another cousin made for me when Anne Marie was in the hospital. There is also a necklace with the initial A on it that our ballet teacher gave to me. One of these is always around my neck.

 

I also have memories of Anne Marie's things that are not with us -- a little smocked dress and bonnet from sweet friends in Dallas and a blanket made by a friend at church. These are the things we buried her in.

These are just of few of the many treasured things -- each one dear with a different memory attached to it.

And then there is a little pair of socks. Just a plain little pair of white socks with a small green band around the edge. These socks are the only things I have that I don't know who they're from, but they are one of my most special reminders of Dallas and Anne Marie.

On our last night with Anne Marie, after she died, we put on her dress and wrapped her in her sisters' pink blanket. We were able to hold her for a long time, seeing her face without tubes and rubbing her little feet and arms without any IV stuff getting in the way. I remember sitting there gazing at her and kissing her, yet knowing that I was going to have to give her up. I was going to have to put her in someone else's arms and leave the hospital without her. Of course I knew she was already with Christ, yet I'm her mother and she is my infant child. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to hold her and not let go. Thinking about her being in the hospital morgue that night "all alone" was almost unbearable. Even now just thinking about it nearly knocks the breath out of me and I know it is only by God's grace that we made it through that terrible night.

A few days after she died, we were back home. We went to the funeral home and took the dress Anne Marie was to be buried in. The next day, when we went back to the funeral home, they gave us the clothes Anne Marie had been wearing when they picked her up in Dallas -- her pink dress, her pink blanket, and a pair of white baby socks with green trim.

Now, when we left the hospital the night Anne Marie died she wasn't wearing socks. I know because not only did I stroke her bare feet for hours, but we also took pictures of those beautiful bare feet. But that night after I left, someone was still caring for her. Someone noticed that she didn't have socks on and knew that babies need socks or their little feet will get cold. And so I picture someone gently putting on those little socks and making sure she was all wrapped up in her little blanket. Tenderly caring for my infant daughter even after I left. Sacred things and sacred memories that I will treasure all my life.

What Are You Doin', Dragic?! Did You Not Get the Memo?

It sounds like Lawton, Oklahoma's own Stacey "Sky" King, the fun-lovin' Sooner of yesteryear, hasn't changed a bit. This here is priceless.

Snow Pics

We've been having lots of fun playing in the snow these past few days. And finally today the snow was perfect for building snowmen. Here are some pics.

Jack Henry and Lincoln having a snowball fight:

Mary Margaret's reaction after her brother got hit with a snowball:

Jack Henry:

Lincoln crawling into the igloo he built for Jack Henry and his friend:

Building snowmen:

Lincoln about to get hit on the right cheek with a snowball Jack Henry threw:

Your Mother Wears Combat Boots

No, really, she does. Is this a good thing?