SAHM I am (31 page)

…at church last night. You won’t believe it, I’m sure. But I decided to go to Bible study, and afterward, this really hot guy is so totally into me that he spends twenty minutes chatting with me, walks me to the nursery, makes friends with McKenzie and then carries the twins to the van and puts them in their car seats for me. I somehow missed all the signals, until after he asked if I was in the church directory and mentioned that he’d like to call me. Isn’t that a hoot? :)

Anyway, I just thought you’d like to know. Sort of a reminder as to why it might be a good idea to do some serious ring shopping with me down in Branson. You also might
want to consider making time to come home every now and then on the weekends. Either that, or start looking for a Realtor up there in Anchorage. Because, sweetheart, I love you and I’m running away from this temptation as fast as I can. But it wouldn’t be a bad idea for you to lend me a hand, if you get what I mean.

Love you,

Dulcie

Wow…Dulcie. I’m really not sure what to say. I think we need to talk. I know we need to. I’ll tell my supervisors I need a few extra days off. I haven’t bought the plane tickets yet—I’ll try to get the whole week after the wedding off. Please, Dulcie, please don’t give up on me.

Love,

Tom

Phyllis,

Your e-mail hit me like a slap in the face. Thank you. My hands are shaking—I’ve been awake all night. I guess I somehow thought I was above being tempted. It’s really embarrassing to think I was so easily targeted.

I’ve been really praying, and guess what was the only response? I got this picture in my mind of Travis, looking so handsome. And then it suddenly changed. Instead of thick, wavy hair, he was mostly bald. What little hair was left had a serious case of bed-head. And he was paunchy and wrinkled, and had a big nose.

I guess the point is that all guys (and me, too) will end up old and funny-looking. The thing is, I love the idea of growing old with Tom. I see the laugh lines around his eyes and I want to kiss them because they remind me of all the good times we’ve had together. And we can joke about how the girls have caused all our gray hair.

But when I looked at the picture in my mind of Travis as an old man, all I saw was…an old man. Not my soul mate, not my friend. Just a man who was kind to me once when I was lonely. Now, why would I throw away a marriage for that?

I thought you might like to know. Thank you again, dear friend, for your advice and love.

Love,

Dulcie

Magnificent Moms,

May…the season of graduations, the season of weddings, Memorial Day. Summer is just around the corner, and with it all those special times of family togetherness—vacations, gardening, trips to the zoo. It’s a perfect time to discuss how to make family memories.

It’s not enough to just sit back and let memories happen on their own! You have to work at it. Make them occur. And then do everything in your power to preserve them for future generations. This is, I dare to say, a sacred duty. For if you, the mother, are not the family historian, if you do not cherish these days, who will? (Certainly not our husbands, precious as they are!) They will slip through our fingers and vanish into the Sands of Time.

You must plan outings! You must take rolls and rolls of pictures! You must preserve them in scrapbooks—acid-free, lignin-free, and PVC-free archival-quality scrapbooks only, preferably strap-hinged. And, of course we mustn’t forget,
you must journal in your scrapbooks!

Now, granted, this is only
one
way of making and preserving memories. I’m sure you all have others, so feel free to share. None of them will be as successful as the plan I’ve outlined above, but I certainly won’t be unsupportive of your efforts. So, please…tell me what you are thinking.

With fond memories,

Rosalyn Ebberly

SAHM I Am Loop Moderator

Hello everyone!

Well, I can tell you how
not
to make family memories—agreeing to coordinate your mother-in-law’s wedding. I’m just popping in to say I’m going to have to go no-mail this week, so I can get ready to leave on Thursday. I’m driving down with my girls, and it’s about a ten-hour trip. Plus, my MIL is calling me about five times a day right now to ask me things like if I have the phone number for the florist. (Why on earth would I have the florist’s phone number? My MIL is supposed to have a friend in Branson handling the flowers!) Or e-mailing me with a whole bunch of salon photos. “Which hairstyle do you think would look best with my veil, darling?” Like 50-something-year-old women should even wear veils! I told her it didn’t really matter since the hairstylist would just do her own thing anyway. That’s what happened with
my
hair.

So, needless to say, I don’t have time to keep up with e-mails. But I’ll let everyone know how it went when I get home. I’m sure I’ll have lots of good stories to tell….

Don’t say anything interesting until I get back!

Dulcie

Hi gals! (See, I’m even starting to write like the locals)

Jonathan and I finally were able to try out Brenna’s camping pasture. We went last night and it was so wonderful. Brenna and Darren loaned us all their equipment, and Darren even took Jonathan out earlier in the day to help set it all up for us, which was absolutely cherubic of him as we know nothing about
camping. Then, Darren came back and picked me up. I was surprised—I assumed Jonathan would be with him. But Darren said Jonathan was taking care of a few things at the campsite.

It was my first time going out in the pasture. And since all of us, except Brenna, are city girls, let me describe this to you. When I say “pasture” I don’t mean some little fenced-in patch by the house. I mean acres and acres of gently rolling land with no buildings or telephone poles in sight, and the sky spreading out over you for as far as you can see. The only nod to human presence was one lone oil well on the top of a modest crest in the distance. The tent was nestled against some trees lining a little creek (or “crik” as Brenna has instructed me is the proper pronunciation). The guys had set up a camping table and a couple of canvas chairs that looked like recliners. Darren had even set up his camp stove on a separate table. We had hoped to have a bonfire, but Darren and Brenna said it was too dry for that and there was a risk of starting a prairie fire.

After Darren dropped me off, Jonathan stepped out of the tent holding a bouquet of wildflowers for me. I thanked him, and his response nearly knocked me off my feet.

“This is just one of many bouquets I should have been giving to you all along.”

It continued like that the entire evening. He fixed dinner for me (not too shabbily, either), served me at the little camping table as if I were dining in the finest restaurant. Actually, I doubt a restaurant could rival the ambience of open space so wide and yet so private, and the serenade of meadowlarks. Every time I thanked him, he said something like “I’m just making up for lost time” or “This is something long overdue.” I was feeling so sorry for him, I finally stopped saying thank-you or commenting on anything. If he was doing all this simply out of guilt, I didn’t really want to know.

Sorry if I’m getting a bit personal here, but after we were done eating, and he’d insisted on cleaning all the dishes himself, he spread a quilt on the ground and told me he was going to give me a massage. I asked him why, and he said, because of all the stress I’d been under the past couple of years. Stress I’d been under? I’m not the one who got fired. But he didn’t explain to me. Simply asked me to lie down. And by the time he finished, I was so relaxed I had fallen asleep.

When I opened my eyes, it was dusk. A gorgeous, scarlet sunset burned the sky. Jonathan sat cross-legged on the quilt, just watching me, a gentle sort of smile on his face. He wrapped a blanket around me, and I sat up, not sure what he had planned next.

He had a set of papers beside him, and now he held them up. “You see this?” he asked. “It’s a sermon. I’m going to give you a very special sermon. But I’m not preaching to you. I’m preaching to me. Will you listen?”

As if I’d say no! So he stood up, notes in hand, and paced a few steps away, looking suddenly every inch the pastor I’ve been used to seeing in the pulpit each Sunday for the past two years. It seemed a little out of place out here, as contradictory as the oil well up on that hill surrounded by all this natural beauty.

He preached the most beautiful sermon I’ll ever hear in my life. About the gift of marriage, about the rarity of finding a woman of virtue, about how those who make ministry their god commit adultery as surely as if they had a mistress. About repentance, about respect and love and the meaning of becoming a servant to one’s spouse. When he finished, it may sound silly, but he gave himself an altar call. He kneeled in front of me.

“I always tell people the altar is a place of sacrifice. Well, I’m sacrificing right now my ministry. If killing it is what it takes to truly minister to you and my children, then it has to die.”

By this time I was weeping, and so was he. All these weeks—this is what he has been struggling with. This is why he couldn’t talk to me about being fired. I’d agonized about how badly I wanted things to change, without knowing how to tell him. But God knew. And Jonathan eventually did, too. We held each other, and then later, he took me by the hand, and under the stars, we pledged our wedding vows to each other again.

It wouldn’t be right for me to share what happened next, but the entire experience brought us to a whole new level of intimacy that I never dreamed possible. And I’ve never been so full of joy in my life.

Blessings,

Phyllis

Well! I’m not sure Darren and I will ever think of our tent and our pasture in quite the same way again. Can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. :)

Seriously, I’m thrilled for Phyllis and Jonathan. Phyllis was glowing when she returned Tuesday morning.

Dulcie, before you leave, give us a final dress update. How does it look? Do you like the “new you”?

Brenna

The dress is foofy fuchsia and tattooed with a million sequins. It has big, poofy chiffon sleeves, a mermaid shape and chiffon ruffles that poke out of the bottom where the mermaid’s fins should be. In short…it’s
hideous.

However…IT’S A SIZE 10! And it fits! This fact alone has endeared the homely rag to me for life. I, Dulcie Amanda Huckleberry, am officially a size ten.

As happy as this makes me, I did learn something, though. I have saddlebags! Waaaahhhhhh! I guess I never saw them before because they blended in with the general rotundness of my legs. And my stomach still has that slightly lumpy “I’ve had three children in two pregnancies” look to it. The moral of my story? There’s more to being content with myself than fitting into a certain clothing size. *sigh* So, in regard to Dulcie’s Quest for a Positive Self-Image…the saga continues.

Dulcie

Well, duh, Dulcie! I could have told you that.:) But I’m glad your diet was successful for you. Congratulations. Enjoy
wearing your…. attention-getting dress. Did you take your MIL up on her offer of a bridesmaid swimsuit, too? That idea just cracked me up. I want pictures of the dress and the swimsuit—with you in them! Better yet, do a scrapbook like Rosalyn suggested. It’s your “sacred duty” after all….

Jocelyn