Little Lightbulbs

It's an image that has haunted me from my childhood. Growing up in Bossier City, Louisiana, there were quite distinct "good" and "bad" parts of town - the places you just didn't wander into late at night. Just across the river, separated by only 20 miles and a bridge, was Shreveport. White people lived there, but the bulk of the population was - and still is - black and, for the most part, impoverished. My mother worked in Downtown Shreveport and one evening, after picking me up from school, we headed toward the bridge that divided these two vastly different areas of this corner of North Louisiana. That's when I saw the men in white hoods standing on each side of the street, in the "black" part of town, waving their crosses, holding their signs that spewed hatred and intolerance. Even as a little white girl, my bones shivered. Something wasn't right about this. Forty five minutes the other direction lived my grandparents, products of ...

I'm not a "cool" mom. I don't know whose tops on the Pop charts. I don't have cable (by choice), so I don't really get the whole zombie phenomenon sweeping the nation. I'm not a fashion plate, and not really interested in my kids being one either.  I see no reason for my pre-teen to have a cell phone, so he's not facetiming, texting or tweeting anyone or anything.  Nope. Not a cool mom. And I'm totally fine with that. Here's why:  First, I'm more and more aware of the evils (and I use that word intentionally) of too much too soon.  Our kids are being bombarded like never before with half-naked models peddling everything from perfume to pajamas. People are churning out smartphone apps that make it easy to commit crimes and get away with it (yes, I mean you, Snapchat). And, apparently, TV shows have gone the way of soft porn in many cases.  I simply don't want my young sons growing up thinking that this is the moral standar...

I grew up living a double life. As the child of divorced parents, I often found myself splitting weekends with my mother who didn't attend church and my father, who regularly dropped me with my grandmother who practically had a church pew carved for her - she was that devoted. So, I can't say that I had a particular religious fervor in my youth. I never attended church camps or vacation Bible schools. Bible drill? What's that? I knew a few of the hymns, learned how to pray the "Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep" prayer at a young age and heard lots about Hell fire, but that was about it. My true relationship with Christ didn't begin until I was in college. That was also when a benevolent boyfriend, upon learning that I had didn't own my own Bible, bought one for me. It was a sacrifice for him financially, and I still have it stored among my treasures. Today, with our touch-screen technology, it's easy to toss aside our leather-bound scripture for som...

Dear Christian Ministers of all Denominations, I cried myself to sleep last night. Again. I made the mistake of reading an account of the atrocities being heaped upon the Christians in the middle-east, namely 250 young Christian girls who had been kidnapped, forcibly gang raped and then shot ... all while jihadists video taped their abuse. Beyond turning my stomach, this grieved my spirit. I sobbed for them, for their mothers, for their families, who are most likely displaced and starving in the desert, if they had survived the attacks at all. And all because they subscribe to a religion that preaches kindness, love, tolerance, peace and self-sacrifice. Now, before I get comments citing the Crusades, etc., I'm speaking solely to the teachings of Christ, who we swear to try our hardest to emulate as His followers. He teaches us to "love one another." Even our enemies, which these days is hard. As Christians are slaughtered on one side of the globe, right here i...

I tried my hand at refinishing a book case this weekend. It was my first time using Chalk Paint, the latest no-sanding, no-priming favorite pastime of do-it-yourselfers. Basically, it's the paint equivalent to the Bedazzler: it's a fool-proof method of making any old thing look new again, provided it's made of wood. As I was painting, I made a few bobbles, dripping paint where it didn't belong. As I was sanding off the drips, I started looking at the finished product. There were places where the paint wasn't quite even, the old finish shown through in certain areas and the places where I sanded off the drips was rustic-looking. To some, it may have looked like I had really botched the job. But, to me, the imperfections made the piece, well, perfect. Personally, I like the shabby chic look, probably because it's a lot like me: a lovely piece with plenty of visible dents and dings that give it ... er... personality. As I was admiring my handiwork, I realize...

M ost people wouldn't classify me as a terrible summertime mom. I mean, I've already shared with my readers the color-coded calendar I hold in such high esteem. I'm very good at finding activities for my children to participate in during the hot summer months. It's the downtime I have trouble with.  That, my friends, is what makes me a terrible summertime mom.  I work. Which means that my time with my kids is relegated to anytime during the week after 1 and before 8 or 9 p.m. (preferably 8). That's usually when my kids want to go to wet places like the pool or the splash pad or the lake.  Now, I do love summer. Really. I grew up frolicking lakeside with my cousins, skiing, wake boarding and living in my swimsuit. It never bothered me that my diet consisted mainly of Rainbow white bread and bologna. In fact, at 10 years old, I liked it that way. I don't remember a lot of adults hovering around. Heck, I don't think I ever wore floaties or a life jack...

When my husband and I were awaiting the ultrasound for our second pregnancy, I was, as most moms, excited. I couldn't wait to tell everyone I was having a girl! I even wore pink that day to commemorate, what I assumed would be, the outcome. I grew up a girly girl. My mother entered me in my first pageant at age 4, and I continued on through the Miss America system until I aged out at 25. So, my life was pretty much make up, high heels, glittery dresses and spotlights from the time I could walk a straight line. I couldn't wait to doll up my little girl with frilly things and pretty bows. I was so ready for that! What I wasn't ready for, however, was the bitter disappointment I felt when I was told we were having boy number two. My spirits plunged. I had the ultrasound tech check again. Yep, she said. She was certain. I smiled, of course, thankful that our baby was healthy and that we were blessed by another little person to raise. But I couldn't shake the disappo...