Torn.

It's possible for your heart to metaphorically live in many different places. 

I've always known that. 

Ever since my first nephew came into this world a large part of me has lived wherever his little feet pattered against the hardwood floors. He has been followed by four more nephews and a niece. Include in that list a sister, a brother, another brother and sister by their marriages, and my parents that still live in my childhood home in Florida... 

That's a lot of places for my little heart to dwell.

I knew it was possible.

I haven't written a blog since I returned from England because the truth is...

 not being there hurts and the thought of writing about it hurts. 

I need to say that again. 

Not being there just hurts. 

It hurts in the best ways possible though. My friend Shayne says, 

"You have to love big to cry big!" 

That's how I feel about this kind of hurt. I loved there BIG. I cry for there BIG. The thought of writing about it has been so daunting for fear of the kind of emotion it would undoubtedly bring to the surface. Even as I write this now I find my eyes watering and slightly stinging from the days mascara.

Please, I beg of you not to misunderstand, I am THRILLED to be home. I love my life here in Richmond. It is wonderful in ways that are beyond blessing. Being back feels like slipping into your favorite pair of pajamas and snuggling under your big, fluffy duvet! 

It's my home. 

BUT...

I changed over there, you guys. 

I changed big time, in big and awesome ways, and knowing that makes me ache for being there in ways I didn't know it was possible to ache. It takes the whole metaphor of your heart living in many different places from just a metaphor and a feeling to a true reality. 

It defines feeling TORN.

I believe in "seasons" in our lives and how the changes that result from them can significantly alter the fundamental core of who we are. So much can change; our physical self, our mental self, our emotional self, our spiritual self... All the 'selfs' are affected and changed as a direct result of the shift between the winters and springs or the summers and falls that we experience. 

In my short 39 years on this big, blue ball hanging so delicately in our universe I have lived through MANY seasons. Some so wonderful I have felt like a braggart just sharing them with people that cared about and loved me. Some so painful that I couldn't share them with anyone outside of my immediate family, and even when I did it was in ways that didn't bring out the best sides of me and often caused others great pain. 

Pain I am not proud of having caused. 

Seasons. Beautiful and yet destructive at times.

Seasons. Unpleasant and yet important.

Seasons. Painful and yet welcomed.
Seasons. Life-altering and completely necessary.

My time in Oxford was an amazing season. 

Packing up your life into a storage unit and boarding a plane to a new adventure in a new place and a new time is a brilliant thing to do. I encourage everyone that is able... Go. Do. 

I'm writing this blog, but the truth is I don't really even know fully how to explain all the ways I have been changed. They are too numerous to name. 

I DO know this...

THIS much I can share... 

Contentment and gratitude are abundant now. They weren't always before.

Self preservation and reduced stress is vital for me now. It never was before. 

I was drowning before.

Breathing through the hard stuff seems somewhat easier. It's incredible how driving through the Scottish highlands with your windows down, breathing in the dampness of the earth and the scent of water vapor as it rises to join another cloud, listening to the silence that speaks volumes,  can so perfectly crystalize the things that are important vs. those that aren't. 

Wanderlust for the world and it's people and cultures and colors is imperative now. I lived in a tiny United Nations for six months. I am sure people that live in Oxford permanently can take it for granted. I didn't and I never will. Walking into City Center and hearing every language and accent on the globe, seeing every skin color God ever painted, becoming familiar with cultures and customs so foreign to me before... it changes you. It gets under your skin in the best way possible. It ties you to the rest of that big, blue ball hanging so delicately in our universe. OUR universe. 

A universe created for ALL of us to share. 

And finally, I'll share this simple thing.
My family means everything to me. We have issues, you guys. Trust me.
Name a family that doesn't, but man, without them I would be nowhere. 

I wouldn't have a clue what love means. 

The gratitude I have for my time abroad will never fade. 

An indelible mark has been placed on my heart. 

I am forever torn. 

It's so good though. 

I HAD a goal...

So...

I HAD a blog goal. 

I really did. 

It was to blog at least once every two weeks. But...

Life takes over.

Some goals go by the wayside. 

This one sure did.

Know why??

Because life here and now is pretty cool and very much consuming.

The good kind of consuming, not the "Oh, dear heavens! I can't! I just can't! All I want to do is curl up in the fetal position and cry myself to sleep because the UGH of life is completely overwhelming me!" kind of consuming.

Not that one at all.

This kind of consuming has been made up of traveling, playing with babies, much walking, exploring, volunteering, resting, cooking, reading, meeting new people, having amazing conversations, and so many other things that fill the soul and restore the spirit.

This is the kind of consuming I desperately needed.

And was given. As a gift. 

I have a few small stories I would like to tell.

 Here is the first.

Two weekends ago I was in Lyme Regis, Dorset and met an incredible woman called Anne. She is 85 years old and still hiking up and down the steep hills of the coast every other weekend. She does it in order to remember all the times she had spent there with her husband of 58 years. He died 18 months ago. Lyme was his favorite place on earth, she said, and they had traveled a lot in their lives, so he could say that with confidence. 

Lyme Regis... The town he loved. 

A small glimpse of the steep hills she still walks for him.

I was waiting for a bus, come to find out later the WRONG bus, when I met Anne. 

I'm so thankful I was at the wrong stop.

Anne was precious. We talked for at least a half hour. 

We fit SO much in that small span of time.

We talked of life's adventures and the uniqueness of different cultures.

She told me her life story and she inquired of mine. 

Anne made me realize that life is VERY short and VERY special. I have always known both of these things, but something about sitting and sharing a bus stop bench with Anne on the coast of Dorset, England made it truly come alive and solidify for me. 

These were her words to me about my current adventure...

(I typed them into a note on my phone after I left our shared bench so that I would always have them to reread often and remember the truth in them.)

"You are a quite sensible and brave young woman! I admire your spirit and fire and wish I had had the forethought when I was young to take advantage of life. We are only given one, you know. Good on you for refusing to grow stale! You are a remarkable young lady and I am better for having chatted with you. Your parents must be so proud!"

Oh, Anne!

YOU are the sensible and brave one. 

Your story and openness in a very closed off world will spur me on forever. 

I am the one that is better for having chatted with you. 

Thank you.

Life IS short. We DO only get one. 

I am so cherishing being consumed like this.

Set up for story two:

Every Monday and Thursday I take care of my two nephews and my niece while my sister-in-law goes to work. They are great days! 

Now... it isn't easy at all to look after three under the age of four, not at all, but my goodness is it SO worth all the tough stuff. 

When they giggle. 

When they ride their scooters together and want you to chase them.

When they climb on you like a jungle gym. 

When they dance in the kitchen to the same song on repeat while you cook dinner.

When they sit in your lap and you read stories together.

When their cheeks and nose are bright pink and their eyes are sleepy and smiley from nap time.

When they splash and play in the bubbles at bath time. 

When they smell clean and fresh enough to nibble.

When their little bellies peek out of their tight pajamas.

When they want you to sing them to sleep at night.

When they ask you in the morning if you missed them while you slept.

Yeah, it's worth the tough stuff.

On the two days I have them Hope and I walk the "big boys" to nursery school in the mornings and pick them up in the afternoons. 

One day we picked them up, came home and ate a snack, then we all put on our wellies and set out for the "nature trail." The "nature trail" is actually a very small path behind their school that leads to a giant green field. To the boys it is a true nature trail; full of slugs and snails, exotic plants and flowers, rocks and stones of every shape and size! 

It's a big deal. 

Story two:

It had rained that morning and the ground was extremely wet and muddy. 

They ran. They giggled. They fell down and got soaking wet and royally muddy.

The boys held hands and marched in their high-knee finest singing 'Colonel Hathi's March' (a.k.a. the elephant song from The Jungle Book!!) at the top of their lungs. 

Hopey rolled around like a turtle on its back trying to figure out how to stand up in her giant wellies until one of the boys would run over screaming "Rescue the precious!!" 

It was pure joy to watch.

And watch I did. 

I stood there most of the time just watching them.

Pure innocence and unadulterated joy.

I was so jealous of them.

For myself and for the rest of the world.

We have forgotten how to play. 

We have forgotten how to love the little things.

We have forgotten that there is joy even in the dark and dreary days if you look for it.

We have forgotten that the mud will wash out of our clothes and the sun will shine again.

It was such a great afternoon. 

We got home and took off our wellies and left them in the front garden. 

As soon as we got inside both boys stripped down to their pants. 

(For all you Americans reading this, 'pants' means underwear over here!!) 

So, please imagine those chubby little legs and soft little bellies running around unclothed! 

*swoon*

Of course, Hopey had to follow suit.

Now imagine three little munchkins running around in nothing but their pants and nappy squealing and giggling with glee! I mean, COME. ON.  

Yeah, I am COMPLETELY alright with being consumed like this.

I think I'll stay a bit longer. 

No promises on the regular blog upkeep though! ;)

An unforeseen and humbling 24 hours

My flight was set to leave at 9:50pm EST.

I was fully and emotionally prepared for 9:50pm EST.

I arrived to the airport with my sister, brother-in-law, and three nephews at 7:45pm.

Dan, my brother-in-law, unloaded my suitcases and gave me a hug then drove around the airport while the other four escorted me inside to have our "Goodbyes" after check in. 

Little did we know then the 24 hour journey I was headed into.

Setting the tale:

I was second in my line at the check-in counter. 

There was a darling couple at the counter before me. 

As the queue began to fill we stood laughing and crying, weighing the boys on the suitcase scales, and talking about what my future adventure could and would be. 

"Excuse me, Ladies and Gentlemen! I am so sorry, but it looks as though our computer system isn't working at the moment. We have I.T. on it and we are hoping it will be back up and running in the next 10 minutes. Thank you for your patience." 

We wait 10 more minutes laughing and crying. The queue grows exponentially. 

"Excuse me, Ladies and Gentlemen! We are in talks with British Airways HQ in London to try and figure out what is wrong with the system. We are still hopeful it should be up within the next 15-20 minutes. Again, thank you so much for your patience."

My sister and I decided that it no longer made sense for them to hang around waiting with me while Dan was driving around in circles and we obviously had no definitive waiting end time in sight. It was time for the hugs. 

I squeezed each boy super tight and cried a bit. 

I held my sister so tightly and we both cried a lot. 

I watched as they walked away, turning around often to flash me the ASL I love you sign. Watching them walk away was difficult. I won't lie about that. 

"Excuse me, Ladies and Gentlemen! Again, we thank you so much for your patience. It looks as though the whole British Airways system throughout the United States has crashed. They are working diligently to get it back online. Please continue to hold tight with us."

I look at my watch... 8:30pm.

We wait. I sit on the cold, hard airport floor. People mumble in the queue behind me. 

We wait. I continue to sit. People continue to mumble. 

We wait some more. 

I look at my watch... 9:30pm. Our flight is supposed to leave in 20 minutes. 

"Excuse me, Ladies and Gentlemen! Thank you, yet again, for being so patient with us this evening. The airline has decided to go ahead with all of our flights, but we are going to have to check-in and register everyone manually. Your plane is here and will wait until you are all through and processed and safely on your plane with your luggage in the hold. If you have already checked in online and have a seat number, be sure you show it to us at the counter and we will ensure that you have the correct seat." 

Do you know what "check-in and register everyone manually" entails? It entails an intense amount of patience and waiting, not only from the passengers, but from the airline staff as well. 

It. Is. A. Process;

-Handwriting passenger information from passport and driver's license onto paper log

-Handwriting luggage information (i.e. what you're bringing, extra baggage fees, etc...)

-Handwriting paper plane ticket

-Handwriting luggage tags before attaching to suitcases

-Comparing all handwritten information three times before confirming correct.

I was the second person in my queue. I left the queue to head toward TSA at 10:20pm.

Wow. That was much. 

What happened next:

I head around the corner and down the hall to go to the security and bag checks only I am very shortly stopped by another queue, roughly 20 people deep. You guessed it, TSA didn't have access to any British Airways passenger manifesto, so checking our id's in order to drop your carryon onto the conveyor belt required waiting for a handful of names on another handwritten list being brought from checkin to TSA and called aloud one by one. Yet again, we waited. 

Around 11:00pm I finally make it through TSA. I tuck my ziploc bags back into my carryon, my computer back into its case, put my shoes back on my feet, and buckle my belt back around my waist, and head off toward my gate. 

It just gets better!

We sit. 

And wait. 

And slowly, but surely, more people arrive. 

Everyone appears wiped out, frazzled, slightly agitated, and no longer impressed. 

Also, no attendants of any kind appear to be around. 

11:30pm. Nothing.

12:00pm. Nothing.

12:40pm.

"Excuse me, Ladies and Gentlemen! There are still a handful of people yet to be checked in, but as they finish up that process we are going to begin to board the plane. Please listen very carefully! If you checked in online and have a seat assignment, we ask for you to line up now. We will be handwriting your seat number onto your ticket before you can board. If you did NOT check in online and do not have a seat number, please wait patiently. We will have to seat everyone else first and then perform a walk through to see about available seats."

Ummm.... I tried to checkin online but it wouldn't LET me choose a seat. Seriously?!?!

Yet again, I wait.

(Are you beginning to recognize a pattern? 

A pattern of incredibly frustrating circumstances? 

Yeah, hang on. You ain't heard nothin' yet!!)

1:00am.

"Ladies and Gentlemen that do NOT have an assigned seat number please come to the main desk and we will issue you a seat number."

A line of roughly 35 people forms at the counter. 

Walkie talkies bounce seat numbers back and forth between the man ON the plane calling them out and the woman AT the counter double checking them and handwriting them on a piece of paper attached to a clipboard.

"Ok, Ladies and Gentlemen, please come over and form another line by the boarding door and we will give you a number one at a time." Ummm.... why did we have to stand in a line over here for 20 minutes? MANY an eyeball roll and an under breath muttering as we walk from here to there. 

I FINALLY get a number! My silver lining in a 24 time period of hell... first class!! That was a nice perk of all the chaos, I will admit. 

Plane boarded at 1:30am. 

You can't be serious?? 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, first and foremost thank you all so much for being one of the most patient groups of passengers I have ever dealt with in all my years as an attendant. I can now only ask for your patience to continue as the ground crew has to do a manual check and loading of all your luggage. This will take a bit of time. Again, we apologize for all the inconvenience."

1:50am.

(Thick British accent:)

"Ok, Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. All of your luggage is safely on board in hold, however it appears as though we have a glitch in one of the engines. I am in communication with command and have been instructed to power the engine down and restart. I will keep you all posted on the situation." 

Engine, very loudly, powers down and back up.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, again this is your Captain. Unfortunately, when we powered the engine back up the little nuisance light is still there. I am now in communications with the engineers on the ground and we are trying to get this sorted. Thank you, AGAIN, for your continued patience!"

Serious mutterings now;

 "Little nuisance light??" 

"WHAT. IN. THE. WORLD. IS. HAPPENING."

"All you can do is laugh now or you'll just start to cry!"

"Dear, Jesus, let us be safe!" 

"They aren't going to fly us with a glitch in the engine, are they??"

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the engineers on the ground have given us a way around this. I apologize for the inconvenience, but this is purely a power thing. We need to disconnect all tv monitors in your seats and booklights overhead in order for there to be adequate power for the second engine. I realize how inconvenienced you have already been this evening, but I ask for your continued understanding and to just allow me to get you safely to London Heathrow. I promise I will."

I can't even. Nothing matters anymore. I will sleep. And, I have my own booklight.

FLY. THE. PLANE.

We finally take off at 2:15am EST. That's 7:15am UK time. Good grief.

Is it over? Oh, no. Not even close. 

We land. Thank you, Jesus!! I get off the plane very quickly. Another perk of being up front. 

As I arrive at the UK border and immigration non-EU passports queue it is roughly 150 people deep and there are TWO, count them... 1, 2, immigration officers working. 

A lady in a red immigration blazer is walking through the queue informing everyone that they were unprepared staffing-wise for the British Airways crash and that they are doing the best they can, but there were four flights that came in at roughly the exact same time. 

Again, "Thank you for being patient." 

Again, we wait. 

And stand. 

After hours of sitting. 

After hours of standing. 

Do you know what happens to your feet when they go through all that? 

They swell. Yep, they do.

Roughly two hours later I make it to an immigration officer. 

Oh, how I didn't see this part of the story coming.

I spend 30 full minutes at the officers small kiosk while he asks me every question under the sun. I basically verbally filled out another visa application. You are legally allowed to go overseas for six months on passport alone, but apparently it is somewhat frowned upon and appears suspicious. 

(Sidenote- I applied for a visa. Little did I know I applied for the wrong one. It was denied for that reason and very soon before my actual flight date, so I didn't have time to re-apply.)

(Additional sidenote- My ticket was booked for the full eight months and through Orbitz, which is a third-party carrier. Until you take the first leg of your flight you cannot change your return leg because the actual airline doesn't have access to your ticket until then. Obviously, I had yet to change my ticket. Not good.)

"Ma'am, I'm going to need for you to follow me to the holding area while I take this to the Chief Immigration Officer to see whether or not you are allowed into our country." 

We walk over to a small sitting area with a handful of other people in it, but still in the middle of all the hustle and bustle. Annoyed a bit, but not truly worried yet.

45 minutes later...

"Ma'am, I need for you to follow me, please."

I obey.

We walk to the back of the room and through a door that leads to a hallway of other doors. One door is opened and I am ushered into a room where I am photographed and fingerprinted. The sobbing begins. 

What. Is. Going. On??

I was allowed to make one phone call before being escorted to "holding," i.e. "airport jail."

I called my sister-in-law. She tried her best to comfort me while juggling three little ones underfoot. I gave her the phone number to the room where I was to be held, only incoming calls allowed in there, and then asked her to start the round-robin of phone calls that needed to happen in order to inform them of the situation; my mom and dad, my brother, and my sister.

Then, I am escorted to a small office filled with CCTV monitors and a solid glass wall looking into the holding room that all of the monitors are monitoring. 

A very kind man named Brian explains to me what is going on and what I am up against. I am being held while immigration has time to review my case and decide if I am able to come into their country or not. He prepares me for the truth and reality of the situation... I could be detained up to 48 hours. 

No. No. No. No. NO! This is NOT happening to me!

A lovely young girl named Sarah takes me into a small room off to the side and gives me a thorough pat down. And I mean thorough. As if this hasn't been bad enough, now I am mortified too. After that, she takes everything from me and locks it up in another small room off to the side. 

Then, she escorts me into "airport jail." 

There is truly no other way to describe it.

Picture this:

A solid white room.

One wall has a "family room," and a mens and womens bathroom.

One wall has a TV hung in the very top corner playing a marathon of some cop show. 

One wall has an old school payphone in a tiny nook.

One wall is all glass and looks into the CCTV office.

Two tables with some magazines and rows of black, plastic chairs.

Three other Americans: Two men, one woman.

Three Middle-Eastern people: One man, two women. (Non of whom speak English.)

Airport Jail.

"Hey! I would ask how you are, but everyone in here knows the answer! What did you do to get yourself locked up??"

Here's the rundown...

One of the Middle Eastern women had been there for 24 hours.

The other had been there 16 hours.

The man had been there 18 hours.

The American woman had only been there about two hours.

One of the American men had been there 13 hours and the other 9 hours.

I'm the newbie.

I sob out my story to the best of my ability. Much commiserating and story swapping ensues. 

Lovely Sarah comes in and asks if I am hungry, thirsty, cold, etc... Yes, yes, and yes. It is an ICEBOX in there, and that's coming from me, who is rarely cold. Everyone is wrapped in stale smelling white blankets. I guess I'll get one too. Sarah brings me a microwaved frozen meal and a cup of water and a blanket. I sob some more. 

I wrap myself in my blanket and try to sleep on the hard chairs.

I listen to the Americans rant. We are extremely good at that. 

I listen to the Middle Eastern group. Their language is beautiful.

At some point my brother calls. He had been talking to dad and they thought that he should come to the airport and speak on my behalf. I knock on the glass of the office and when Sarah comes in I ask her if that is possible or would serve helpful. She goes and asks her superior. She comes back in and says that coming would be a wasted trip, but that calling into the immigration office may help. My brother goes to work. 

4.5 hours later...

We see an immigration officer through the glass come into the office. He speaks with the guards for a moment then comes into our cell. 

"Catherine Dudley??"

"WHAT?? YES! THAT'S ME!!"

Everyone in the room stares at me like they can't believe it.

"Come with me."

He leads me into the family room and we sit down at a table across from one another. He begins to ask me, almost word for word, every question I had been asked before I was brought here. 

At the end he says, "Stay here. I'll be back."

I respond, "In this room?"

"No. You can go back out there."

"My brother would like to speak to..."

"I spoke to your brother. Stay here."

I head back into our cell. 

"WHAT HAPPENED??"

It was amazing. No one was upset or disappointed that I was getting attention in what appeared to be a positive light. It was just a feeling of excitement and elation that if someone can see the light of day maybe they all can. To be in such an awful situation it was a beautifully supportive group.

20 minutes later he returned.

"Ms. Dudley, let's get your things."

Everyone in the room cheered for me as almost five hours later I was allowed into the country.

Is that the end of the story?

Ummm... Not at all. 

I could tell you about how I have been "flagged" for all future trips to the UK. 

(FUN! Considering I go every summer!!!)

I could go into detail how it took me an hour to root through and find my two suitcases that were lost in the "luggage graveyard" along with thousands of other bags.

I could go into the fact that in all the madness of the evening I left my leather jacket on the plane.

I could tell you about how difficult LHR is to navigate your way out of if you are looking for someone that is picking you up all while pushing a trolley FULL of luggage.

I could go into all those things, but I won't. Because you've already gotten the good stuff.

The "good stuff" that completely sucker punches you in the gut, slaps you across the face, and slams you into humility. 

The "good stuff" that makes seeing your sister-in-law walking across the parking deck toward you and being able to fall into her arms even better than it would have been before.

The "good stuff" that only deepens your love and appreciation for being able to fall into the arms of your brother and laugh with him over a home cooked meal every night. 

Everything is sweeter...

The Earl Gray tea. The scripture cards from my sister that were snuck into my bags without my knowing. The Alice in Wonderland journal that my parents got for me while they were here and left on my bed in my new home. The fuzzy caterpillars and ladybirds discovered in the back garden. The rolling around on a trampoline and giggling endlessly with the little ones. The sleepy fusses. The "sweeties" that follow taking your medicine. The story times. Even the grumpy times.

Rest. Time. Family.

It's all sweeter.

Thank you, 24 hours of hell.

Thank you for making all that follows even sweeter!

A girl on an adventure.

This girl right here is moving to England.

Oxford, England.

Gorgeous illustration by Lorena Garcia
Click the link to see it bigger and relish the details! Do. It.
Awesome blog called 'They Draw and Travel.' Check it out.

Only temporarily. 

Eight months, to be exact.

My brother lives there with my sister-in-law, two nephews, and a niece;

 Guys... they have British accents. It's UH-MAY-ZING. So squeaky and proper and sweet!

L to R: Gabriel, Hope, and Oliver
Seriously. Ever see anyone cuter? I think not.
They've grown quite a bit since this was taken. Can't wait to see how much! 

I am going to keep the babies two days a week while my sister-in-law goes back to work part time. You see, for the last four years she has been in baby bondage. The little ones are all about a year apart. She's incredible. The way she keeps her patience and always calls them "darling" even when correcting them is so delightful to behold. She has the kind of stamina and grace that people only dream of, BUT, the time has come for her to take a bit of a breather from everyday cooking, cleaning, splash parks, diapers, potty patrol, walks to the park, settling disputes about who Thomas the Tank Engine actually belongs to, breaking up bickering, wrestling nap times, and all else that comes with three under the age of four. That's where I come in...

Aunt Caffree... on her way!


Aside from kiddo lovin' I have some plans for while I am there;


1. Get healthy.
My body has been through a lot these last few years.
It's time to take it all seriously and heal.
My mind has been through a lot these last few years.
It's time to take it all seriously and heal.
My emotions have been through a lot these last few years.
It's time to take it all seriously and heal.
My spirit has been through a lot these last few years.
It's time to take it all seriously and heal.
My stress level has been on max these last few years.
It's time to take it all seriously and heal.
Health- a brilliant goal.


2. Draw/hand-letter.
I have a love for hand lettering and drawing that I haven't had time to truly tap into. I feel the need to know what I can do with it. I feel the need to devote some time to it. Who knows what will come of it, but the time has come to figure it out.


3. Write/Illustrate children's books.
My sister-in-law and I are going to write children's books together. Yep, we are.
Look out for a little boy up a mango tree coming to a book store near you! ;)


4. Travel a bit.
Not planning on anything major, just a few jaunts here and there.
Some of my girlfriends will come over on different occasions and we will take on bits and bobs in and throughout Europe.
My sister-in-law and I will hit Paris for a few days. Scotland (my favorite) again, for sure!
Who knows where else the wind will take me.
Adventure awaits!

My new battle cry! 

5. Spend some QT with my brother.
He has lived in Oxford for many years now. The rest of his family doesn't. He gets to see us, and vice versa, about once a year, but it is always short-lived. Family time is important. And he's my baby brother. We were wicked close growing up. Then we grew up and I moved away. I can't wait to be grown up friends. It's gonna be awesome.

6. Sit at many an outdoor cafe and keep up with this blog.
I enjoy writing. I do. Again, my life echoes, "No time! No time!"
Well, here comes time in spades.

7. Rest and Reboot
Self explanatory

That is the extent of my to-do list.
Short and totally sweet!


One more thing...
I did NOTHING to make this whole thing happen.
The Lord is awesome. Totally.
Yes, I have done a lot of intense leg work, but He completely laid the foundation for me to have this opportunity.

A tremendous gift.
A sabbatical from life.
Who gets to do that??
Very few, indeed.
Smashing!

I definitely think I am His favorite.

See you on the other side of the pond.

A story.

I wrote a story. A true story. About thankfulness. And heroes. And angels.

Prologue
As I stood in the hall at work talking with a friend, a coworker overheard me saying that I was driving 14 hours, through the night, to go home for Thanksgiving. “Oh my goodness, I sure don't envy you!” “Yeah, I don’t envy me either.”

Six hours in, starting to feel a bit sleepy. 20 minute catnap. 
Seven hours in, “I'm getting too old for this”. 20 minute catnap. 
Nine hours in, Fatigue. Hardcore. Setting in. 20 minute catnap. 
11 hours in… an unseen crate in the middle of the interstate.
A blown tire.

“AAA, How can I help you?” 
“I'm on I 85 S. I've been driving for 12 hours, I have three hours left to go, and I just blew out a tire. I'm exhausted and emotional, please help me.” 
“I am so sorry, ma’am! Since you're on the side of the interstate we're going to escalate your claim to emergency status. We will get somebody there as soon as possible. What's a good number to contact you back?”

It was 4:00 in the morning, but I called my mom and dad in spite. 
Sobbing uncontrollably, I said, “I'm so sorry to wake you up, but I have no idea when I'm going to be home. I just blew out a tire on the interstate!”

Blue lights. 

Through my blurry and makeup stained eyes I see them behind me. 

“Ma'am, did you hit that crate back there? I hit it too, and you’re the third call we’ve had because of that crate.”

More blue lights.

“Well hey there! Did you hit the crate?”

Again, blue lights.

“The crate? Alright ma’am, let's get that spare out and change that tire.”

One more set of blue lights.

Seriously? I could cry again. I laugh instead.

Trunk unloaded on the side of the interstate, spare tire out, jack out, five police officers change my tire.

“I cannot begin to tell you how thankful I am for you guys. I'm exhausted, I was scared, I was frustrated, the semi trucks are flying by and then you all just showed up. You just descended like angels to rescue me. You are literally on your hands and knees changing my tire, and standing in a semi circle around to protect me. I am truly overwhelmed with gratefulness for you five.”

*Counting Crows begin to sing "Long December" from my pocket*

“Ma’am, this is AAA calling. I wanted to let you know that I am still trying to dispatch someone to you. Because of the hour, I am having a bit of a struggle finding a driver.” 

AAA canceled. Because of my heroes. 

“Ok, so I am going to drive you, pace car, to the first exit and fill up your tires with air. Follow me, ma’am.” 

One exit later… Air hose. Four tires.  Officers. Hugs. Thank you’s. Goodbye waves.

Epilogue
Roughly 16.5 hours after I drove away from home in Richmond, Va., as the burning oranges and pinks on the horizon faded into the soft yellow glows of a brand new day, I pulled into the driveway of my parents home in Pensacola, Fl. Approximately fifteen minutes later, after hugging and sharing, “Hallelujah! You’re safe! You’re home!” exchanges with my groggy and pajama clad mom and dad, I curled up under the covers in my childhood bed. As I lay there warm and snug, and very quickly falling asleep, I replayed the events from three hours previous. I leave you with these thoughts that accompanied the movie reel in my mind…

We live in a sometimes very mean world. A sometimes very hateful world. A sometimes very evil world. A world that is big, and scary, and changing. We are peppered everyday with images, soundbites, and clips of violence, hatred, and disdain for fellow man. But then… 

Sometimes…

…on a cold November morning, before the sun even rises, you meet heroes from the Montgomery, AL. Police Dept. that change your tire, make you laugh, calm your nerves, and protect you from harm. 

…Sometimes, on a cold November morning, before the sun even rises, you meet angels from heaven that give you a glimpse of what it means to be thankful. You get a glimpse of kindness. A glimpse of caring. A glimpse of the gracious and the beautiful and the good that fills the gaps, cracks, and tears in this big, scary, and changing world. 

Happy Thanksgiving. Go hug your people. 

*A HUGE Thanksgiving “Thank you!” to Cpl. M Kidd, OFC D. Smith, OFC S. Baldwin, OFC M. Westbrook, and OFC D. Webster… my Thanksgiving heroes.*

Barbie Car

I have a car angel. I do. Really.

Every car I have ever had has been given to me as a gift. Or bought for $1. 

My first car was a white 1975 Ford Courier pick up truck with a camper top. 

She. Was. Awesome. 

I could start her up with a screwdriver. For real. I kept a small one in the glove compartment just in case I needed it. She had no power steering and it took every ounce of muscle to turn the wheel, but man, was she an amazing machine. 

I called her ‘Boo!’ 

My second car was a white Mazda 626. 

She was pretty sweet. 

I went from a dinosaur to breathing on the gas pedal and it flying! I had a daisy sticker in the lower center of the back windshield and a stereo that I bought and had installed at Radio Shack for $200. 

I called her ‘Little Boo.’ 

It seemed fitting. 

She was a good car too. 

Until the radiator exploded in a parking deck. That wasn’t pretty.

The car I drive now is a white Honda CRV. She is pretty spectacular. The previous owners had her custom painted to match an RV that they towed her behind. She has a swoosh of gold and dark blue down the sides. 

When I first got her I thought to myself, “Self. You HAVE to get her re-painted!” 

Then, she began to grow on me. 

She’s spunky. And unique. And individual. Kind of like me! 

Plus, everywhere I went people would text me things like, “HEY!!! You’re in Kohl’s right now! I saw your car!!” So… over time that became kind of cool! Although, sometimes I’ll admit, a little creepy. 

My hometown, Pensacola, Fl., had a re-branding campaign many years back. As a part of the brand they produced round magnets with different adjectives that are supposed to describe the city, i.e. Unique, Beautiful, Creative, Historic, Glorious, etc… The magnets were all brightly colored and had one giant word in the center and Pensacola, Fl. written small underneath. I had the pink one that said 'Beautiful' on my gas tank door.

One day, as a group of us were leaving church, my friend Chris looked into the parking lot and saw my car. His exact words were, “You know, with that crazy swoosh and the pink magnet your car looks like the Barbie Car! It even has it’s own Mattel sticker!” It stuck. (Pun intended.) Everyone calls it my Barbie car now. It is the cutest thing when your three year old non-blood nephew walks by it and says, “Da’s Fraffree’s Bawbie Car!!!”

I lost the pink magnet a few years back in a car wash, 

but the name has never been lost.

In three weeks I will pass on the Barbie Car that I have driven since 2006. I have been gifted yet another car, a Toyota Avalon. I’ve gone from truck to sedan, and now from mid-size SUV to sedan again. As thrilled as I am to have another car that I can breathe on the gas pedal and fly, and begin fresh with low mileage and minimal work to be done, the thought of letting go of the Barbie Car is like the end of an era for me. Honestly, I’m a bit sad about it. I won’t miss how none of the floor mats stay in place anymore, or how the AC knocks, or how her sun roof leaks on occasion in intense rainfall, but I will miss the way she smells like sweet cinnamon pumpkin, and the way she sits higher off the ground and really hugs the road, or how the dashboard is full of Squinkies handpicked just for her from my nephew Benjamin. 

What I didn't tell you was that it’s not completely the end of the Barbie Car and me. 

I’m passing her on to someone very special… 

someone that is going to rock the Barbie Car the way she’s meant to be… 

someone who has no idea how much their “cool factor” is about to get upped… 

(Ok, let’s be realistic)… 

someone who may possibly be a tiny bit embarrassed to drive her, and yet is man enough to work it without a care in the world… 

my dad. 

The thought. Cracks. Me. Up!!

I salute you, Barbie Car! Thank you for the grand adventures! See you in the 850!

It's been a while...

I haven't written in quite some time. Not sure why, really. 

I guess life just kind of took over and I lost my drive to write. 

I'd like to get it back now.

I've missed this. 

I don't think I realized how much until I began writing again tonight.

Ok, to get back in the game I am going to start small.

I got another tattoo. 

(Ok. Maybe that's big.)

The Tattoo Story. Take 2.

For almost a year now I have been staring at my right foot. I always thought it was finished and said everything it needed to say. In the last four months or so, that has all changed. I sit in my living room everyday, in my comfy chair and a half, and see my David Arms painting hanging on the wall above my TV. I see that precious little hummingbird and the symbolism behind it's fluffy and perfectly still body perched so quietly on his tiny little twig. 

"That looks right."  

I want him too. He belongs there. He's what is missing.

So, the search began. For the PERFECT little guy to accompany my daddy's pen.

I told myself if I couldn't find the perfect one I would not do it. 

I searched and searched.

'Hummingbird tattoos.' 'Hummingbird drawings.' 'Hummingbird illustrations.' 'Hummingbird paintings.' 'Hummingbird photographs.'

I would venture to say that 99% of all images I found were of the birds flying. Now, trust me, I get it. Hummingbirds DON'T sit still. Flying- it's their thing. 

They rarely stop. 

Ever. 

But for me, he had to be sitting. And again, he had to be perfect.

Finally, after about a month or so of searching I found one. 

He was what I wanted; sitting on a twig, soft and chubby and little, muted greens, reds and browns.

He was so great.

BUT, he was a water color painting. I don't like watercolor tattoos. 

They just seem somewhat messy.

I contacted the parlor I knew I was going to use and sent them an email of the image, (and told them I didn't want the watercolor look) and a photograph of my foot. 

My foot with a black and white printout of the little guy taped to it. 

Right where I wanted him.

I got a reply back that basically said, "He's too small to maintain the integrity of the line and the realism of his look. If we make him the size you want he will blur over time and won't look crisp anymore. He'll look like a blob and not a bird."

I didn't want a blob, but I also wasn't sure I wanted him any bigger.

The big day came and three of my girlfriends went with me to get him done. For the first 35 minutes we just played around with my foot and the stencil looking at different sizes and where it could be placed. I knew I didn't want an ankle tattoo, and it couldn't go too close to the outside edges of my feet or it would fade over time. Finally, I just decided to "suck it up" and go with the suggestion from my tattoo artist, Kid. (Side note- is "sucking it up" a wise attitude to have when dealing with permanent ink on your body?? In my case- Yes. It was.)

There are seven colors in my tattoo; 

two shades of black, a red, a brown, a tan, a green, and white. 

The first color hurts. The second makes you squeeze the stress ball until your hand hurts almost as badly as your foot. The third is about the time when you stop laughing with your girlfriends. The fourth, fifth, and sixth are all about practicing your lamaze breathing and trying your darndest to stay relaxed and not focus on the fact that the needle is currently piercing AGAIN and AGAIN and AGAIN the exact same spots it has been 5,000 times already. 

(That was a run-on sentence on purpose!!) 

By the seventh color I wanted to pass out. 

I am not a wimp. Never have been. I have a fairly high tolerance for pain. 

I am proud of myself. I didn't cry at all, but... this. sucker. HURT.

Ok. Maybe I fibbed a bit about not crying, but I didn't cry during the tattoo.

I cried when Kid told me to "Hop up, Baby Girl, and go look at him in the mirror!"

An hour and 20 minutes after the first needle stuck me I did just that.

I looked in the mirror.

I cried.

Such good tears.

My little hummingbird is the piece I didn't even realize was missing.

Until he was there.

Perfect.

I have had so many people tell me that it is one of the most beautiful tattoos they've ever seen. I think because he's simple. And his shading is gorgeous. 

He's not flashy or arrogant.

He's just still. 

And thoughtful.

I like that.

Have I mentioned how much I love it??

Here is a bit of a peek at the process.

The original vision.

 Kid. Working hard.

My foot stayed swollen and red for three days!

Big, tough tattoo guy took a selfie with me. Thanks, Kid.

So, there it is. My story.

Anyway. No more for tonight.

I promise I'll be back soon, though. 

And I also promise...

it won't have anything to do with a tattoo. ;)

Good night, Tiny Corners.

be still.

I did something drastic this past Sunday. 

"Permanent and forever!" kind of drastic.

I got a tattoo.

My parents resolved themselves to the fact that at 35 years of age there wasn't much they could say in order to prevent it from happening. It may have helped a tiny bit too the fact that my tattoo is written in my daddy's handwriting. 

Let me not jump too far ahead, but... just sayin.'

Now, here's the story.

I have wanted a tattoo since I was a teenager. Growing up I was convinced I knew what it would be (boy, was I wrong), but was never fully convinced it needed to be done. 

Until this last year of my life.

Have you heard of a "life verse?" You know, a specific scripture verse that speaks directly to your heart time and time again until it becomes a part of your very fabric? 

Well, I have one. 

Now I have one. 

I didn't have one until this past year.

Psalm 46:10a-

"Be still and know that I am God."

Confession time.

I am not in any way good at the first part of this verse. 

Websters dictionary defines STILL as:

 "remaining in place or at rest; motionless; stationary:"

 

The whole "Be still" thing... yeah. Not so much. 

I like to go. 

I like noise. I like music. I like laughter. I like voices. 

I like activity. I like action. I like moving.

I like to play and sing and dance.
I have two full time jobs and many others on the side.

See the conflict yet?

Websters also defines STILL as:

 "free from turbulence or commotion; peaceful; tranquil; calm:"

Sounds like a wonderful state of mind, right?? 

You know the old saying, "An idle mind is the devil's playground."?

Yep. That's me. 

My mind goes still? My mind goes.
Very easily. And very quickly. This, for me, can be a dangerous thing.

See the conflict here yet??

Confession time (take 2).

I am also not in any way good at the second part of this verse.

"know that I am God."

Let me clarify.

I KNOW that He is God. He is my Savior. He died for me. He saved me. I KNOW this.

I believe, however, (a personal belief) that the word 'know' in this verse truly means TRUST.

"Be still and TRUST that I am God."

That's harder for me.
He is God. He knows what's best. He works on His time schedule. In His ways.
For His reasons. For His purposes.

When things in life don't go as I feel they should does that trust waiver?

Sure. 

Should it? 

No.

Does it anyway? 

Yes. Most of the time. Yes.

Which brings me to this past year.

I've been through a lot of ups and downs in the last few years of my life. 

This past year, however, this verse has been a constant. Everywhere I go, there it is. 

I see it.

I hear it.

It's whispered to me.

It's spoken to me.

It's painted on a wall.

It's posted on a blog.

It's dangling from keychains.

It's plastered on bumper stickers.

And then came David Arms.

He is a breathtaking painter. 

He paints birds. And eggs. And teacups. And scripture verses. And many other things.

He is amazing.

(Check him out www.davidarms.com)

My parents got one of his paintings several years ago from my aunt and uncle. It's a hummingbird sitting on a perch made of a stick hung up by two strings.
Above the little bird are the words

BE STILL

AND KNOW

It hangs in the family room. I love it.

David says on his website that he paints hummingbirds a lot because "The hummingbird... is perpetual motion. I remember when I first saw a hummingbird still. It was startling. As it can be for us – it can be startling for us to be still. Yet we must."

Wow.

Last year my family had the privilege of visiting David's Gallery Barn in Leiper's Fork, TN. 

I met David. He is such a wonderful and godly man.
And he wears bow ties. :)

I saw the painting again. Even though I've seen it a hundred times on my parent's wall it meant something different to me this time. 

It meant it was time for ME to learn how to be still. 

Time to know that He is God. 

Time to truly know it.  

To trust it.

And believe it.

And live it.

I decided to get that tattoo. 

I now knew that it would be NOTHING like my young adolescent mind had pictured. 

Now I knew it would be words.

be still.

Now, I had to find a font.

My best friend and I searched on a free font website for about three hours one night. We narrowed down a thousand or so fonts to one. Care to guess the name of the font? 

Mighty to Save.

Ummm... ok. Got it.

It doesn't end there.

I texted a dear friend of mine and told her that I was going to do it. She, in her brilliance, said to me, "Cath! You should get your dad to write it! He has AWESOME handwriting." 

This is a true statement. He has awesome handwriting.

He's also my daddy. In the truest form of the word. 

My heavenly daddy gave me a true example of how He loves me in the form of my earthly daddy.

I'm a blessed little girl.

Anyway... I texted my mom and asked her to get dad to write the words be still on a piece of paper and send me a picture of it. 

I followed my request with "all lower case and with a period at the end."

Mom's response was, "Are you planning a Christmas present?" Ha!! She'd later wish so. ;)

Dad scribbled it out quickly, not knowing why, and I got the photo. 

I practically burst into tears. The font my best friend and I had chosen, and the print my father had written were so close to one another I couldn't believe it. A different boldness and daddy's maybe not as crisp, but it was there. 

My font. My daddy's font.

(Perhaps a huge factor in why I was drawn to it begin with and just wasn't aware?)

Mighty to Save

 Daddy

Done.

Then came the Skype conversation where I told mom and dad the whole story. 

It went so much better than planned. They were actually supportive. 

A bit wary, but supportive. 

My dad said he was honored when I told him I wanted him to write it.

When I told them what it would say my mother made a small gasp and elbowed my dad in the ribs. I assumed it was because she had texted me the photo and it was finally all snapping into focus now. 

I was wrong. 

A few days later came my birthday present in the mail. 

Mom and dad had bought me a print of David's BE STILL painting. 

He signed it. 

They had it framed for me. 

It is so beautiful and hangs in my living room. 

When I went home at the beginning of the summer dad wrote it out again.
Very carefully and very perfectly. No pressure, right? :)

I went back down again to Florida this last week
and four dear girlfriends went with me to get it done.

So...

Now...

Ready to see the tattoo??

Here we go!!!

 during- FYI: Lars was wonderful.

a brief glimpse into the event. press PLAY for 15 seconds of awesome.

So now, everyday, my earthly daddy and my heavenly one both provide me with reminders to 

BE STILL

AND KNOW

I'll admit it...

It's still not easy, but I am so much better at it than I was before.

My life verse plays on repeat in my head daily now. 

It's like my theme song. 

Some days it even has its own little melody and harmonies to go right along with it. 

Some days it screams itself at me in order to force me into submission to it.

Other days it speaks gently. 

And softly.

 And I respond.