Imperfect lenses and seeing clearly . . .

* A note to regular readers . . . I'm suspending The Wednesday Pop until next week, so I can tell the Nicaragua stories in consecutive posts.  Pop will return!


So, you know I just returned from this amazing trip meeting friends in another land.  Everything is different after you do that - thoughts, the way you 'take in' a regular ole' day, the things you appreciate. Nicaragua was wonderful, from the vivid colors of her landscape to the big open hearts of her people.  I can't wait to go back.

I went to Nicaragua in a confusion that I rarely feel.  I decided, after advice from friends who had been before, that taking my 'real' camera wasn't the thing to do.  I vacillated with that decision from its inception until moments before I boarded the plane.

On the one side of my brain, I heard, I always take my camera!  How will I make it, not recording what I see to the best of my ability?  Will I miss something?  Will I be able to retell the story when I return without crisp, sharp photos?  How will I make it without my 'friend'?  

On the other side, I'll really BE there and live in the moment.  I won't have that albatross around my neck.  There will be no worry at the chance of destroying my investment.  My big camera won't be between me and the wonderful souls I'll meet.  

I went back and forth, back and forth.  I do that too much anyway, and this was serious see-sawing!  It drove me crazy!  I researched meaningful photography with an iphone, I threw the question out and tried to hear what God had to say, and I looked into 'making it work' without a DSLR.  I put myself through the ringer, trying to decide.  I tried to remind myself what I tell people all of the time . . . it's not the camera that makes a great photo.

Okay, you get the point.  I was befuddled.  Folks felt like the dusty conditions weren't the right thing for my camera and some wondered if maybe it would be a good exercise for me to see things through a different lens.   What to do, what to do?

So, I went and boarded the plane, loaded down with small cameras and equipment.  I spent the day of travel convinced that I was forgetting something, as I was so accustomed to carrying my heavy camera bag.  I had a borrowed camera, a new small camera to leave with friends in Nicaragua and my iphone, accompanied with my array of extra little lenses for it.  I was armed and ready.  I would leave my Canon at home and I would head off into a new world and see it with my own eyes.  I wouldn't carry a great big instrument around my neck.  I wouldn't worry about which lens was best for each situation.  I would see what I was seeing, instead of composing it through the viewfinder of my comfort zone.  I would retrain myself to use different equipment, and I would enjoy it.

Want to know how I did?  I'm still not sure!  I did enjoy the freedom my camera choices allowed me.  I often felt closer to what I was living than I sometimes feel behind my usual mechanical friend.  I was lighter.  I was quicker.  I didn't worry about water or dust or sand or where to set things down or whether something was safe.  That was good.  I focused with my own two eyes.  Maybe I was more of a participator instead of the director.  I snapped and snapped and snapped.

I guess I could say it was a success.  I missed things, though.  I missed the artistic part of what I do.  I missed the familiar feel of camera in hand, imagining what stories I could tell with what images.  I missed the work that goes into the choices about light and focus and speed, etc.  I was out of my element, a bit.  And, when I returned home, I really missed the crisp photos I like to see.  I was disappointed with the fuzzy images of the people and place I now love so much.  I missed the art.  I missed the bokeh behind my new friends' faces.  I missed the focus on just a small section of the photo of something special.  I missed the clarity I look to find.

But the trial wasn't a blowout.  It worked.  It really did.  My camera stayed safe at home, ready to get back to work when I returned.  I moved effortlessly around a new home in a new land.  I was with my subjects.  I was there.  Nothing was between me and the people I loved.  I snapped and snapped and snapped like I always do.  All was all right.  I learned.  I learned a lot.

I'll admit that when I look at the photos, I often find myself wishing I could 'do it again' with clearer machinery.  I do.  But, in the end, I made the right decision.  I spent my first trip to a new favorite place with less baggage, and that is always a good thing.  I'll go back.  I'll probably go back with a familiar friend around my neck.  But, nevertheless, I did it right the first time.  This time it was about getting to know this place and her amazing people.  I did that.  Thank God.

As I've edited the photos, I've had to re-assure myself of this epiphany over and over again.  I've had to tell myself, again and again, that the images I returned with are just fine.  And, as usual, I did come back with a few thousand photos too many and I can look at them and immediately bring back the moments that meant so much.  They work.  They help to tell a story.  I'm thankful.

The little cameras were just fine to remind me of what I saw.  Wish you could have seen it, too, friend.

 I wish you could have watched this quiet time between my dear friend and this precious little girl, living in the dump just outside of Chinandega, Nicaragua.

I wish you could know the magic of watching one with nothing tenderly helped by one with plenty.  I wish you could have witnessed the gentleness of this speck of time; this moment with no language.

I long to make you see what this child's face looked like when she looked back at Marta with no words and with a thousand words.  A child who is used to nothing walks by with her gift of oranges from us and works to carry them safely back to her shack to her waiting family to share in the magic.

   She and Marta work together, with a few failed attempts, until they got it right, and this little love looks back with thanks.  It was tender.  It was loving.  It was sad and happy and beautiful at the same time.  I snapped and snapped and snapped.

And I didn't need a fancy camera to see the look in the eyes of this little girl from the same area, as she spotted the familiar face of a friend from far away.  I wouldn't have had time to decide on the right settings on my usual camera, but I was able to grab the little one and click, click, click.  I can't tell you how wonderful it was to watch this sweet girl see the face of my friend and lunge into the air to get to her!  What a moment.  These photos don't follow any rules of composition; but for me, they capture that magic moment - a moment when two people who share no language, no realities, no familiarity, come together in love and understanding.  Snap, snap, snap.

And on the day before I left this new place I love, I was able to jump out of the back of the truck when I saw the looks on the faces of my dear friend and this sweet mother in the village.  They didn't know each other.  They share no commonalities.  But, what I saw convinced me that their eyes screamed out in understanding.  They looked at each other in a way that said, from one to another, "We know that feeding our babies, physically and emotionally, is what we are here to do."  They loved each other without words or shared stories.  I was there.  I grabbed my trusty phone and witnessed the magic.  Snap, snap, snap.

So, I'll get over the fact that the photos aren't perfect.  I'll move past it and remember that they can still tell the story.  These fuzzy photos can still tell the story of folks who came together in ways more meaningful than I could ever imagine.  Thanks be to God.

Bird by Bird . . .

I told you last week (Friday's post) that I was having a hard time putting words to my Nicaraguan experience.  I've really been stumped!  As I've shared, I assumed that I would return from my trip and wordy descriptions would be falling from my mouth.  Normally, telling stories is not hard for me, but that hasn't been the case.

I've found myself scared to begin sharing, in fear that I won't do it all justice.  As is often the case, Tim has come to the rescue.  (He is good at starting things, and I am not.  I can usually come in and finish up, but I often need his help to bump me out of a paralysis that sets in when I need to do something.)  And so, last night he said, "Why don't you just pick one moment or one person or one memory and tell us about that.  Don't feel like you have to sum it all up at one time."  And then again this morning, he texted me from work with a "just start small - you can do it."  Ahhhh, thanks.

With Tim's nudging, I was reminded of the same tip from one of my favorite authors, Anne Lamott.  She is an eccentric nugget of humor and reality and religion, and I've enjoyed so much of what she has written.  A while back, she wrote a book called Bird by Bird, and I love the story that was the inspiration for the title.  Lamott recalls that once her brother had a big, big report due and he was way behind.  The report was due the next morning, and he was making the whole family miserable.  He was to have spent weeks and weeks researching many different types of birds, and he had done nothing.  Lamott tells about her memory of her father calmly sitting down at the kitchen table, gathering her brother and his supplies and quietly saying, "we'll just get it done . . . bird by bird."  I love that.  Baby steps.

And so, that's how I'll do it.  I'll do it bird by bird - or maybe moment by moment.

I assumed I'd start at the beginning, but that's not really how my brain works . . . and so, I'll start mid-way through the trip.  One day a group of us traveled (in the back of a Toyota truck - yeah!) a couple of hours from Padre Ramos.  Those of us visiting, along with our friends who run the youth camp where we were staying and some awesome young men who live in the village, loaded up bags of beans and rice and fresh oranges to give to the people who live in the dump.

Yes, they really live in the dump.  Apparently, their village was destroyed a few years back by a natural disaster and the 'dump' area was a gift of the government - a new place to put down roots.

I want you to meet three beautiful friends I met there.  Look into these precious eyes.  This seems a good place to start.

Their beauty, their giggles, and their universal kid-like appeal was unforgettable.  Walking through the dump, coughing from the dry dust and watching where we stepped, these three sets of eyes were captivating, almost magical.  Our fun began when they pretended to be hiding from me, using the palm branches that they were moving (chores, I guess).  We laughed and taunted and enjoyed each other for a while then, and their sweet faces will always be with me.

This morning, as I looked back over these faces, I wondered the all-familiar thing, "Why were they born to this and others born to something so much easier?  Why?"

We've all wondered the same before, and I assume we'll be wondering about it for as long as we are able to wonder.  I stared at those bright eyes and found myself imagining them in a different reality.  Just imagine with me, if you will.  Imagine the scenery is different.  Imagine their sweet faces are smudged with the sugary mess from cotton candy; not the sludgy dirt of the dump.  Imagine their chores are to make their canopy beds in their pink and purple bedrooms; not the dusty work of maintaining a home made of found trash.  Just imagine.  Look at their faces.  They look just like the ones we all know so well.  Imagine . . .

See the red spot near the back of this image?  That's just a little girl, giggling as she plays hide-n-seek with her neighborhood friends.

She could be carrying her soccer stuff in from the car after practice.

She's smiling, as she watches her best friend sneak up from next door.

 This little one?  She's just about to tell her Daddy that she made a one hundred on her spelling test.

 She just told her mother a secret about her crush at school.

 They're laughing about having their photo taken again for the yearbook!

She just finished opening the birthday presents all of her friends brought.

Guess what she just found under her pillow from the Tooth Fairy?

 They're on a really cool field trip.

She just found out she made the honor roll.

Their swim team just won the city championship!

 The class clown just cracked them up again in Math!

She's daydreaming about her family's trip to the beach this summer.

"Come on, you go first!"

"She always makes me go first!"

She just loves her choir teacher!

They always love the first day at camp.

 Her cheerleading coach always makes her smile.

 They're waiting on their grandparents to arrive for a visit.

They're always messing around at volleyball practice.

No, those things aren't really their reality.  I don't know why.  You don't know why. 

Even more, I don't know why they're smiling.  Would I smile?  Could I smile?  

That's what I'm thinking as I search the souls in these images.  I look into these twinkling eyes, and I have questions and more questions.  I do know one thing, though.  I was there, and they were giggling. They were smiling.  They were playing.  The sun sparkled in their eyes, and I saw it.  

Thanks be to God.

What's the chance of this?

I'm so excited at the moment, I can barely get the words on the computer!  Something so amazing is unfolding, that I want to share it.

On Monday, I leave for a one week trip to Nicaragua.  I'm delighted to be able to do it.  It has been a long time since I've been on a trip like this, and I know how incredibly life-changing these kinds of trips  can be.  I'm ready to meet new people and I want to show folks living a completely different life that friends in another part of the world care very much about them and I want my children to remember seeing their Mama taking trips like this.

I guess my trip is called a mission, though I'm sometimes funny about that word.  I don't ever want to be part of a group that visits people in their homeland and plays the part of the 'Smart American that knows how it should be done.'  I don't like that idea.  I am more comfortable with the idea of my meeting new friends where they are, getting to know them and letting them get to know me.  I like the idea of spreading love by feeding or laughing or dancing or learning or telling stories.  I love that idea.  (We'll be working along with TOGETHER WORKS NICARAGUA.  Check them or find them on facebook.)

So, I have excitedly anticipated this trip.  I look forward to showing the love of God by meeting new people to love and laugh with; and, of course, I look forward to taking photos of the beautiful souls I'll meet.  All of that, coupled with my self-imposed challenge to leave my big camera at home and shoot only with my iphone, has been enough.

But . . . in the last few days, an amazing turn of events has occurred.  I love it!

A couple of months ago, I ran across something on the internet about an organization to empower women and children in struggling areas to tap into their creativity, gain self confidence and help their villages by learning photography.  I was immediately intrigued, but lost the webpage as I went off to tackle one of those minor emergencies that comes up from time to time in a real life - a child in need or a telephone call or some such thing.  The story stuck in my mind, though.

After I realized that I would be joining my friend on this trip to Nicaragua, I thought back and wondered about trying to find the group I had read about.  I kept it on my 'list' but continued to let other things slip in front of my investigation.  Oddly enough, my fascination with Instagram (my username is deanamg if you are fascinated, too) brought the whole thing back to me!  I happened to run across two words that struck me - picture change - and I KNEW that was the name of the organization I had read about earlier.  I was delighted.  I quickly began to investigate to find out more, and I hope you will, too!  Find it here - PICTURE CHANGE and also on facebook.  I have a feeling you'll be as swept up in the stories as I was.  Check out the blog - amazing things are happening for people in far corners of the world.  Check out the cool shop (http://picture-change.org/store/) and see the cool stuff available that is changing people's lives.  I dare you to read the stories on the blog, and not be moved by what Kate, Picture Change's founder, is up to.  Wow.

Now I'll speed up the story a bit. . .

• I find out the area where we'll be visiting.
• My friend who has been before tells me that the young woman who translates was given a computer recently.
• I find Picture Change again, and begin to read about a woman named Rosa who was a Picture Change student and is making strides in her life in Padre Ramos, Nicaragua.  
• I hear my friend call the name Rosa, and I find it a neat consequence.
• I decide to send a message over facebook to Picture Change and let them know how swept away I am with what they are doing and to let them know I'd love to do anything I could while I'm in Nicaragua.  
• Last night, I receive a message back - a wonderful, newsy note from Picture Change, explaining that Rosa where I'm going is the SAME Rosa that is a Picture Change student!  
• I get news on the supplies that Rosa needs for the computer and printer (given to her by Picture Change) and today I purchased them to take with me on the trip!
• Kate discussed ways that I could help Rosa and others while I'm there with photography lessons and how to further the cause.  

This whole thing has amazed me!  I thank God for this chance and for the ways that these things came together.  I didn't sleep much last night - I spent a lot of time imagining how exciting it is to have the chance to share something I love this much with new friends in another place in the world.  I'm thrilled, to say the least.  

So many of you have sent prayers and financial help to assist in this trip, and I thank you.  I'll appreciate good thoughts and prayers as we are gone, and I cannot wait to take you with me on this amazing trip.  

Loving Jack . . .

A week ago something tragic happened.  I know tragic things happen everyday, maybe every second, somewhere in the world.  We all know that; we just don't usually have that fact on the forefront of our minds.  And then something tragic happens to someone you know.  Or to you.  Then it's different . . . you know what I mean.

A week ago the house of my friends burned to the ground.  No one knows how it happened or why it happened.  The very different thing is that I watched it.  I watched it along with many others, including the three friends who lived in the house.  The friends who were losing all of the material things they owned.  And other friends who owned the house and whose grandmother had lived for years in the house.  We watched.  We all watched as the firefighters worked and worked and worked and worked.  We watched as materials that had withstood the test of time failed the test of fire.  We watched and watched and wondered what in the world to do. 

That's what I wanted to tell you about.  That's the part I want you to know.  What people did is part of what I'll remember.  Watching your house burn down is not graceful, but what people did in that moment was grace-filled, to be sure.  

I can see all of the people now.  I can see them in my mind's eye.  I can see my three friends, a daughter home from college and Jack, their dog on a leash.  I can see them - their eyes wet with tears and thankfulness for their lives and lit up from the flames that wouldn't burn out.  I can see them now.

News travels fast, and word of the fire moved swiftly through many folks in our church.  You might imagine that most people would be safely tucked in their warm homes on the night before Thanksgiving.  They were.  But you should have seen the folks who left those warm homes on the night before Thanksgiving to come out and stand with their friends as they watched the fire destroy all that was inside.  There was nothing to do.  So we watched.  

And more folks came and they stood beside the folks watching what they knew go up in flames.  Some folks said things.  Some folks cried.  Some friends hugged.  Some folks said nothing at all, but stood in support, as if by standing alongside they were serving to hold up those whose home was being demolished by a force too strong for humans to outsmart.  Some folks called others from the scene.  Some folks went to the store to purchase toothbrushes for the moment that would surely come and it was time for them to go to sleep, somewhere, sometime.   Some friends left to go the ATM to get money that they would come back to put into the hands of the ones who had nothing.  People made plans about how to get what they would need.  People planned where they could live.  People planned what they would eat.  Friends loved in all of the ways we knew to love when there isn't anything we know to say.   

The fire raged on, as if to show us all that it was powered by something stronger than we understood.  We stood, we watched, we planned, we hugged, we wondered what in the world we were supposed to do.  We wondered what to say.  We wondered how to look while we stood shoulder to shoulder with loved ones as they watched the unreal happen.  We wished we could think of something to say, to do, something to help.  We wondered what we would want, what we would need.  The fire just kept burning, kept raging - sometimes growing calmer and then surprising us all with force as it roared to life again.  And then we stood some more, wondered some more.  Didn't know what to do some more.

There were people everywhere.  Sometimes the scene was so surreal that you had to remind yourself that it was actually happening.  I'm sure that Greg and Jan and Michelle and Elin felt that way.  I'm sure they had to continue to internally remind themselves that this wasn't a bad dream, that this was really happening.  And there was Jack, the sweet Jack Russell dog, on a leash, confused and wondering.  I remember that I often saw Greg bend down from standing, grab hold of Jack's sweet head and hold it - loving him, giving the confused dog some sense of certainty even though he had none himself.  I'll always remember that.

Hours went by.  The fire raged on.  It was almost surprising that something burning that hot, that fiercely, could burn for that long.  We kept standing.  We kept wondering.  What do we do?  What do we say?

And then I saw something I'll never forget.  I saw three people I didn't know just sitting right in the middle of the commotion.  As throngs of wonderers and watchers and wishers and prayers stood and walked and hugged and wondered, these three people - a married couple and their son - sat down on the ground.  I couldn't help but wonder what they were doing.  Why were they just sitting there?  They seemed so intent on being in a circle, on roping off the reality from their little party.  I couldn't understand.

I walked closer to them and saw them there in a circle, as if the terrifying scene lighting up our eyes and our faces wasn't really happening.  I got closer and closer.  I wondered who they were.  Why were they there?  Why weren't they trying to figure out what to do?  Why weren't they standing alongside those who were watching what they thought was sturdy fall to the flames?

And then I saw Jack.  There was Jack, the sweet dog, right in the middle of the circle.  That's what they were doing.  They weren't doing nothing.  They had found something they could do, and they were doing it.  If I had taken their photo and could crop the horrors of the background away, you would think they could be nestled together in a warm cabin somewhere, enjoying their family pet.

They were active.  They weren't just wondering.  They were doing.  Acting.  Walking the walk.  They whispered to Jack and petted him softly.  They took turns calmly holding him, caressing him and using all that they had to give him peace.  They didn't know what to do either, didn't know how to help or what to say, so they found something they knew they could do and did it.

I won't forget them.  I won't forget what it looked like to see them in the midst of the terrifying night.  There was horror that night.  There was disbelief, shock and sadness.

But there was grace, too.  There were friends and strangers giving all they knew to give, saying what they could or just standing in support.  And there were three people who did something totally different - a little band of angels that quietly walked up, found a job and made a difference.  I won't forget them.

  

GrandMae's Dictionary . . .

Recently I met a woman on her ONE HUNDRED AND THIRD birthday!  103.  That is a big number.  She was beautiful and gentle and had a quiet wisdom that matched perfectly with her spunky personality.  I'm glad to have met her, and I couldn't resist asking her (what, to me, was) the obvious question.  I had to ask.

What's the secret?  What's the trick?  Someone who lives one hundred and three years must have the manual for a secret formula.

Her lips curled up in a sneaky smile, she clapped her soft hands together and peered over at me - Secret?  What's the secret?  Oh, there's no secret.  I wish I had had a few more moments with her, though, because the child-like, sly smirk on her face made me think she had more to say.  She had some secrets.  I hope we get to talk again.

That conversation has had me thinking.  From time to time, I find myself pondering my own question - wondering to myself what the secrets are.  We probably all know them somewhere deep inside.  I guess the secret is allowing yourself to get to them, to burst through all of the busyness and flotsam and jetsam of these crazy lives of ours to see the obvious.

One secret keeps burbling up in my mind; and for me, it is symbolized by the picture of a great big dictionary in a warm home I used to know well.  I believe - no, I think I KNOW - that one of the secrets is to stay curious, to keep wondering and I hold in my mind the clear picture of someone I've known who wondered and asked until her last days.

Once we had the sweetest of neighbors.  Her name was Mae and she was married to Jimmy and years ago we luckily landed next door to them.  As we started a family, they quickly became Grandmae and GrandJimmy and they were delights.  Our lives are better for having known them.  I could write post after post about them, about what they taught me, but today I remember Grandmae's dictionary and consider how it was one of the physical manifestations of a life well-lived for a long, long time.  It was living proof of one of her secrets, I just know.

The dictionary was one of those great, big, chunky ones; the kind you see in the library, always opened to a page close to the middle so the chance to find something new is always awaiting the right person.  There were signs on the book's edges that were evidence that once each page was framed in gold and its pages were curled in just the right amount, to let you know that each and every page had been attended to, had been studied.  It sat on Mae's 'porch', a bright room at the back of her house that had long ago been a porch but years ago had been converted to a comfy den.  The dictionary laid atop a table at the perfect height, just under a great big window to the back yard and its old hardwoods and memories.

Just having the book was not her secret.  The book was grand and majestic in its own right, to be sure, but it was its aid to a life lived out that made it special.  It was its role in her days that I remember, that I draw on when I'm being truly alive.  It was how she used it that made it special.  

I doubt there was ever a time I spent in her home when she didn't refer to the grand ole' book.  I can see her now, jumping up from her perch to look up the meaning of a word, to figure out how to explain something in our conversation.  That was one of her secrets, I believe.  She kept wondering, asking and jumping up to find the answers.  I'd love to know the number of times her sweet hands held that book, the times that great mind was filled a bit more with some new, juicy bit of knowledge.  That would be  a big number, to be sure.

I won't see her grasp those worn, metallic-edged pages again, but I've got a perfectly clear picture in my head.  I carry it with me wherever I go, and I remember to keep wondering.  That has to be one of the secrets.  I just know it.

Dear Covington,

Dear Covington,

I've never written a thank you note to a town before.  This is my first.  This note goes to you, C-ton, and the amazing folks that inhabit you.  I feel sure I can't do an adequate job showing my gratitude, but I'd like to try.

When I arrived here with my family of three, I had no idea of all that you'd teach me.  I didn't know then what a lot of learning I had to do. You were gentle with me, and I was able to take it slow over our twelve and a half years together.  I came to you with a three month old child, pretty confident that I knew a lot.  I leave you with a seventh grader, a sixth grader and a third grader, totally sure that I have a lot to learn.  Thank goodness you were patient with me.  Thank goodness you were patient with my whole family.

I must confess that you didn't sound all that great when I first heard about you.  Now I know that I don't know anything about a place until I have lived there; until I have met the people that make a place tick. I couldn't have known then what a mark you would make on my life, what you would teach me or the ways you would teach me to maneuver through life.  

Back in 2000, as Tim and I ate pimento cheese sandwiches at People's Drug Store, I had no idea how many memories I was about to make.  I couldn't have known about the times my kids and I would dance on the square, listening to awesome music.  I wouldn't have imagined I would roller blade a few years later in the Christmas parade or that my children would make a memory on each yard of that square.  I didn't know that I would be in and out of your beautiful houses, knowing and learning from your great citizens about everything from childrearing to gardening and that many, many times I would visit in those same homes and laugh and laugh and laugh.  

I didn't know when we first visited here in the great snow storm of early 2000 that we would have two more children here and that the people of this sleepy little town would be our extended family.  I couldn't have known then that your citizens would be with me when I was happy or when I was scared, when we were celebrating or when we were grieving.  I had no idea how much I would love you and how you and yours would return that love.  I didn't know that my children would roam your streets with a jubilant confidence that comes with being somewhere where folks love you and appreciate you and watch out for you.  I didn't know then the feeling I would have later when my friends loved my children as if they were their own, or how proud I would be to be surrounded by the friends of my children, as they ran in and out of our house.

You seemed to be such a small place.  I had no idea that I would meet people that seemed just like me and people who were organic farmers and people who made great music and people who had traveled the world.  I didn't know that inside those stately homes and those elegant facades were the folks who would soon feel like family.  I didn't know that you would hurt with us and help us and urge us on when we needed it.  I had no idea then how very much my family would love all of yours.  

I did not know that you would afford my children the adventures you would: that they would perform on stage and sing in school and learn more about the arts on the Oxford campus.  I didn't know that those friendly looking souls we saw strolling along your streets would soon feel like our grandparents, our cousins, our brothers and sisters.  You couldn't have told me then that we would love folks so much that my children would call them "Aunt" and "Uncle" or that our family would be as comfortable in everyone else's churches as we are in ours.  I did not know how amazing it would be to worship with loved ones all over town.

 
It seems funny now, but I had no idea how many laughs we would share with your people.  I didn't imagine that we would laugh at all of the crazy things we would do together - the Bunco, the Girl Scout cookies, the impromptu gatherings at Scoops, the long talks in the driveways or the book club meetings.    I wouldn't have imagined then all of the ways that your people would become my family.  I didn't know then that I could actually love the children of my friends as much as I do or that I would ever drop my children off at school with the peace of mind that comes with knowing how very much they are loved.

I didn't have any idea how friendships between people of all ages would be forged between my family and your people.  I didn't know that I would soon walk around your square and not be able to go more than ten feet without bumping into someone I truly loved.  

Sometimes we would get sick in your town.  Or sometimes we would be sad.  I wouldn't understand right at first that we would be supported in such loving ways or that your people would hold their breath with us, pray for us and carry us through.  I had heard of the "it takes a village" bit, but I had no idea of what that really meant.  Now I do.  I'll never forget.

We didn't know when we first came to you that we would build a church with your people or build a school with them or work with them to create things we thought impossible.  I would never have believed that I would change careers while I was with you or that your people would encourage me so so much.  

I guess I wasn't sure when we arrived in this special place that I could be appreciated for who I really am or that Tim, my children and I would feel so loved.  I wasn't sure how comfortable it would all feel, how often we would smile or all of the times that we would laugh until our stomach hurt!

Everything wasn't perfect here.  That's just it.  We've been really living the day to day, right along with your people.  We've struggled together, outlasted the mundane together, gotten up early together and stayed up late together.  It has been fun.  In your town, the people are 'in it' together.  

I guess no one really knows, when they arrive in a town, what awaits them.  But you have taught me that I shouldn't ever let my mind jump to any conclusions.  I know now that it's the people that make the place and I know now that sometimes people are full of surprises.  Some of them are good storytellers, some can whittle magic out of wood, some sing like angels, some listen with sweet and patient ears and some are nurses whenever you need help.  You have them all in Covington, and your characters have etched a spot in my heart that won't ever be erased.  

You've been gentle with us.

You've listened to us.

You've taught us.

We have hung out with your people.

We have laughed alongside your people.

We have dreamed with your people.

We have wondered about what we might become with your people.  

Just before we came to your town, a friend told me something I never forgot.  She said that Covington would always be different in my heart because it would be the place my children started their lives.  

Our children did start their lives here, and I am eternally grateful.  Wherever they go, they will be forever different because of the strength of their beginning.  They will always carry pieces of your special town, and I pray they never lose the feelings they learned here of being loved and appreciated.  It will carry them far.

You aren't able to avail your citizens every activity in the world or chances to choose between hundreds of restaurants, but you offer them something even more special.  Your folks can wander the streets, supported by every human they pass; the children in your spaces have the unique feeling of 'owning' the town.  Neighbors are neighbors and the events of each citizen's life are appreciated.  

I didn't know much about being a Mama or wife when I arrived in your midst.  I might not know much more now; but all that I know about my life in these roles, I learned with you.  Your children painted in my garage, destroyed my house, dug 'pools' in my backyard and sent me off on quiet times with Tim.  In this place I've learned to cook, learned how to get away without cooking, what I need, what I don't need, and who to call when any situation arises.  I don't take that lightly.  

On your streets, I've driven mini-vans that should have been retired, I've walked with sleeping babies, I've 'gotten into shape' and I've taken casual strolls.  

And, man o man, have we laughed!  I've learned to laugh at myself in your town, and I hope my children take away the same skill.  

Covington has been, and always will be, my village.  

I'm sorry for the folks who don't ever live in a place like you.  I'm quite sure they don't know what they are missing.  They don't know about the people who make the place, the village mentality, the laughs or the strength that comes from the unconditional love of real friends.  We didn't all start here, but we were here together during a special time.  I'm grateful that we came.  

Wherever we are, you will be with us.  You have shaped us.  You have held us up.  You've taught us and you've changed us.  You have loved us.  

Thank you, Covington, for your people and your lessons and your quiet streets.  Thank you for twelve and half years of living and loving.  

With much love and a heart full of thanks,

Deana