Being thankful, on purpose.

{2 Corinthians 12:9-10} But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

{Isaiah 43:2} When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you; when you walk through fire you shall not be burned, and the flame shall not consume you.

I took some hits last week - to my physical stamina, my professional self-confidence, and my faith that good always wins. Since this summer, I've been working on a violent sexual assault case, one of the worst I've encountered in my career. And for the first time in my career, a trial of mine ended in complete acquittal. 

On the most basic level, my pride was injured, but while another loss may just have left me indignant, this one left me disillusioned and heartbroken. I love trial. It's a rush, and satisfying to know that in the end, the truth wins. I am comfortable in a courtroom, maybe more than in any other space. I know what to do, or at least I've thought that I had a pretty good handle on it. I like wearing the white hat. I like being on the side of the broken and abused because I love watching as people find their voice and realize that they can heal and be strong and overcome. That being hurt is something that happened to them, but it's not who they are. 

I knew there were weaknesses in the case, but I felt like my co-counsel and I confronted them as best we could and helped the jury move past them. I say all the time that juries regularly surprise me but almost never in a good way, and that's never been more true than this case. I've never left a courtroom feeling like justice lost, like a criminal had escaped conviction, like a victim wouldn't see her tormentor held accountable...like evil won. It's not a good feeling. It feels very much like a death. 

The victim was so brave and so inspiring. I've read all the police reports so many times I've practically memorized them, and I've heard her tell her story before, during our trial prep meetings. Nothing prepared me, though, for watching as she told a jury of strangers what had happened to her on, as she describes it, the worst day of her life. As she testified, I actually struggled to maintain my composure, which has never happened to me during trial. I went home that night feeling physically sick because I couldn't stop thinking about what she had endured. This woman said repeatedly that she thought she was going to die. She talked to God and said her mental goodbyes to her babies, and she did her best to make peace with the fact that in that moment, her life was ending. 

And then after her testimony was all over, she hugged me and thanked me for believing her, knowing that we were days from the end of trial and from a verdict. She thanked me and she smiled, and then she left everything in my hands. 

I can't shake the feeling that I failed her, that there was something I should have done or said that would have made all the difference. At the end of the day, though, I can't pinpoint what it might have been, and my education and experience tell me that there's nothing substantive I missed. The proof was there, and for whatever reason, this jury just didn't believe her or didn't care about her. That makes me feel gross inside. And yeah, it makes me very angry. I keep repeating to myself the advice my dad gave me before my first trial: "Alane, the prosecutor never loses. The prosecutor presents the case and gives the victim her day in court. That is winning. That is everything." He's right, but that doesn't stop this from feeling very wrong. 

I love Thanksgiving. It's my favorite holiday. This is meant to be a season of thankfulness, a time for taking stock of life's blessings and articulating them in a purposeful way. I'll admit, though, that this year, I'm struggling.

That's not okay. So, I decided to force a little thankfulness, and as so often happens, I forced it for about half a minute, and then suddenly realized I wasn't forcing it anymore. I'm much better at sorting through my thoughts by writing about them, and after days of being emotional and disconnected, it's reached the point where I have to process this experience somehow. Hence, this blog, and a list of things about this past week for which, in hindsight, I am grateful. 

1) A very supportive boss. He will mime vomiting if/when he reads this because he's no good at accepting compliments unless they're about his appearance, but I really, truly have a fantastic boss. He's funny and encouraging, and he took over most of the day-to-day tasks that I'm typically responsible for, without me even asking, because he knew I'd been doing trial prep around the clock for weeks. He stayed at work late on a Friday to wait with me on a verdict, and when it didn't go the way we wanted, he walked me to my car and didn't make me talk about it. That's a gift, folks. 

2) Really amazing friends. Two of my best friends in Phoenix sent me funny messages every single day, boosted my confidence even when I wasn't really feeling it, and distracted me from the worst parts of trial with baby pictures. Friends are family that you choose, and choosing them is one of the best decisions I ever made. 

3) More about friends. I'm lucky that my old boss is now my friend. She reminds me to take care of myself, and to take it easy on myself when work gets rough. She has listened carefully and given thoughtful feedback when I've asked her advice, and on Friday, she not only took the time to tell me I did a good job, but she also sent me a video of her littlest baby girl, covered in peanut butter, and chattering into the camera. She checked in on me over the weekend, and she did all of that while in the midst of facing the loss of her father-in-law, explaining that loss to her two very young children, and helping them learn to grieve for the very first time. I don't know how to ever thank her properly for that. 

4) My mom. Pragmatically, I don't tell her much about my cases beyond the bare bones (the basic charges, and maybe a few details just for reference). Despite that, she prayed for me and for our team, and she checked in multiple times a day, and when I called her so tired I literally couldn't string words into a sentence, she told me to hang up and go to sleep. And when I told her the verdict, she said she knew I had done my best. That without knowing the details, she felt confident enough in me to say that...well, it means the world. 

5) More about family. I spent most of yesterday with a cold washrag on my face because I had a horrible headache, probably due primarily to exhaustion from lack of sleep the preceding days. My cousin texted to check on me tonight and then sent me a bath-time video of her toddler telling me to feel better, complete with blown kisses. Love and laughter are the best balm for a bruised heart, and I'm thankful for those who take the time to send them along. 

There's more to say, and maybe I'll make it a point to add to this list later. For now, I'm thankful that I feel peaceful for the first time in a while, and I'm thankful for another night of rest before an abbreviated work week. 

xo,

avb

Happy Mother's Day

I don’t have children, but there are so many babies in my life whom I can’t imagine loving any more than I already do if they were mine biologically. I have celebrated their births and birthdays, their first steps and their first words and their first days of school. I have tended their boo-boos, dried their tears, sung them lullabies, and grieved more than a couple of heartbreaking losses and too-early deaths. I have watched their mothers endure difficult pregnancies, pain, exhaustion, and exasperation while prioritizing the lives and happiness of their babies above their own, and I have witnessed them do so without a second thought, without caveat, and without bitterness or regret. They have fought fiercely for the title of Mama, Mommy, Mom, Mum. Motherhood hasn't come easily or effortlessly, or without cost, to any woman I know. I proudly name these warrior mamas among my family, my closest friends, my most favorite people … my heroines.

For reasons that I cannot comprehend, it’s become posh to criticize motherhood. Mommy bloggers passive-aggressively insinuate themselves into positions of mock authority and through a computer screen, anonymously berate working mothers and stay-at-home mothers, mothers of only children and mothers of multiple children, mothers who breastfeed and mothers who don’t breastfeed, mothers who co-sleep and mothers who place their sleeping babies into cribs, baby-wearing mothers and mothers with strollers, mothers who are indulgent and mothers who emphasize discipline, home-schooling mothers and mothers who sacrifice to pay private school tuition. No mother is immune from their venom; no mother is ever good enough.

I would like for us to acknowledge collectively that being a good mother does not mean adhering to a singular chronology or design. Good mothers are everywhere, and they are just as perfect and just as imperfect as the children that they parent. I love that I get to celebrate mothers this weekend because now more than ever, it is my fervent wish that these women feel valued, respected, appreciated, and empowered. So here’s my message to all the mothers I love:

You are doing a good job. Your babies are fed. Your babies are sheltered and warm. Your babies are held and cuddled, loved and adored, and well looked after. Whatever choices you’ve made, don’t capitulate. You are doing everything right. You are a shining example of what a strong woman should be. You are a blessing to your children, and you show your children in a million ways that they are blessings to you. Your kiss heals in an instant, and your voice comforts the greatest fear. Your lap is a refuge from every storm, and your house will always be home. Your smile is “good morning, sunshine” and “good night, moon” and every sweet, timeless moment in between. Your hands offer the softest touch and the strongest support. With your hugs, your arms celebrate every victory and soothe the worst hurt, but won't do their most difficult job until later, when they let go. I think that you are spectacular, astounding, and miraculous. And I believe that if you ask your children, you will find that they think so, too.

Cousin-Friends

Just before Christmas, my younger cousin, Rebecca, was diagnosed with breast cancer. She’s healthy and energetic, and she has a perfect, beautiful 16-month old little boy, Charlie. Rebecca and I probably weren’t the closest as children; her brother Rob and I are the same age, so our interests were typically more aligned. Rebecca is two years younger than Rob and I, and even though that age difference is practically non-existent now, it seemed more significant then. We became much closer during college though, so much so that our Grandmama spoke often about how happy it made her for us to be friends as well as cousins. We christened ourselves “cousin-friends," and well, I could never have imagined how meaningful and important that hybrid relationship would become, not only with Rebecca, but also with my other cousins with whom I am blessed to share friendships. Of course, I’m sure Grandmama knew; hence, her happiness.

Rebecca shares many traits with our Grandmama, and mostly, it’s the ones that I strive to emulate but never quite master: her reserved determination, her limitless kindness, and her ability to turn just about anything into a story. My most favorite memories of our college years are the times she cooked spaghetti (with Worcestershire sauce) and the time that we played Chinese fire drill in front of the Alabama Theater so that I could parallel park her car. These may not seem like major life events, but let me tell you, mention either of them to us, and I guarantee we’ll laugh… a lot.

Rebecca had a double mastectomy the day after Christmas, and just this week, she had her first of eight biweekly chemo treatments. I am in awe of her strength and positivity, though I suppose I am not really all that surprised by it. She’s always been the funny one, the sweet-spirited mischief maker, the little girl who always wanted to make people laugh and who grew up to become a young woman who always manages to find the good in everyone. Since her diagnosis, Rebecca has spoken frequently to acknowledge the power of prayer and to ask that her friends and family join in praying for her healing; she has repeatedly voiced her confidence in God’s ability to heal. She doesn't complain, and almost never mentions fear or worry, and to me, this has been perhaps her greatest testimony.

Ephesians Chapter 3 has been on my mind quite a bit lately. It was written by Paul while he was in prison, and during this time of struggle, Paul writes not about his physical suffering but instead about God’s righteousness and faithfulness. Isn’t that incredible?

I haven’t figured out God’s ultimate purpose in putting Rebecca through this awful ordeal — putting all of us through it — and it’s probably not for me to know or understand anyway. I am certain, however, that I have learned a lifetime’s worth of lessons about grace, gratefulness, faith, courage, and humility.

"Now to Him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to His power that is at work within us, to Him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen."

I love you, Becca.

Argo

Book by Antonio Mendez. Film directed by Ben Affleck.

A book review and a movie review, all at the same time!

I saw Argo (the movie) last October when I was visiting my friends Brandy and John in Colorado. Brandy and I had planned to go and visit some mountains and some snow, but it rained instead. Everybody knows that rainy mountains aren’t nearly as much fun as snowy mountains, so we opted for a movie day instead. I am embarrassed to admit that I knew little to nothing about the Iran hostages prior to seeing Argo, so it was even more of a learning experience for me than it might have been to a more knowledgeable viewer.

I agree with the reviewers who thought that the manufactured tension at the end of the movie was a little bit tiresome, but overall, I loved Argo. The casting was perfect – especially Alan Arkin and John Goodman – and I agree with all those people who were dumbfounded that Ben Affleck didn’t receive a Director nod at the Oscars. I’m not generally able to pinpoint good directing as the reason I enjoy a film, but Argo is an exception to that. I suppose that Best Picture is a pretty good consolation prize, but in all honesty, I thought Zero Dark Thirty deserved Best Picture just as much as Argo deserved Best Director. Oh, well – I’m not in charge of either decision.

My mom and I were in DC last weekend, and while we were there we visited the International Spy Museum, which is across the street from the National Portrait Gallery. We weren’t able to go when we were in the District last summer, but we’d been told that it was a fun museum. At some point during the lead-up to awards season, I read that Antonio Mendez and his wife, both former CIA operatives, were on the board of the museum, which further intrigued me. In all honesty, I can’t say that I was all that impressed with the museum itself; I chalk it up to an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, my absolute inability to figure out the preferred direction of travel inside the museum, and the fact that way too many people (and too many children, in particular) were there. I eventually started following every exit sign I found and made my way to the gift store (I do love a gift store, y’all), where I found autographed copies of Mendez’s book Argo: How the CIA and Hollywood Pulled Off the Most Audacious Rescue in History. I bought one for myself and one for my dad, who loved the movie as much as I did.

This isn’t the book that the film is based on. That’s The Master of Disguise, which was written after the operation was declassified in 1997. Mendez wrote Argo in 2012, after the film had already been completed. As anticipated, the book fills in all the details that the film glosses over. It’s an easy read, albeit lengthier than necessary (I found myself wondering whether Mendez had an ineffective editor or a page number quota that he couldn’t reach without pages and pages and pages of backstory). In any case, I loved learning about how CIA operatives are trained in forgery and disguises; it’s like Mission Impossible, only real.

In a nutshell, here’s what we learn from both the book and the film versions of Argo: the CIA is crazy smart; you can’t hide from them, but they can very effectively hide from you.

Happy birthday, Grandmama.

March 16, 1929. My Grandmama was born 84 years ago today. I think about her all the time - when I am getting dressed and remembering how she took me to school every morning when I was growing up, when I'm getting a manicure and remembering how she used to ask me to file and paint her fingernails for her when I was home from boarding school on the weekends, when I try to make biscuits like hers but always fail, and mostly, when I look at pictures of all her great-grandbabies that have been born since she died and smile knowing how much she would have loved to spoil them as much as she spoiled my cousins and me. 

I was very lucky growing up. My grandparents lived just across the street, and I probably spent as many nights at their house as I did my own. Grandmama would meet me at the road, and we'd walk back to her house together. She was a really great grandma; I'm sure lots of people think this, but I think she was the best grandma in the whole world. We would watch Wheel of Fortune, and play Scrabble (I have her to thank for my winning record in Words With Friends), and iron pillow cases (I don't know why), and shell peas, and can figs, and do a thousand other everyday things that always felt special because that's the kind of person she was. She taught me so much. How to sew a button, to season an iron skillet, to make cornbread. To celebrate every little thing that makes you smile, and to be kind to people, always. 

I miss her every day, but I know she's with me. I hear her voice in my head on my happiest and saddest days. I try to be a person who would make her proud, and even though I don't think she would care one way or another about the "lawyer" part of my job, I know that she would be proud that I work hard to help children. Everyone who knew her knows that children were her heart - any children, all children. I am proud to have inherited that from her...and her iron skillet.  Happy birthday, Grandmama. I love you.

When She Was Good

by Philip Roth

Philip Roth is one of those authors that people have been telling me for ages I should read. I was visiting with one of my favorite families over the holidays, and I was once again implored to pick up a Roth novel and give it a go. I think, however, that in my zeal to load up my new Kindle, I may have picked the wrong one to start with. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy it, because I did; it’s just that I didn’t finish it and have the irrepressible urge to read every single word he’s ever written.

From the inside book flap: “In this funny and chilling novel, the setting is a small town in the 1940s Midwest, and the subject is the heart of a wounded and ferociously moralistic young woman, one of those implacable American moralists whose "goodness" is a terrible disease. When she was still a child, Lucy Nelson had her alcoholic failure of a father thrown in jail. Ever since then she has been trying to reform the men around her, even if that ultimately means destroying herself in the process. With his unerring portraits of Lucy and her hapless, childlike husband, Roy, Roth has created an uncompromising work of fictional realism, a vision of provincial American piety, yearning, and discontent that is at once pitiless and compassionate.”

Here’s the thing. I get the distinct feeling from all the reviews I’ve read that I’m supposed to dislike Lucy. For example, she’s described variously as chilling, controlling, unforgiving, inflexible, unsympathetic, and deeply flawed. I completely disagree with most of those descriptions, and I can’t decide if it’s because I missed something, or if it’s because I started out liking her and just refused to stop, or if it’s because I’ve had a few of those same things said about me and believe that maybe they’re not altogether negative characteristics to have.

Mostly, I guess, I think they’re one-dimensional observations about a character who is decidedly three-dimensional, and if we’re going to crucify Lucy for having a little bit of a nervous breakdown, then she also deserves to be recognized for her intellect and strength. There’s a scene where she’s sitting at her kitchen table, pregnant with her first child, watching her mother fall apart – again – not because she was beaten by her persistently drunk and unemployed husband, but rather because he left the house after the beating and hasn’t come back home. When he finally raps at the door, Lucy meets him there and does what her mother has never had the backbone to do for herself: she tells her father to leave and not to return. I reread those pages several times, struck not only by Roth’s description of such an awful, debilitatingly moving moment, but also by his ability to make me feel it from multiple perspectives at once. I felt Lucy’s exhilaration and adrenaline, but I also felt her mother’s shame and her father’s humiliation. It’s magnificently written, really.

I suppose, if I try really hard, I can see how some people may think that Lucy’s mean or hard-hearted, but…well, not really. What choice does she have? Her grandparents are classic hands-off enablers, her mother is a co-dependent victim and apparently not willing or able to change that, and Lucy spent her childhood watching the chaos around her and hoping for the best. Yes, she’s puritanical, but we see that all the time when children are parented by neglectful substance abusers. It’s no small wonder that she takes some pretty drastic action once she finally realizes that she’s an adult and can exercise some control over all the lazy, complacent people who have raised her.

I wish I had read this book in college because there are so many facets and intriguing little details that would have made for a great term paper. At the same time, I’m also relieved that the term paper part of my life is over.

Like Truvy in Steel Magnolias, “Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion!”

When I blog, I try to strike a balance between light-hearted frivolity and discussion of serious topics about which I feel passionately. I do this for two reasons, first because I think that a blog devoted solely to either extreme would become tiresome after a while, and because Southern women (like women everywhere) have to navigate both worlds all the time, so I want my blog to represent us accurately. We often find ourselves laughing hysterically at a funeral or crying at a baby shower, and while either of those may feel wildly inappropriate someplace else, in the South, it’s just how it is.

I find that, in general, some people are pretty eager to dismiss Southerners as stupid, and I don’t think that pinning down the cause of that is as easy as rewinding to the Civil Rights Movement and pressing the play button. I hate that part of my home state’s history, but I’m still proud of the progress made since then, and the ongoing struggle and those that are fighting through it. I’ve tried to figure out just what it is about Southerners, and Southern women in particular, that makes people feel so entitled to judge us. Is it the big hair and the heels and the bright lipstick? Is it the accent in general, or maybe that we regularly use words like “sugar” and “honey” when referring to humans? Does it just drive everybody insane at the grocery store when we talk about “sacks” and “buggies” instead of “bags” and carts”?

Now, I have a friend who would agree with Suzanne Sugarbaker – that women who aren’t Southern are just jealous of women who are, and this jealousy accounts for their rudeness. I’m not really convinced that’s true, but at the same time, I do often feel like I have to overcome some preconceived bias before people will listen to me. Yes, it’s true that we take football just as seriously as we take church on Easter morning, and yes, when it comes right down to it, we are probably even more serious what we wear to either occasion. This is not about some misplaced sense of priority, although I think lots of people would make that accusation. The smartest and kindest women I know, without exception, are Southern, and for me, “smart” and “kind” are the highest compliments that exist.

Perhaps I’m just hypersensitive because I work in law, which punishes femininity and rewards severity. I admit that my natural response to conflict used to be softer, but after six years of constant confrontation, I’m harsher now – partly because I’m more sure of myself and my decisions, but also because harsh works and soft wastes time. Although I know lots of female lawyers who strive to be more like their masculine counterparts, I actually try very hard every single day to be more like my grandmother. And I guess that at the end of the day, that’s the point that I’m trying ever so circuitously to make: Southern women are soft and feminine and still effective, and I’m really, really trying to be more aware of that in my everyday life.

Zero Dark Thirty

Forgive me if I take the long way around this film review.

I find that books are inextricably linked to my important life events. For example, I learned that I had been accepted to law school when I got home from the library at 1:30 a.m. and listened to a voice mail from the Dean. I was researching The Sound and the Fury and Absalom! Absalom! for my final paper in an English class.

And, I specifically remember that the semester I decided not to go to medical school, I was reading The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. Maybe it seems odd, but it’s still one of my favorite books, and that’s probably because there’s this paragraph in which the narrator perfectly explains why she could never be a doctor. She’s looking at the Periodic Table – all symbols and abbreviations, impersonal and sanitized – and just sees, in that moment, that she can’t spend the rest of her life caring about it. I felt validated, inasmuch as I could feel validated by a fictional character in a book whose author committed suicide by sticking her head in the oven, I suppose.

The semester after that, I took five English classes, so thrilled with the prospect of being able to take classes that I actually wanted to take that I apparently forgot to consider what it would actually mean to read five books every single week for 16 weeks in a row. Now, admittedly, some of those books were just awful; in fact, I’m pretty sure that every book I read for my British Literature class was terrible, and made more so by the professor, an American man in his sixties who was educated at Vanderbilt, but who at some point spent like six months at Oxford and in that brief time, developed an affected British accent so thick that it barely diminished despite him spending the subsequent four decades teaching at Alabama. But I digress.

The World Trade Center and Pentagon attacks happened during my Shakespeare class in 2001. Literally, during. I left my classroom, walked out of Morgan Hall to my car, turned on the radio, and heard that One World Trade Center had collapsed. I remember that we were discussing Othello that day, which was notable because it is my most favorite of Shakespeare’s tragedies. I also remember that we were reading e.e. cummings in my Poetry class that met the next morning; I know because we were assigned to imitate a poem of our choosing every week, and I imitated a cummings poem when I wrote about 9/11.

A few weekends ago, I finally saw Zero Dark Thirty. I had put it off for a while, mostly because I just wasn’t really ready to deal with it. I finally had to bite the bullet because the Academy Awards were airing the next Sunday, and I knew that I wouldn’t be able to watch a movie that long during the week. I think the reasons for my hesitance are pretty obvious, but at the same time that I worried about revisiting the trauma of that time, I was also a little bit anxious about the scenes depicting torture.

Those scenes in particular had gotten quite a bit of bad press and brought back all the conflicting feelings I had when the practices at Abu Ghraib and Guantanamo were exposed during the summer following my first year of law school. My guess is that Kathryn Bigelow anticipated that her audience may take issue with watching something that intensely graphic, but that she wouldn’t risk being called a hypocrite by making a film about the hunt for bin Laden but not addressing the systematic methodology of torture used to extract information about him. She’s smart. And because she’s smart, she starts her film with 9-1-1 recordings from the victims in the towers; she uses their words, their fear, the moments when they struggle to accept their own deaths, to help us accept (justify? rationalize?) what we will see later.

I can’t really say much else about Zero Dark Thirty that hasn’t been said someplace else. I enjoyed it, despite all the time I spent with my hands covering my mouth, and all the tears I cried – some in horror, some because I am so proud of those who serve our country. It is a fantastic film, and really, so much better than The Hurt Locker. I loved Silver Linings Playbook, and I think that Jennifer Lawrence is a fine young actress, but Jessica Chastain deserved the Oscar for Leading Actress.

Who says you can't go home?

Almost exactly six months ago, I worked what I thought was my last day as a prosecutor. After weeks of weighing pros and cons, much hand-wringing, and so many prayers I bet God got tired of hearing from me, I decided to accept a position at the Legal Services Office. At the time, I thought I’d be handling mostly civil cases – divorce, custody, child support, maybe some estate planning, who knows – but very quickly, I was moved to Guardian ad Litem work, which afforded me the opportunity to work with children in a capacity wholly separate from my former role as a child crimes prosecutor. Dependent wards are appointed GALs to advocate for their best interests. Our only job is to advocate for the child – not for the Community or the parent or the Social Services caseworker, but for the child. It’s a unique perspective, especially for someone like me who started her career with a mindset toward prosecution. There are prosecutors in dependency cases, but I’m not her, a fact which can sometimes be as irritating as it is liberating.

Friday will be my last day at Legal Services, and next week, I will be a prosecutor again. Specifically, I will be Assistant Chief Prosecutor, which is a title that’s much fancier in theory than in practice. Mostly, it means that in addition to new supervisory duties, I’ll be back in a courtroom, back to working with victims of child abuse and neglect, back to doing the work that I love no matter how hard it sometimes is. It’s strange to think that I’ve reached the point in my career where I’m supposed to be able to lead and teach. I’m both eager and apprehensive about the change, but primarily just anxious to get started.

Since the summer, I’ve been drawn (probably divinely directed) to Psalms and Proverbs, more often Psalms. In reading Psalm 25:12-13, we see that God teaches prosperity, not failure. When we follow His instruction, success is the reward. Even the promise of success, though, isn’t always enough to keep away the doubts that occasionally creep into my subconscious. Thankfully, His grace is abundant and abiding, as are His blessings. In fact, the lesson that constantly boomerangs in my mind is how blessed I am. I am blessed with amazing mentors, and the rare ability to leave a job that I love for another that I hope to love more. I am blessed with a precious group of close family and friends who prayed for me six months ago, and then stepped right up when I asked for their prayers again. And I am blessed with something that we’re so often told we can’t have: a chance to go back to a place that I left.

Through the past year – with its challenges, its uncertainty, and its incredible gifts – God has answered my prayers. In spite of my fears, my anxiety, and my doubt, He has been as He promised:

a refuge and strength (Psalm 46, Psalm 59);
a strong tower (Proverbs 18, Psalm 61);
capable (Psalm 25);
gracious (Psalm 86);
forgiving (this is mentioned so many times in the Bible, but my favorite is Psalm 103).

I realized, somewhere in the middle of all this, that inasmuch as I’ve believed and trusted in Jeremiah 33:3 all my life, I’ve never been more aware of having lived that promise until now. Thankful, so thankful.

Thankful

The holidays are a strange time, huh? It's the end of the year, and just as I'm relishing in a tiny bit of relief from triple-digit Arizona summertime temperatures, I'm thrown into this whirlwind season of forced festivity and gift-giving anxiety. Even shopping, which I love, reduces me to a ball of stress because I become neurotically fearful of choosing the wrong present and disappointing someone that I love. Every public building - malls, post offices, grocery stores, airports - morphs into a sea of humanity that sets my teeth on edge and makes me want to run, screaming, toward the nearest exit. In the middle of my panic, though, I occasionally have moments of lucidity, seconds when I remember that all of this stress is simply a distraction from what's important, and that the method of celebration really shouldn't detract from that which is being celebrated.

I am blessed, and fortunate, and happy.

And so, I am thankful:



For lipgloss, the redder the better, and sparkly nail polish, any color (except orange, because as Blake says, "Orange is for Auburn." YUCK!).

For Blake, Malak, Abby, Mattie Grace, and Isaiah, and especially this year, for Charlie and Ben. Nothing makes holidays more magical than big smiles on little faces.

For pretty shoes.

For NPR.

For old friends, most of whom are distant geographically but close in all the ways that matter.

For new friends who are becoming old friends, and who are there to laugh at all my various predicaments, and then help me get out of them, and then laugh some more.

For my DVR.

For a mom who doesn't stop answering the phone even after I've called her nine times in half an hour.

For a dad who taught me to love the law, and never gets tired of me asking him to explain it to me just one more time.

For my grandparents, Horace and Ruthie. Nothing I say could ever be enough, so I won't try.

For philosophy's eye hope under-eye cream.

For cousins who were like siblings as we grew up, and more importantly, who are my friends now.

For a job that's more than just a job, and for coworkers who are more than just coworkers.

For good music.

For The MISS Foundation, which reminds me to be grateful, mindful, and gentle, and which inspires me to live and love fiercely.

For Google.

For Google maps.

For Instagram, Skype, Goodreads, Facebook, text messaging, email, and mobile phones. My friends and family are busier than ever and scattered to the four winds, but I still get to laugh with them when they're happy, cry with them when they're not, share with them a well-beloved book, watch their babies grow, and tell them I love them.

For a hairdresser who doesn't mind a challenge, or that I constantly change my mind.

For sweet tea.

For pearls.

For Sephora (and Barney's).*

For the quickly-approaching awards season.*

For a God who lavishes His grace, mercy, and forgiveness even when I forget to ask and even when I don't deserve it, and who answers prayers I didn't even know to say.

Happy, Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. xo, avb

*Added at the request of SCM, who knows me so well.

"It's about to be Halloween..."

So much has happened in my life during the past year, though looking at this pitiful blog, you’d never know it. I’m gonna’ try to do better, though. Promise. And to start, I want to talk about the most significant addition to my agenda.

About two years ago, I started reading a blog, Rockstar Ronan, at the urging of my boss at the time. She had gone to law school with the blogger’s husband, and she told me about how her friends’ son had been diagnosed with Neuroblastoma, a particularly insidious and deadly form of childhood cancer. Ronan lived in the Phoenix area with his family, so maybe that’s why I immediately felt such a connection to them; I joined thousands of others in sending up prayers for his healing. The blog posts were primarily positive and funny, mostly because Ronan is such a cutie, and his mom often posted photos of him. Y’all know how I love kid photos. Though I wasn’t a daily reader at first, I almost always checked in weekly to see how Ronan’s treatments were progressing, and to be honest, I was really quite certain that he would recover because he never “looked” sick in pictures, and his mom’s stubbornly bubbly tone made a cure seem inevitable.

One day in May 2011, I found out that Ronan had died. And then Taylor Swift wrote a song called “Ronan.” And somewhere in the middle of those two things, I learned about the MISS Foundation and Dr. Joanne Cacciatore.

I remember the night I filled out the application to volunteer with MISS. I had just read a particularly heart-breaking blog post, and I sat in the middle of my bed and typed out my responses to the application’s questions on my iPhone. To be honest, I never thought I’d even be contacted again. What could I possibly offer them?

Fast-forward to July 2012. I had accepted a new job and planned to start following a week-long vacation with my mama (btw, we had so much fun). Right about that time, I got an email from MISS explaining that they had reviewed my volunteer application and wanted to know if I was interested in a position on their Executive Board of Directors. I was shocked. Also, humbled, terrified, and a little bit speechless, which doesn’t happen to me very often, as y’all know. I spent a couple hours on the phone with some of their leaders, and I fell in love with their spirit, their kindness, their energy, and their motivation.

I’ve been on the Board for all of two months now. It’s been more rewarding that I can even articulate.

And so now it’s about to be Thanksgiving. In addition to being more thankful than ever for all of the beautiful babies in my life, I am also grateful that MISS is here for all the families with missing babies. And, I’m so grateful that I get to be a part of that.

Fried plantains

AKA:  Yumminess, the likes of which you've never before experienced.  Nick taught me to make them during my visit.

Use coconut oil, which looks vaguely like Crisco when you buy it.  Heat it on top of the stove in a pretty sturdy pot until it liquifies and reaches a medium heat.

Use a mandoline or a food processor to turn your plantains into 1) very thin coin shapes, or 2) long, thin strips.  Plop them into the oil, and when they've browned on one side, flip them over.  They'll kind of start to float as they get done.

Nick wanted to try them with guacamole, which I think would have been really good.  Alas, all the avocadoes had gone bad, so we didn't get to make any.  We just sprinkled with salt while they were still hot, and they were SO good.

Babies!

I'm not sure whether it's because of what I do for a living (probably), or because I just love baby cuteness (probably), but I can't think of a time in recent memory when I've been quite as excited as I was on May 13 to leave for Indianapolis.  My best friend, who's like my sister, had a baby boy back in February, and finally, I got to go visit them!



Nikki and me in 2006, law school graduation.

Nikki and I lived together for five years, from our second year in undergrad all the way through her graduation, which was my first year in law school.  After she graduated, she moved to Indianapolis, and then about a year later, she and Nick (another high school friend of mine) got married.  Now that I live in Arizona and she still lives in Indianapolis, I haven't gotten to see her nearly as often as I would like to.  Phone calls and texting are great, but it's not the same...especially if you lived together for as long as we did.

My flight landed really late.  Nikki picked me up, and we got to spend a little time catching up during the drive to her house.  I went straight to bed, and the next morning, I got to meet Baby Wyatt!  Oh, my goodness, he looks like Nick and he is just the happiest little man!  In my five days there, I think he cried maybe twice, and aside from a minor poo-in-the-bathtub incident, it was all smooth sailing.  In fact, I'm certain that the bathtub/poo ordeal was *waaay* more bothersome for me and his mama (given that we were the ones who cleaned it up) than it was for him.  Wyatt stayed calm and happy through the whole thing.  Pretty sure he even laughed.



Look at this sweet face.  I couldn't stop kissing it.

HA!

My favorite picture.  I cannot get enough of those eyes!

Aunties are supposed to spoil the baby, right?

I had an amazing time, and I needed it so badly.  Nikki let me hold and snuggle him lots and lots.  I even got to try to feed him once, but that didn't go so well.  Wyatt is NOT a bottle baby, and he's not afraid to say so!  I wish the best of luck to his future daycare workers...  Better them than me, though; I can't handle how sad and forlorn he sounded when all he wanted was to nurse.

Work has been particularly stressful lately, and just smelling that sweet baby smell and listening to Wyatt's coos and giggles fed my spirit.  Already, I can't wait to go back.

If you're in the market for a painting...

A while back, I was reading BooMama's blog and she had a photo of a beautiful painting she'd just found at a little shop in Birmingham.  I fell in love immediately, and serendipitously, I had been searching for the perfect birthday gift for my mom.

My mom.  Impossible to buy gifts for because she never asks for anything (except practical things like vacuum cleaners and work shoes, which are not really all that much fun to buy).  We are not alike in this way; I ask for unpractical things all. the. time.  But I digress.

She'd just gotten a new position at work, which meant that she'd no longer be working as a floor nurse.  Instead, she had her own office, and she'd be handling infection control at her hospital.  Sounds icky to me, but really, she's been having lots of back and shoulder problems recently, so I was happy that the new position was less demanding physically.

Anyway, these paintings were perfect for her.  Kinda folksy, lots of bright colors, and scripture:  PER-FECT.  So, I Googled, and found out that the artist, Linda Dunn, has a business called Simply Hope.  I emailed her, and she is SWEET AS PIE, I tell you.  She and I communicated pretty regularly for a few months, and eventually,we settled on a design, the colors, and the verse she'd incorporate into the painting for my mama.  And she was so patient every time I changed my mind or had a question.  I can't wait to order a few more for some other people!

I had the gift shipped to my mom's house, mostly because I wanted her to die of anticipation while she was waiting to open it.  Long story short (and really, I am leaving out LOTS because before we could hang the painting in her office, we had to do some renovation -- that office was in awful shape):  SHE LOVED IT.  And so do I.

The Tornado

I lived in Alabama for a long time.  My whole life, up until I moved across the country (for reasons that I cannot remember, and that I'm not sure I even knew at that time).  My home state gets its fair share of bad weather, and some of the clearest memories I have are the times spent staring at the television, wondering how long it would be before the tornado sirens started blaring.  I think I learned how to read a weather map about the same time I learned my multiplication tables.

I don't remember much about kindergarten, but I can still smell the wax used to polish the floors, and feel the coolness of the wood against the backs of my legs the first time the weather forced me to sit, Indian-style, in the hallway, arms folded to protect my face, while the wind howled outside and our teachers comforted us.

My friend, Staci, and I were in New Orleans buying her wedding gown when we first heard that Katrina had turned and was projected to hit Louisiana.  Both our mothers began calling ceaselessly until we assured them that we were in her car, headed back to Tuscaloosa.  Hurricanes in the Gulf beget tornadoes farther inland, and Katrina proved no exception.  Staci and I rode out the storm at my house in Northport, crammed for a while in my tiny guest bathroom -- because Alabama children are taught young that when bad weather heads your way, you set up camp in the center of your house, away from windows and doors.  I was in law school at the time, and my whole life was inside my laptop.  I wrapped it in some trash bags and put it in the dryer, reasoning that even if one of the pine trees in my backyard came through the roof, the double layer of protection would insure against water damage.  It's crazy what you start to prioritize as you come to terms with the idea of a tornado actually hitting your home. 

Thanks to James Spann and a lot of prayer, we got through just fine and were only minorly inconvenienced by an 8-hour power outage.  As everyone knows, thousands and thousands and thousands of people were not as lucky.

I, and hundreds of other students, spent the subsequent weeks volunteering -- collecting canned goods, serving food, doing anything we could to keep ourselves busy and make the displaced hurricane victims just a little more comfortable.  Students from Tulane and other NOLA schools moved to town and became our classmates and roommates for a semester, and our friends for a lifetime.  We all seemed to feel helpless individually, but we took solace in the fact that together, maybe we could accomplish something.

It's the helplessness that grips me now.

Here I am, thousands of miles and four states away from Tuscaloosa, which was my home for seven years.  I see photos, and I hear stories, and I am just so sad.  The years I spent in Tuscaloosa are easily some of the funnest, most precious parts of my life, and the friends I made there are still among the people I hold most dear.  To see the city destroyed, and then to be too far away to help rebuild it -- well, it frankly sucks.  Writing a check or buying a t-shirt just does not leave me with the same sense of having helped anybody, and though I've done both, I wish more than anything that I could do more.

Parts of Choctaw County, where I grew up, were just leveled.  My dad likened it to having a vacuum cleaner run loose through the woods, 200-year old oak trees splintered like twigs along the way.  My mom told me that today alone, my home church (First Assembly of God) fed nearly 150 people who had been affected by the tornadoes there.  To put that in perspective, the entire population of Choctaw County hovers around 15,000.  And they fed 150 on a. single. day.

On a brighter note, I am proud.  I'm proud of the resilience shown by so many of my fellow Alabamians.  Their unwavering hope and faith that everything will get back to normal.  Their untiring work, not only for themselves and their neighbors, but for people they don't even know.  For all the people harboring negative impressions about the South, I believe that when they read the NY Times, or listen to a story on NPR, or watch CNN to see the latest news about the storm damage, what they see will be our fierce determination, our dedication to our neighbors in need, and our satisfaction in having gathered together to help ourselves.  And they will see that even in the face of adversity and death and destruction, our spirit not only survives, but thrives.

Thanksgiving!

Lucky me, I spent Thanksgiving with The Lambs, one of my favorite families. Mark is a police officer at Salt River, and Janel does my hair. Janel and I always talk cooking while my color is...coloring, or whatever, so I was really excited to have Thanksgiving at her house! She is Superwoman:  five kids, and she somehow finds the time to sew adorable aprons (like the one I used at home during Christmas last year) and lots of other cuteness, make gourmet popcorn, work at her dad's business, do hair, and make GORGEOUS cakes, plus tons of other stuff that I'm sure I'm leaving out.

I didn't think people decorated with plates anywhere except the South.  Imagine how happy I was to see Janel's Thanksgiving tablescape and the matching plates!

Janel made the table runner...out of BURLAP and CORN HUSKS.
Told y'all she was talented.

Needless to say, we had a blast! I arrived in time to watch some of the last of the cooking, and then we had lunch. Afterwards, Janel and I messed around with Mark's new camera. It's fancy and has loads of different settings, and it makes really great pictures.  We even brought out the tripod and the detachable flash, and then we really got creative!

For Thanksgiving dinner, there was turkey, spiral ham, stuffing and dressing, two kinds of sweet potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, jello salad, and homemade rolls (Mark's sister grinds her own wheat...my, oh my):

Janel's spiral ham

Janel's dressing

And the cranberry sauce (yuu-uum!)

I was in charge of desserts, so I made Italian Cream Cake, Mrs. Nina's lemon squares, and a chocolate chess pie.  The pie wasn't feeling photogenic, but...

the Lemon Squares were...

as was the Italian Cream Cake
(recipe is in the previous post, if you're interested)

After cleaning up, we sat down to watch the Saints game.  Y'all know that I'm not much into pro football (Bama and LSU monopolize my football-watching time), but because the Lambs were cheering for the Saints, so was I.  We were all happy when they pulled off a win in the last seconds of the game!

I hope y'all had as great a Thanksgiving as I did!

Italian Cream Cake

I spent Thanksgiving with some sweet friends, and much to my own amusement, was placed in charge of desserts. I'll post about Thanksgiving as a whole separately, but I wanted to include the recipe for Italian Cream Cake on its own. I keep promising to share the recipe, so here we go:

1 stick unsalted butter, softened
½ cup Crisco
2 cups sugar
5 eggs, separated
2 cups self-rising flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup buttermilk
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 small can of coconut
1 cup chopped pecans

Sift the flour and baking soda together in a medium bowl.  Cream the shortening, sugar, and butter with an electric mixer until smooth.  Add the egg yolks and beat well.  Add the flour/soda mixture to the creamed mixture, alternating with the buttermilk until both are incorporated.  Add the vanilla extract.  Using a spatula, fold in the coconut and the pecans.  Beat the egg whites with an electric mixer until stiff.  Fold them into the batter mixture.

Generously butter and flour three 8-inch cake pans OR one 13x9 pan.  Bake at 350 degrees for 25-30 minutes for the 8-inch pans, or 45-60 minutes for the 13x9 pan.

Allow to cool completely before frosting with cream cheese icing.

NOTE:  If you make three 8-inch layers, you will need two recipes of the frosting.  You only need one recipe if you make the 13x9 sheet cake.

CREAM CHEESE ICING
8 ounces cream cheese
½ stick butter
1 box confectioner’s sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 cup chopped pecans (optional)

Mix butter and cream cheese with an electric mixer.  Slowly add the confectioner’s sugar.  Add vanilla extract.  Fold in pecans.

Pasta Salad

SCM: Yes, this is the pasta salad you gave me the recipe for ages ago. I make it all the time. It’s so easy, and flexible…one of those great salads you can make out of whatever happens to be in your cupboard.

- 1 pound pasta (whatever kind you want to use; I use whole wheat spirals).
- 2-3 bell peppers, chopped (doesn’t matter what color)
- 1 cucumber, sliced and seeded
- 3-4 green onions, chopped (you can substitute some different sort of onion if you don’t share my love of green onions, or leave it out altogether)
- one bottle Kraft Greek Vinaigrette dressing
- pepper (to taste)
- 1 package Feta cheese, crumbled
- fresh cilantro (to taste)

Mix everything together, and if it still looks dry, add a few tablespoons of olive oil. Add the Feta last, and just sprinkle it over the top. Cilantro wasn’t in the original recipe, but since I add cilantro to everything, I figured, why not? You can also bake chicken breasts and then chop them up and mix them in. I’ve also added in mushrooms and olives at different times, and both were good. Told ya: can’t mess this up (unless you try to use a different salad dressing; that’s the one ingredient that must remain constant!).

Alabama: Monday and Tuesday

Wedding festivities begin!

But not quite yet. The whole family was coming for dinner on Tuesday, but before that Mama had to teach a CPR class in Meridian. I decided to go with her, seeing as how I’d been meaning to get CPR certified for ages, but just never signed up for the class. But, even before that, I woke up and baked a cake. I know. Please, please acknowledge the amount of discipline it took to get me out of bed and conscious enough to bake, and then still get myself showered and dressed in time to leave Butler at 10:00 a.m.

What kind of cake? Italian Cream. My favorite. Ostensibly for dinner the next night, but really because I’d been craving one for ages.

I can report that I passed the test (which was a relief. How embarrassing would it be for the instructor’s daughter to fail?) and am now officially CPR certified (though I still don’t have my card yet).

Up next, a trip to Walmart (UGH) to buy all the groceries for dinner, followed up by a trip to Sam’s (I forget what necessitated this trip, but I think it might have been grapes for the grape salad). My sweet Mama bought me a surprise: the Alice in Wonderland DVD I’d been wanting.

Then, home to get all the tables set up and dressed, and of course, to cook. Tuesday night’s dinner was fantastic! I’ll post the recipes for pasta salad and grape salad. Along with that: Low Country Boil (shrimp, potatoes, corn, sausage), steaks, banana pudding (the best recipe ever, which I’ll also post), 7-layer salad (which I don’t like, and therefore will not post the recipe for) and I can’t even remember what else. OH! The cake!

I’m not sure what everybody talked about after dinner because Malak and I went back to Mama’s room for some peace and quiet. The Hopper was tuckered out, apparently, because he made it through about 20 minutes of Wonder Pets before drifting off to sleep while playing with my hair. Goodness gracious, I love that little boy.

Memphis

We got to Memphis and figured out where we were just in time to get to The Peabody for the ducky parade. I cannot adequately describe the cuteness. We even visited Duckingham Palace, where the ducks reside on the roof of the Peabody. Then we rode the streetcar (trolley?) around town before finding our way back to Rendezvous for dinner. All I can say is, YUM.

From there, we went to Muddy’s Bake Shop, where I dove head-first into Heaven, via their grasshopper cupcake. I still haven’t figured out what they do to their cake to make it so moist. By far, the best cupcake I’ve had in my life, hands down. I got to meet the Neeses and their two adorable, sweet little girls, who came all the way to Muddy’s, even though they must have been exhausted after spending their day outside (it was hot, y’all). Lucky me, I got to hold and cuddle the littler gal, while being entertained by her big sister as she thoroughly enjoyed some cupcake icing!

We left shortly thereafter for the long drive back to Alabama, but not before I secured a care package for home: 2 grasshoppers and 2 neapolitans. I arrived back in Butler EXHAUSTED, and celebrated my third night in a row of staying up past 2 a.m. by going to church Sunday morning and then taking about a 4-hour nap Sunday afternoon.