How to get Mojo

I’d seen her do it many times. After getting dressed, she spins around, looks me in the eye, and with a girlish smile asks, “How do I look.” The answer is always the same, “You’re beautiful.” At 85, my Aunt Jeanne Marie is still the most beautiful woman I know.

At a time when the Internet daily shoves images of the ideal beauty at me, none compare to this woman who has so richly impacted my life.

I’m fascinated with a news segment called, “Stars Who Lost their Mojo.” A series of before and after photos of celebrities who’ve had the misfortune of getting older. But I’d like to challenge this standard. I’d like to say, Aunt Jeanne Marie never lost an ounce of her mojo, in fact she gained it as she got older.

Aunt Jeanne Marie, Nora, Sheila, and me

Once, as a little girl, I sat in the bathroom and watched Aunt Jeanne Marie go through her nightly ritual of washing her face. When I asked her what she was doing, she said, “Honey, whatever you do for your skin it will appreciate.” But today, Aunt Jeanne Marie isn’t beautiful because of the moisturizer she used. She’s beautiful because of the woman she became.

Her’s was a life like most of ours, filled with grief and sorrow, joy and triumphs. But she chose to focus on the good. Like when she could have no children of her own, so she stepped in and helped my mother raise her six.

Today, she and my Uncle Eugene live in a little house in San Francisco. They don’t have much because they enjoyed giving most of their possessions away.

Aunt Jeanne Marie, my granddaughter Juliette, Uncle Eugene, my sister Sheila

It’s easy when we’re young to rely on our exterior appearance. But by the time we’re in our fifties, our face tends to reflect the people we really are. Our wrinkles are the imbedded joys, sorrows, and tensions we’ve chosen to spend our lives focusing on.

I think Mojo should be all the good stuff that comes out when we choose to age well. I’d like to change our culture to value women like my Aunt Jeanne Marie. A woman who chose a life soaked in forgiveness. Whose mojo goes to the very depth of her soul.

I dream of a day, when my grandchildren will see a segment called, “People Who Gained their Mojo.” Picture after picture of sweet gentle old folks with laugh lines embedded in their faces and crows feet reflecting a spark in their eye. Because that’s a beauty fought for. A beauty that doesn’t come natural.

Never Lose Sight of This

It’s been forty years now since the day I hopped into Tim’s Chevy Nova, and ran away to Georgia to get married. We were young, pregnant, and selfish.

For the next thirty-five years Tim and I fought. Mostly to get our own way. I cooked and cleaned and felt entitled to his appreciation. He mowed the grass, fixed everything and felt entitled to the same from me.

We had great moments of supporting one another. He bought me cameras, sewing machines, computers, everything I needed for my many hobbies. And I helped him fulfill his dream of building his own house.

But too often, our sacrifices had long strings attached. They came heaped with preset expectations.

Determined to make a good life for ourselves, we worked long hours. Then we battled each other over the right to spend our free time the way we saw fit. Tim wanted to hunt and fish. And I wanted to ride my bicycle.

Then cancer crippled him. My life halted and became engulfed in his.

I bathed him, tied his shoes, and helped him in and out of his wheelchair. Eventually, I committed all twenty-four hours of my day to him.

The highlight of our lives became a moonlit walk around the lake by our house.

In those last two and half years of our marriage, a beautiful transformation took place. In essence, as we both laid down our lives we gained a profound grace. No longer able to pursue our own desires, we turned our attention to each other.

Tim became focused on what it cost me to serve him. He constantly apologized for what his cancer put me through. I became committed to making the rest of his life the best it could be.

Once we each took our eyes off ourselves, we saw a beauty in each other that we’d never seen. We developed a profound love we never thought possible.

Jesus says, to follow Him we must pick up our cross daily. I now know what that means. I must learn to give up my life. Tim’s cancer taught me this is where a beautiful life begins. It’s not in getting what I feel I deserve. It’s in what I give away. And the greatest gift I can give is myself. I just pray I never lose sight of this.

The Ever Present Gossip Mill

They met on a blind date. It was a whirlwind romance. In ten years they had six kids, I was number four.

She had no idea he’d be so abusive.

In 1957 they moved into a little house in Arlington, Virginia. My father got through the days with at least one bottle of vodka. My mother did her best to get away from him. She called the police, we escaped to hotels, but she always went back. She said she felt safer knowing where he was.

One April night when I was ten, he held her at gunpoint at the dining room table. She got away and locked herself in their bedroom. All night he tried to get in. By morning he was enraged. With a sledgehammer, he beat down the door. She closed her eyes and fired from the small pistol she had squirrelled away. My father stumbled into my brother’s bedroom, fell to the floor, and died.

Not long after the dust settled, Mother moved us ten miles south and a world away. For me, it was the start of a whole new life.

Unable to sell the old house, it sat vacant for months. People broke in and camped. They vandalized the walls and fixtures.

One Saturday morning, Mother dragged us back to clean. By early afternoon, I escaped to the front porch. A young boy I’d never met walked up. With his hands shoved deep in his pockets, he shuffled his feet, looked down at the sidewalk, and shot glares up at me. After a few minutes, in one run on sentence, he blurted out:

“A woman shot her husband in that house, then she buried him under the picnic table in the back yard, and he comes back and haunts the place.”

For the first time in my life, I got slammed with the pain of gossip. How, I wondered, could I ever explain the tragedy that happened behind these walls? How my father’s death broke the spirit of my mother. And damaged the souls of the siblings I loved.

To this day, I get squeamish when conversations turn to gossip. When I find myself adding my part, my stomach churns. I’ve never quite figured out how to back out without sounding self-righteous. More than once, I’ve been accused of being naïve for refusing to believe that so and so is sleeping with him or her.

There’s always more to every story. And always more people whose feelings can get hurt. This story is my reminder to keep things to myself. To honor other’s secrets. And to not add to the ever present gossip mill.

Grace and Discipline

This past week, all around me, young mom’s and dads were busy getting their kids back to school. At work, they talked in small groups about new teachers, school supplies, and bus schedules. Every year this energy brings back memories of when I too was mired in the hustle and bustle.

Kelly back row 7th from right

Daniel front row 1st on left

Every fall, I dreaded the first day of school. Ever conscious of the limited time of my children’s youth, the new school year was like a big bell saying, “Ding, ding, ding… another year has gone by.”

I love being a mom. From the moment I laid eyes on my kids, I was stunned by how much I could love another person.

But with that love came the overwhelming responsibility for things like their character. I
hated it when I had to discipline them. It seemed they’d never remember to brush their teeth, chew with their mouth closed, or pick their clothes up off the floor.Often times, trying to stay on top of all those details took the fun right out of parenting.

Then came the world of grand parenting.

A world where I could ignore the small indiscretions. If I overlooked a table manner or a bad word here and there, so be it. Let the parents sort it out. After all, they’re the ones responsible for how they turn out.

Don’t get me wrong, I care, but it’s not my burden. I’m free to pick and choose when to apply discipline and when to apply grace. And I relish in that freedom.

Being a parent helped me better understand the discipline I receive from a loving God. My own pain in nurturing my children helped me see the pain I caused God by my disobedience. It helped me understand how God nurtures me in order to protect me and help me grow.

But until I became a grandparent I struggled with understanding the grace of a loving God. How could He turn a seemingly blind eye to the ugliness of my sin?

How could He lavish me with all the wealth of His glory when I continually committed the same blunders over and over? How could He spoil me with the abundance of His kingdom? Or hold back on the discipline I really deserved.

I marvel at how God is constantly applying the grace and discipline I need in order to mold me and draw me closer to Him.

I want to continue to shower all my grandchildren in an abundance of grace. I promise their mom’s and dad’s I will discipline when danger is involved. But who is better than a grandparent to model grace? And in doing that I hope to point them to a God whose greatest desire is to give nothing but good gifts to His Children.

Like it or Not, You’re Writing Your Story

This old steamer trunk has been kicking around my home for years. In the 50’s and 60’s, it carried the belongings of my grandparents as they traveled around the world on special assignment with the State Department. Today, it’s filled with old letters and pictures of my ancestors. Each face representing a story.

One of my favorites is Cattie Johnson. My grandfather’s mother. Her story is compelling. As a young girl, she walked from Oklahoma to Texas behind a covered wagon.

Also in the trunk is this letter, written by John Morgan Rice. It says:

“Compliments of J M Rice to To Miss Cattie Johnson and will be pleased to accompany her to Prayer Meeting tonight at the Baptist Church, if agreeable. Yours Respect. Moody, Jan – 1-30-1887.”

Some time later Cattie married John Morgan…

and down the line came my Grandfather, Morgan Hampton…

then my mother Josephine…

then me…

I love to tell my children and grandchildren about Cattie. I want them to know about her strong pioneer spirit. How it lives in me, and in them too.

Regardless of whether we realize it, we are all writing our story. Every decision we make, every path we choose, every word we speak, has the potential to be the story our future generations tell about us.

In the last five years, I’ve lost just about everything. My life savings, my home, and my husband of 38 years. Then last week, I stood on the grass as the grandchildren who – for the past 14 years – have lived right around the corner, left for the 500 mile move away from me.

My first inclination was to rage against the God who controls the universe. In my inability to see Him as a loving God, I wanted to blame Him for my loss. But instead I’m choosing a different path. I’m writing a different story.

Instead of despair, I’m peering around the bend anticipating what God has in store for me. I’m clinging to His promise to Paul, “My grace is sufficient for you.” I’m choosing to believe He is enough to not just carry me, but to elevate me above my loss.

One day I hope my great grandchildren discover this trunk of old pictures.

And when they do, I hope they stumble upon Cattie, Morgan, Josephine, and me. As the stories unfold, I want mine to be about a woman whose faith stood the test of time. Who despite her struggles, held firm to the truth that God’s grace, was indeed, enough for her. For this is the story I want to choose to write for the rest of my life.