remember when…

I woke up this morning with stories of dad reeling through my mind. One of the things that is so difficult about being away from home during this time is that I don’t have a lot of opportunity to talk about dad, hear stories about dad, and reminisce with people who knew him well. There is something very comforting about hearing people’s experiences and shared stories with dad.

So, here’s where you come in… I would love to hear your favorite stories about dad. One of my most favorite things about dad was that he was a friend to everyone, he loved people and people loved him. He was the guy who was the life of the party, who was the same man of integrity at home and behind the pulpit, who never took himself too seriously and the guy who made a friend out of strangers everywhere he went.

I am excited to one day tell baby Noah about his PawPaw. I want him to know our inside jokes about how dad was “master of the obvious”. I want the birds (aka the twins) to never forget how dad called them his “girlfriends” from the pulpit – no doubt causing visitors to wonder what in the world he was talking about. I want Aiden to always remember camping trips with his PawPaw. I never want to forget how dad would chase Aimee and I around the car trying to get us to hug him in front of the middle school. (so not cool). Or how he would use the picture window at the house on the lake as his own personal stage. We would watch dad pretend like he was fighting a giant snake (waterhose), or jump up on the windowsill sticking his tongue out shouting – I’m a tree frog! I’m a tree frog!

The ridiculous stories go on and on and I want to remember each and every one. And I would love to hear your favorite memories too!

So, if you get a chance, please send me your favorite stories! Just a simple – remember when Monty…fill in the blank… I would love to compile the stories and share with anyone who would want a copy.

state of dependence

This morning I am sitting on our back deck in beautiful 70 degree weather with a cup of black coffee in hand. I’m not a morning person, but there is something uniquely charming about the mornings heading into October. All of my energies rally together and even the mornings are exciting to me.

I’ve been thinking a ton about dependence lately and this morning is no different. This morning I recognized two different paths walking out of my mouth.

I was raised to be a fairly independent girl. Mom and Dad rarely said “absolutely no, you cannot do x,y, or z.” Our decision was always handed back to us with their wisdom laden pros and cons. This parenting method worked for me. I didn’t want to disappoint my parents and I craved their approval so much, so I generally chose the (more) right thing.

I loved my independence. Taking my independence to all new heights, I once packed a bag, a map and a cup of coffee and started driving to my favorite state of Arkansas. I followed the windy roads through the cotton fields with the windows rolled down and singing along with Johnny Cash all the way to Little Rock. In Little Rock I found a sketchy Motel 6 and made my plans for the next few days. I laid out my map on the bed, closed my eyes, and pointed my finger on the map. There. That’s where I would be going tomorrow – Greer’s Ferry Lake. And so I did. I found my way to this beautiful lake, parked my car up on a cliff that overlooked mountains and foggy blue waters. For the next 3 days all I did was read, take walks, pray, drive down to a little cabin where an old man sold terrible coffee and then drove back up again.

I still look back to this weekend as one of the most freeing weekends of my life. I also look back and think – what the crap was I thinking? But I choose to not focus on that part…

The other path winding out of my mouth would say that I was dependent on the Lord. I would say that I knew I needed him for everything. I would say that I trusted the Lord for my decision making process, for where I went, and what I said, and what I did with my life.

However, what I would say and claim turned out to be two different things. And like the Bible says – A house divided cannot stand. I was a house divided by what I was saying and what I was actually living.

There is something of an unknown truth that sin is revealed when pressure is applied. I would definitely say I have seen this to be true in my own life. This is easily seen in the parable of the “rich young man”. The young guy is all geared up and ready to follow Jesus so he asks Jesus, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus tells him he must keep the commandments. The guy proudly looks back, perfect! I have done this from my youth. Then Jesus applies the pressure, “you lack one thing: go, sell all that you have and give to the poor.”

What happens next shows us what so often happens when pressure is applied:
Disheartened, he walks away.
He walks away from Jesus.
He chooses his “stuff” over Jesus.

What happened to the eager guy who wanted to obtain eternal life?

I find this to be true in my own life. I claim that I am and want to be dependent upon the Lord. I want to be so in need of him that I cannot do what he has called me to on my own. I want to be so in need of him that whatever I am doing, people would look at and say – no way she did that, something else is going on here. Yes, yes there is something going on – his name is God and he made it happen.

Yet, I recoil when things get hard.
I push back on challenges.
I say “no” when I feel like my boundaries have been pressed.
I start saying things like “its not fair”, “why me”, and other self-focused independent thoughts.

When I look at my life right now, I recognize that in every area of my life, my “success” or “failure” is completely dependent upon God.

With a broken heart, I find it hard to look at others and love them. I can’t see others for the bigness of my own pain and grief. I can’t care for others while I am treading water.

I am learning that I cannot love Kyle well on my own.
I cannot love 70 women well on my own.
I cannot teach the Bible on my own.
I cannot lead leaders on my own.
I cannot wake up at 4:00am every Tuesday on my own. (in fact, for this one, I need God and an army of alarm clocks)

My life seems scary to me because if Jesus doesn’t show up, I’m going down.
If the Bible isn’t true, I’m in big trouble.
If God is not really love, my marriage is doomed to fail.
And if I try to do or make any of these things happen on my own, I am building my hope on sand.

Our world teaches us that the safest, strongest place is in independence. Our Bible teaches us the contrary: the safest, strongest place is being fully dependent upon the One who never leaves us or forsakes us, who sympathizes with our brokenness, and who is made strong in our weakness.

Only in our state of dependence are we able to – go big or go home.

Cooking 101

All of the ladies in my family cook. And by cook, I don’t mean that they throw some ranch and chopped up carrots on a plate and call it cooking. I mean, they cook gumbo and roast, rice, and gravy, jambalaya, stewed okra and tomatoes, mustard greens and fresh black eyed peas. Real, cajun/soul-food.

My MawMaw is a Paula Dean. She’ll have all four burners going, something in the oven and microwave, licking her fingers, and adding butter, butter, butter. And it is DELICIOUS. When we all lived in the same area, it wouldn’t be out of the ordinary for all of the immediate family and close friends (all 13+ of us) to go over to MawMaw’s for lunch on a Tuesday afternoon. She would have a spread that rivals some people’s Thanksgiving dinners. You know, just something she whipped up. PawPaw always had a garden, so we always had fresh peas, tomatoes, okra, and cucumbers. I dream of these meals.

My mom makes the best anything and everything. Kyle and I start making our menu of things we want mom to make us days before we drive down to see her. My Aunt Charlotte makes the best gumbo I have ever tasted. It’s a fact. My Aunt Laren makes the absolute best tea cakes the world has ever known. They are so good they have been known to be stolen and fought over. My Aunt Stephanie makes the most wonderful potato salad. I can eat it like ice cream…and actually have. My sister makes a killer roast. (Dad always said he didn’t trust a skinny cook, but trust me, you should trust this one.)

And then there is me. Let me just give you a few visuals. I have nearly burned the house down trying to make falafel balls. I made some hummus that tasted like ground up plastic. I made some lemony chicken that was so sour it gave you automatic pucker face. I absolutely cannot figure out how to make Staci’s spinach salad. And when I cook, it is a scientific fact, that I will be covered in flour, chicken juice, or olive oil. The kitchen will be an absolute disaster and I will be worn out like I just ran a mile.

What is wrong here?
Well, I have figured it out.

One of my favorite things to do is be in the kitchen with my mom. That sounds hopeful, right? Well, except that by “be in the kitchen”, I mean that I love to be sitting on a bar stool drinking coffee and hearing her talk to me about cooking. She would tell me stories of when she was younger, of her mom, of her grandmother. All the while three burners were on and she was cutting, slicing, stirring, baking, and on and on. I loved to hear my mom tell me stories about her mom. This was my chance to really see my mom shine, be herself. She would laugh and I swear it was liking watching my mom as a 15 year old in her mom’s kitchen. To this day, I still love to watch my mom cook.

I also love to have a story told to me while I cook. Since I didn’t live with my mom anymore, I had to come up with another option. So, I would pick out a great book and turn on the stove. I would stir and read and chop and read. By the end of the chapter, I had a perfectly burnt meal.

Now that I am married, I’m trying to enter the Hanks/Bush Hall of Cooks. It’s a slow start. I put the books away (although it doesn’t help me not burn things). I still make a mess, but Kyle thinks it’s endearing. It also doesn’t hurt that Kyle is the least picky eater of all time. As long as I keep the mayo and pickles out of it, he thinks I am amazing. I thank Toni for this.

This is Kyle eating (happily, I might add) a falafel sandwich. And I didn’t even have to call 911.

my dad…

Monty & Annie

My dad passed away 3 months ago. 93 days ago. 2,232 painful hours ago.

The last four months of my life have been something of a beautiful turmoil. I am sitting in the middle of Job’s soul grieving cry, “the Lord gives and takes away”. These very words are crawling around me, simultaneously choking and comforting me.

A year ago, I met the man who would bend his knee and ask me to be his. A month before we would don our wedding clothes and kiss and say I do, I received a call from my dad. We had one of the most honest and heartbreaking conversations we had ever had…up to this date. He must have seen it coming, because he talked with me about the things he loved and would miss in a sorrowful, yet peaceful tone.  I drove home with dad’s words of being healed “on the other side of the river” sitting in my ears. I didn’t want to accept these words. I didn’t want to think this thought. I couldn’t make myself go “there”. I wrestled with what to do with our wedding. How do I spend my time blissfully choosing cake flavors or deciding between chicken or beef when I wasn’t even sure if my dad would be there to walk me down the aisle?

But God… On May 19, 2011, I slipped my arm through my dad’s and looked up at him the way I always dreamed I would. We made our way down the aisle where he put my hand in Kyle’s and took his place next to mom. It was such a beautiful night full of laughter and celebration.

Kyle and I spent our honeymoon traipsing around Italy. We walked around in sheer awe of the architecture built thousands of years ago in Rome, we delighted over plate after plate of the best pastas in the world in Florence, and canoodled in a gondola in Venice.  We ended our 14 hour flight in New York and the world came crashing in again.

We drove straight from our honeymoon to dad’s hospital room. Two days later, dad and I had our last and hardest conversation. He was ready to go home.

My dad had been trying to marry me off since I was 21. All he wanted was for me to love Jesus, get myself a good man, have some babies, and learn how to make MawMaw’s gumbo. There are fewer memories as difficult as the last few days with dad in the hospital. I was married. Finally. To a man dad loved. Mom and I sat across the room and watched dad pull Kyle to him and lean his forehead against Kyle’s. Dad saw the beginning of all that he had prayed for me and while he was so happy for it, he was sad to not be there for more of it.

I started my marriage with a broken heart. There is a challenge in loving well with a few dismantled pieces of deflated heart.  The writer of Hebrews reminds me that with confidence I can draw near to the throne of grace, that I might receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need. I wake up every morning wholly leaning on God’s promises of grace and mercy. Grace that pulls my bones back into my body and strengthens me to live fully in the face of another difficult day. Grace that allows me to smile and laugh and enjoy the beauties of being newly married to a man whom I love more every day.

Welcome!

Hey guys!

First off, we want to say thank you for stopping by our blog! We are excited about a myriad of happenings in our life. Here we will post about what’s going on in our ministries at the Stone, what we are reading and learning, what Annie is burning in the kitchen, what Kyle is mixing up with in the studio, and everything in between!

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Love you guys!
Kyle and Annie