God's Pursuit of Me,  HomeLife

(hey momma, in case you’ve forgotten …. )

There are days we feel as if we don’t matter.

I think, as moms, we really can tap into these negative feelings easily.

I was texting with my friend Hilary.

And I was reminding her of how I see her – of how much I think she matters –

(and I really really do)

when I was suddenly reminded of a story with my own mom.

I started to text this story right then to Hilary but at the late hour I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the whole thought so I waited and decided to type it this way instead.

For Hilary.

a sad sweet capture by Jonathan Stanley.

For all mommas.

The summer after my sixth grade year, my dad’s long standing dream of owning a dairy farm came true for him.

My mom probably didn’t exactly share that same long standing dream of black and white cows and manure and endlessly long work hours but my momma loved my daddy and so our entire family of six moved away from the coast of Virginia and headed to the base of the Blue Ridge mountains.

The pre-Civil War farm house Dad excitedly purchased was loaded with potential – (and that came to be a curse word in our home).  But as it was upon our arrival, the potential was only seen by dudes with dust in their eyes and dreams in their hearts and named Carl.

What the rest of us saw was something like this: the entire upstairs was basically unlivable with no heat and no air, no insulation, glass as thin and old as time itself, one single gross bathroom for four kids and two adults to share, a kitchen so bedraggled that a metal acquired road sign had been placed over a giant hole in the floor after my aunt fell through (yes, fell through the kitchen floor to the dirt beneath) on her first visit.  For four years my mother, my father, my brother, my other brother, my other brother and me all slept in the one usable downstairs bedroom together.  All six of us.  For four years.  (Guess who did not invite anyone over for sleepovers.)

We moved into the house that first summer.  Sheetrock dropped off the walls when you walked near them.  Exposed boards and splinter-laden floors were what we knew.  We spent the summer making do, adjusting, working outside and baling hay and feeding calves.  Months passed.  School started.  The windows were bare.  Boxes still unpacked and lining the hall.  Functional living.  Spartan-like.  We were kids.  It seemed fine.

And then one autumn day we came home from school to the ratty tilting kitchen and things looked different.

Familiar curtains from our old house were dancing in the breeze above the open windows.  Little lines of strawberries on linen cloth transformed the ugly brown cabinets and the fading and chipped formica countertops.

Cute accessories lined the counters.  The table had wildflowers in a vase and a quilt had been spread across a table in the living room that was hosting our worn out television.

The house was still ragged.  The green walls were still faded and in ill repair.  The road sign still creaked ominously when you stepped across it on the floor.

But the space felt different.  Transformed.  Cozy.  Inviting.

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Home.

It was like our mom had arrived out of some sort of rock she’d been hiding under and she brought herself out to us in a gift that looked like strawberry curtains and an old family quilt and happy colors on the counter.

She was surprised at how surprised we all were.

As if the four of us kids hadn’t noticed the barren look of the past five months or the way our old house felt like a magazine and our new house felt like a war zone.

Mom actually looked a little sheepish when we praised all the pretty she’d pulled off.

I can still see her now when I close my eyes and stop moving for just a second.  Short dark hair (she saved money by doing self trims).  A soft smile on her sweet face.  Arm crooked at her hip. Practical clothing on, I’m sure.  Leaning against the ugly counter and the stained sink.

“I guess I decided we really are living here,” she grinned, confessing to the denial we all knew she’d been hiding behind.

(And I feel myself growing weepy at this memory that had been so long forgotten until I thought of my friend Hilary.  Bringing beautiful to Dhaka.  Being the lovely to her children.  The familiar and the comfortable and the pretty in the foreign and the unknown and the unfamiliar.)

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You guys.

That’s what mommas do.

And it doesn’t matter if you’re not crafty or homemaker-y.

You – you mother there – you are the heart and the happy and the hero in your home.

You’re the heart beat and the mood maker and the environment in your house.

And if that feels too heavy of a task to add on to your hefty to-do list I guess I should apologize, but I can’t.

You matter.

And what your hands do and what your heart says and what you let enter in and what you keep out matters.

It all matters.

Don’t fool yourself.

Don’t doubt it.

Do not be deceived.

Oh, sweet mommas in all sizes and shapes and forms and at all seasons of highs and lows and living under rocks and dancing on mountain tops, YOU MATTER.

You just do.

(don’t forget.)

25 Comments

  • Jennifer REYES

    I always love reading your posts. You are such a gifted writer but beyond your amazing use of words is a strong woman with such wisdom to share. Thank you for sharing your heart.

  • Kathy Griffith

    Beautiful words expressing the truth that we mothers can make a difference during the difficult situations our families may find ourselves in. We all need to know that we matter, that the love we showed in all those little ways was noticed.

    Thank you.

  • Laura

    I got to your post from Hilary’s post. So well written and a very needed reminder. Hilary’s pictures of Dhaka are beautiful. She has a knack for beauty I wish I had. And your reminder of her sense of purpose as the familiar and comfortable to her family in a strange new place…that really is huge! I need this reminder too. Thank you. (And your good bye picture…makes me cry).

  • Sara

    What joy memories you brought back!
    And you did have some friends over because I remember sleeping in that enormous bedroom with your family. ?
    And eventually you had the biggest coolest bedroom of anyone I know.

    I loved your family, your mom. But I wish I could know her as an adult because there are so many ways I know I would appreciate her more than as: Lacey’s mom, food preparer, etc.
    Thanks for the reminder that all the hard parenting days are worth it!
    And remember, you are your mother’s daughter. It shows!

  • Nicole

    Love this. Reminds me so much of my own childhood:) and I needed to hear your mom encouragement. Such beauty, humility and responsibility in being the heart beat of the household…

  • Josh

    I vividly remember the black and white cows as well as the little calves being raised in the pens close to the house. I also remember the hike through the pasture over to the rope swing by the creek. I feel as if I remember a story about some hangings under that tree back in the day!

  • Mandi Buckner

    Thank you for sharing your special memory of your sweet mom. 🙂
    Thank you for the mom encouragement. I always need to hear that. 🙂

  • Beth

    I remember the warm and welcome place she made your wonderful farm house-home. And I loved being there!! This is a beautiful reminder and encouragement to us moms. Thank you!

    • laceykeigley

      You know – at our girls book club tonight we were discussing favorite family memories and the holiday memories with Namie clan, although only once a year or so, were always some of my very favorites.

  • Dawn Hicks

    Lacey, you’ve done it again. What a beautiful story and I very much needed to hear these words today. I am once again in tears and so encouraged by your beautiful writing.

  • judy kay

    This is such a sweet reminder to me this morning. I love this story of your momma making that old house a cozy home and the delight that you and your brothers took in it, and it makes me want to do more than just get by with the needful today.
    This light, this love of beauty, this home-making, is alive and strong in the home that you’re keeping with your sweet ones, too. Your momma taught you well.

  • J4

    That picture.

    That picture.

    Thanks for writing this out, Lacey. You all are sorely missed and loved. And you are an amazing momma.

  • Addy

    Oh goodness. That picture is so beautiful it hurts. And your words. So beautiful and so poignant. Thank you. You are a gift to Hilary and to me.