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

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.

Boston: Another Lesson in Perspective

Like so many others, I spent my afternoon riveted to CNN, hoping to hear that maybe the bombings in Boston weren’t as bad as everyone first thought. Instead, the opposite happened. Right before 5:00, I refreshed the website and learned that an 8-year old child was one of the two fatalities, and my heart just sank. Tears came to my eyes, and I couldn’t stop myself from imagining what had brought that precious little boy to Boston this morning. Was his mom or dad among the runners, and was he waiting impatiently to watch him or her cross the finish line – craning his little neck to see over all the adults, screaming his heart out with excitement and 8-year old joy? Had he painted a sign to congratulate his sister or his nanny or his teacher? Was he just starting out as a runner, and did his parents plan this special field trip to watch one of the most prestigious marathon events in the country? Or did he just happen to be there – wrong place and a very wrong time?

I reacted similarly to the shooting in Connecticut. I remember talking to my mom on the phone that night, and just sobbing as we talked about it. Parents send their children to school every day. EVERY day. They dress them and feed them breakfast and pack their lunches, and put them on a bus or drive them to drop-off, and leave them in the capable hands of teachers to learn and laugh and play. Going to school is an unavoidable part of most children’s day, and we don’t think of it as being a dangerous or risky place to be. That day, like today, began normally and happily. And ended in terror, trauma, astonishing heartbreak, and death.

I notice that days like today have a universally uniting effect, as they should. People come together, offering words of sympathy and comfort to the victims and their families, and for a moment, we forget that we spend the majority of our time fighting over really stupid things. For a few days, we look past the politics and our private agendas, and we remember that we’re all people, that we all grieve our losses the same way. We cry out of genuine concern for complete strangers, and we pray for them to live, to recover, to somehow move past what has happened to them. For a few days – maybe a few weeks at best – we are the best iteration of ourselves. How great would this country be – how great would the world be – if we could retain our sense of perspective without having to re-experience traumatic loss and be reminded of it? Why does empathy need to be rebooted?

The short answer, of course, is that I don’t know. But I’m reminded all over again of why MISS is necessary, and will continue to be necessary, so long as children are lost tragically and senselessly, and so long as their parents have to continue trying to recover from that.

(Yep, you can still donate to MISS's Kindness Walk, and help to ensure that whenever a senseless act of evil happens, MISS can be there to offer comfort and support for the parents left behind.  Here's the link:  https://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/AlaneBreland/missfoundationkindnesswalkandsafetyfair.)

If you're able to donate...please donate.

I am participating in The MISS Foundation’s 3rd Annual Kindness Walk & Safety Fair on May 19, 2013. As part of that effort, I am also raising money, and my goal is $500.00. That goal may increase, depending on how many generous friends I have. ;-)

I know, I talk a lot lately about MISS. But, I guess, if you can’t use your own blog to promote your own causes, then what’s the use of having a blog, right? Here’s the thing: MISS doesn’t get much support, and the reason for that is probably pretty simple. Our cause is a sad one, and by giving money, our donors are contributing to ongoing support of bereaved parents and advocacy for issues relevant to child death, but not to a potential cure. St. Jude’s appeals to your heart by showing you photos of adorable bald babies who are suffering through the horrors of cancer treatment; you want to help the adorable bald babies beat cancer, so you give money. March of Dimes and child advocacy centers and dozens of other organizations use the same technique; pick up any one of their brochures, and you’ll see groups of happy, healthy kids who have benefitted from their services. They have success stories, and they use them to make more success stories. It’s a great method, and we’d use it if we could. But, we can’t.

You can’t help the babies that make MISS necessary, and none of us are mean enough to show you pictures of the babies that make MISS necessary. Dead babies make us necessary. We don’t have success stories because no parent ever successfully recovers from a child’s death. If children never died, MISS wouldn’t exist, and believe me when I tell you that Dr. Jo (our founder) would be thrilled to find herself jobless tomorrow if someone could invent a miraculous cure for dead babies.

Here’s the good part, though. MISS doesn’t discriminate. We help every parent who comes to us, searching for the smallest speck of light in the blanket of darkness that is losing a child. No matter what caused the death – stillbirth, car accident, cancer, some other congenital defect, homicide, suicide, tragic accident, whatever. No matter the age of the child at the time of death – infants, toddlers, children, teenagers, adults. Parents and families who come to us get help. End of story.

MISS doesn’t stop there, though. In fact, when I first talked with MISS’s CEO, Barry Kluger, about why I wanted to become a part of the Executive Board, I told him I love that MISS isn’t just about hand-holding and crying and grief. The hand-holding is vital, and it’s the heartbeat of the organization, but it’s not ALL of the organization. MISS is about activism. Dr. Jo is perhaps the loudest voice speaking up against a change to the DSM5 that would medicalise grief. Barry has co-written an amendment to the FMLA that would extend its protections to employees following the loss of a child. These are professionals, y’all – smart, smart people who teach me daily, not only about grief, but also about intricacies of psychiatry, medicine, chemistry, and yes, even the law. I learn from them, but much more importantly, others in positions to effect change look to them and learn from them and model them.

Where does your money go? Or perhaps more importantly, where doesn’t it go? Salaries. Save one part-time administrative employee whose salary is paid by a generous donor, MISS operates entirely on the considerable devotion of its volunteers. Our volunteer pool is primarily comprised of bereaved parents; they come to MISS for help, and after they get help, they give it back. Parents are offered a number of counseling sessions gratis, after which they pay a very nominal amount to continue services; that nominal amount goes directly to the counselors. In terms of overhead expenses, MISS has one office, for which rent and related costs must be paid; that office is small and used both for individual counseling sessions and group meetings. When MISS representatives travel – either to advocate on behalf of the organization or to participate in training seminars – they pay their own expenses. Donations go directly to supporting the mission statement of the organization itself, and not into the pockets of its representatives.

So, now that I’ve said that, I am going to ask you for money. For as little or as much as you want to give. We will appreciate every single dollar, and we won’t waste a penny, I promise you.

https://www.firstgiving.com/fundraiser/AlaneBreland/missfoundationkindnesswalkandsafetyfair

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.

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.

Today was a very big day in my world.

Congress passed the Violence Against Women Reauthorization Act of 2013, which has been languishing in the House of Representatives since early last year. Although the House passed the Reauthorization last April, its version did not include additional provisions written to protect domestic violence victims who are gay, Indians residing on reservations, and illegal aliens. Today, thanks largely to a bipartisan effort by Senator Dorgan, the complete version was passed, guaranteeing rights to these historically marginalized and under-represented groups. I find it unfortunate at best, and despicable at worst, when politics gets in the way of humanity. Regardless of one’s views on same-sex marriage, homosexuality in general, ethnicity, or immigration policy, I would hope that we can all agree that everyone deserves civility and safety.

I’ve been on my soapbox about VAWA for ages, and if you’re my Facebook friend, you already know that. Stop reading now if you aren’t interested in the details of tribal vs. federal jurisdiction because I’m about to delve pretty heavily into it in order to explain why I care so much.

When you’re talking about Indian Country, determining where to prosecute is not as easy as pinpointing the location of a crime. Even if all relevant parties were clearly within the reservation’s perimeter boundaries, there are three possible answers to the jurisdiction question, and after determining where the crime occurred, you must also know the race of both the suspect and the victim, and the nature of the crime. Crimes committed by Indians fall under the jurisdiction of the tribe, first and foremost, but also the concurrent jurisdiction of the federal government. Non-victim crimes committed by non-Indians fall under the exclusive jurisdiction of the state.

Now for the exciting part: Until today, crimes committed by non-Indians against Indians fell within the exclusive jurisdiction of the federal government. Such offenders could be punished neither by the state (via the local district attorney or city attorney), nor by the tribe. The functional result of this was that most low-level offenders went unpunished. Like prosecutor’s offices everywhere, the U.S. Attorney’s Office is overworked and understaffed, and though they tend to do well in charging the most serious domestic violence offenses, the less serious, misdemeanor incidents fall by the wayside. This is, of course, because they typically rely on tribal prosecutors (like me) to handle misdemeanors committed by Indians, and there simply doesn’t exist a mechanism by which to ensure prosecution of those same crimes by non-Indians in federal court. VAWA corrects this problem by specifically providing for the prosecution in tribal courts of domestic violence crimes committed by non-Indians against Indian victims.

The Internet is ablaze with heated discussion, most of which is waged by people who have no idea what tribal jurisdiction means, how tribal courts operate, or even what an Indian is according to federal statutory and case law. For reasons that should be apparent, the arguments I find most offensive are those that claim that tribal courts (and by extension, tribal prosecutors) are inept, and in the pursuit of some misplaced sense of vigilante justice, will inevitably trample the rights of the accused. Most of this comes under the guise of “equal protection” banter, but in reality, it’s thinly veiled racism, considerable arrogance, and mammoth condescension.

Who is it, exactly, that our Republican Representatives are fighting so hard to protect from prosecution? Yes, let’s talk about that. They are people who marry Indian women and father Indian children. Men who live on reservations and take advantage of all the benefits inherent therein. Men who abuse their wives and girlfriends – hit them, suffocate them, sexually assault them – and who live in relative assurance that they will never face justice because their victims feel scared, hopeless, and alone. Men who rely on the insulation of the reservation, and their victims’ hesitance to leave it, to get away with horrific crimes.

Did you know that Indian women face domestic violence and sexual assault at a rate 2.5 times higher than any other race or nationality? One out of three Indian women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime. Historical cultural trauma systematically perpetrated by the government throughout the 19th and 20th centuries bred distrust of those outside their inner circles. Hardly any reservations have self-sustained shelters, so deciding to leave an abusive relationship implies far more than it might for a non-Indian. Indian victims must leave behind a culture, traditions, their entire families, their tribes’ sacred places, and flee to a generic shelter that is not only unfamiliar, but also intrinsically foreign, while their non-Indian spouses / boyfriends / significant others remain behind on their reservations.

I am thrilled with today’s Congressional vote – thrilled that these women will have a voice, thrilled that their abusers will be held responsible, and thrilled that I get to be part of this exciting time in Indian Law.

Loss…and peace, and love.

Two posts in one week? I know, wow.

The MISS Foundation had a Board meeting over lunch today. On the third Thursday of each month, we gather as a Board – sometimes in person but often over speakerphone – to discuss the minutiae of running a foundation that wouldn’t exist in a perfect world because there wouldn’t be dead children. Many of my fellow members are bereaved parents themselves, and there generally comes a point in the meeting when we lose our collective ability to speak in the abstract. Something as simple as hearing the words "car accident," or "stillbirth," or "miscarriage," or the spoken name of a child that has died, alters the tone of the meeting – not negatively, but in a way that makes us aware all over again of our purpose. Whatever the trigger, this realization recharges and reinvigorates, and perhaps more importantly reprioritizes the cluttered to-do list that gets filed away in my mental Rolodex, along with grocery shopping lists, chores, errands, emails, appointments, ad nauseum, ad infinitum.

Bereaved parents exist on a different plane than the rest of us, y’all. As surely as I’m learning anything from this experience, I am learning that parents who have lost children are just…broken. We use this word flippantly, so accustomed to throwaway commodities that we don’t think twice about pronouncing our belongings rubbish and disposing of them. People, though?  Not commodities.  Not throwaway; not disposable. These parents are still among us, navigating a life that is not only unfamiliar, but inconceivable. Pain and guilt punctuate every happy moment. They are passionate about preserving the memory of their babies, yet must live in a society that would really rather not discuss it.

Why is that? Why are we uncomfortable talking about a dead child, thereby acknowledging and celebrating the child’s life, brief as it might have been? Why do we insist that parents should “get over” their grief within a prescribed period, yet feel entitled to rehash every referee’s mistake in a bowl game played over a decade ago? Yes, I’m being hyperbolic. I’m being hyperbolic on purpose.

What, exactly, is a suitable period of mourning for a parent? Consider, for instance, a father who never, ever imagined that his child would predecease him. A mother who felt her daughter's kick less than 24 hours before being told that she had died, and who, instead of laying her sleeping baby in a brand new crib days after delivering her, laid her to rest instead. Just how long after these tragedies should this father, or this mother, be expected to move on, and never mention their child again outside a priest’s office or a therapist’s couch? How long before they should have to return to work, ability to concentrate intact?

Here’s your answer:  Most employers allow three to five days of bereavement leave; after that, an employee may or may not receive approval to take an extended leave period, but even in the best cases and with the most sympathetic and understanding supervisors, that length of the leave period is limited by the amount of vacation time the employee has accrued, if any. Though FMLA allows one to take extended leave following the birth or adoption of a child, or for a lengthy personal illness or that of a family member, it does not apply in cases of parental bereavement. We can agree to file that under "Things That Don't Make Sense," right?

I say all of that for a reason. MISS’s CEO, Barry Kluger, is the co-author of a bill that would extend coverage and existing benefits allowed by FMLA to employees that have experienced the death of a child.  Barry is visiting Washington, DC next month, and he’s meeting with lots and lots of really important people. The kind of people who can make life better for bereaved parents by ensuring that they have a humane period of mourning before being required to return to work. Please, please sign this petition.  Give these parents a voice.

xo

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.

Night

by Elie Wiesel

I scarcely have words to describe this book. It’s short – about 115 pages if you skip the introduction and the foreword (don’t skip them, or if you do, take the time to go back and read them). I think it took me about an hour and a half to get through it, mostly because I was rushing and just wanted it to be over. I’ve still got some guilt about that, actually.  Part of me feels obligated to read it every single day, as a reminder of what humans are capable of when we don’t honor and respect one another’s humanity.

As a child, Wiesel’s family was incarcerated in Auschwitz. I say incarcerated because really, what other verb works here? Wiesel could easily and justifiably have written a lengthy, melodramatic, lecturing tome, but instead “Night” is simple, straightforward, and easily one of the most heartbreaking, nauseating, soul-crushing pieces of literature I’ve ever read. Ever.

It would take me far more than 115 pages to describe how vividly Wiesel talks of torment, starvation, death, and human nature. I’ll skip all of that and settle on telling you all to read it. Right this minute.

“For the survivor who chooses to testify, it is clear: his duty is to bear witness for the dead and for the living. He has no right to deprive future generations of a past that belongs to our collective memory. To forget would be not only dangerous but offensive; to forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time.”

“I am not so naïve as to believe that this slim volume will change the course of history or shake the conscience of the world. Books no longer have the power they once did. Those who kept silent yesterday will remain silent tomorrow.”

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.

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.

Oxford

“I miss green.” This is the thought that I had constantly as we drove through Alabama into Mississippi. It’s taken me a long time, but I’ve finally learned to appreciate the beauty of the desert. Finally, I acquiesce: living in a valley cradled by mountains really *is* majestic (even if the valley is brown, and the only green around is a random cactus). Nothing compares, though, to miles and miles of varying shades of green, and the sight of oak trees shading the clover that blooms along the sides of the interstate. Needless to say, I thoroughly enjoyed the ride, and the conversational catch-up with an old friend.

I have GOT to move to Oxford. I mean, really. I don’t think there’s a more perfect place on the planet for me. Were it not for that whole bar exam situation, I’d be tempted to move tomorrow.

We started off at the visitor’s center. Here’s how the conversation with the little woman there went:
US (smiling): “Hey!”
HER (not smiling): “How can I help you?”
US: (*blink, blink*) “Ummm…we’re visiting Oxford for the day!”
HER: “Oh, you are?”
US: “Yes, ma’am.” (Here, we looked at each other, wondering if we’d stepped not into the visitor’s center, but instead, into this woman’s home, or perhaps the library, where speaking was forbidden.)
HER: “Well, what were you planning on doing?”
US: (*scratching heads and still blinking*) “We were kind of hoping you could help us with that. We thought about going to Ajax Diner for lunch and then to Square Books, and then to Rowan Oak. What would you recommend?”
HER: “Oh, I think you should go to Ajax for lunch, and then Square Books is right over there (*pointing in the opposite direction of where Square Books actually is*). And yes, yes. Rowan Oak is William Faulkner’s house, so you should definitely go there. Oh, and they just remodeled the stadium. I like to watch the light shows there!”
US: “Um, okay. Bye.”

Whereupon we walked around the square for a minute, and then went to Ajax Diner for lunch (I had catfish, which was perfect, and sweet tea, which I can’t get enough of whenever I’m home). Then, you guessed it, we went to Square Books (I could spent about eleventy hours there, but alas, I forced myself to leave so we could get some other stuff done). We finished our walk around the square by visiting another bookstore (where I bought the June issues of an adorable little magazine called Garden & Gun, and The Oxford American, which included an article by Elizabeth Wade, my friend from undergrad. How proud am I?) and then getting caught in a little thunderstorm. During the thunderstorm, I realized that I had left my purchases at the bookstore, of course, so we had to walk back over there. Luckily, it wasn’t too far.

Thank goodness Bonnie thought to pick up a copy of the city map at the visitor’s center. Using it, she was able to navigate us to Rowan Oak. The tour costs $5, is self-guided, and takes approximately eight minutes to complete. The grounds are really beautiful, though. Who knew ol’ Bill had stables?

Somehow I got put in charge of the map after that, but in spite of my shortcomings, we somehow made it to the Ole Miss campus just in time to witness a photography session featuring the tackiest wedding party in the history of time. Ole Miss neckties for the boys, and FAKE red and blue flowers, with streamers, for the girls. Yuck.

Ole Miss is pretty, but it’s got nothing on Tuscaloosa. Plus, the stadium is ugly. And the “light shows” endorsed by the visitor’s center lady? Yeah, it’s just the lighted scoreboard that runs around the perimeter of the stadium. Poor woman has no idea what a pretty stadium looks like. She should go visit Bryant-Denny.

After that, we figured we’d seen about all that Oxford had to offer, so we headed to Memphis!

Hello, Dumplin'

It’s become abundantly clear that I’m not in the mood to work today. So, because Amanda commented that she’d like the Chicken and Dumplins (yes, I know there’s supposed to be a “g,” and yes, I refuse to include it) recipe that I promised to send her, I’ll take up a little more of my workday and type it out here.

First, though, an introduction. My Aunt Marcel makes the best chicken and dumplins ever. Aunt Marcel is my grandfather’s sister; her birthday was Friday and she turned 86 (I think…or 85 maybe? Someone help me here.). I’ve only made them once, and she walked me through the process via telephone. I must have called her about 12 times, just to make sure I was doing everything right. All my Arizona friends were suitably impressed; I, however, was suitably exhausted. Apparently, I still need practice if I’m gonna make it look as effortless as she always did.

I’m sure that I wrote the recipe down somewhere way back then, but I have no earthly idea where it might be…probably on a scrap of paper stuck in one of my many cookbooks. So, as I was driving Aunt Marcel home from Mary Allison’s rehearsal dinner on Friday night, I asked her to explain to me again how she makes her dumplins. This time, I was ready! I pulled out the iPhone and took an audio memo! Now, whenever I want, I can pull out my phone and hear my sweet Aunt Marcel’s voice!

Here we go:

Cook your chicken. I *think* that Aunt Marcel boils hers on the stove, but I cook mine in my pressure cooker. Use a fork to shred the chicken into bite-sized pieces. Aunt Marcel warned me to be sure I get all the bones out of the chicken so that I don’t choke any of the people who come over for dinner; I address this problem by buying frozen, boneless chicken breasts. Aunt Marcel says that these do not make a rich broth, which is why she uses a whole chicken. I address this problem by adding canned broth to my homemade broth…but some of you may not want to do that. If you choose to use a whole chicken, PICK OUT ALL THE BONES. Dinner guests apparently do not enjoy nearly strangling themselves to death on a stray chicken bone.

Aunt Marcel also tells me that if I want to make sure I get all the fat out of the broth, I should remove the chicken, then pour the broth into a Tupperware container, and stick it in the fridge overnight. The next morning, all the fat will have congealed on the top, and I can just pick it off. She further tells me that she does not recommend doing this because the dumplins won’t be as good.

Her recipe for the actual dumplins is more of a ratio. You can double or triple or quadruple it, depending on the number of people you’re feeding. A triple recipe, I am told, makes about enough for 6-8 people, “depending on how hungry they are.”

To one cup of self-rising flour, add one tablespoon of oleo (for those of us who are not 86 years old, that means margarine), and some ice water. The exact amount of ice water is uncertain, but Aunt Marcel and Granny Joyce (Amanda, Rob, and Rebecca’s grandmother…and really, for all intents and purposes, mine too) estimate that it’s about two tablespoons. The ICE part of the ICE WATER is very important. Your dumplins will not hold together right if you use water that is just cold or room temperature.

Mash this mixture together; you can use a spoon if you want, but Aunt Marcel recommends that you do this part with your hands. Once it’s mixed together, form it into a ball, and then roll it out “pretty thin”. I will leave in your discretion what the definition of “pretty thin” is, but I imagine it’s basically a matter of taste. Cut the dough into dumpling-shaped pieces, and drop them into BOILING broth.

It only takes a few minutes for the dumplins to cook (8-10 minutes, actually), so after about that long, add in all your chicken and let it boil for a few more minutes. Then make some cornbread and EAT.

Speaking of Blake...

Because I'm never home, and I never get to see him, I feel the need to memorialize a conversation I recently had with Blake Benson. For those of you not lucky enough to be acquainted with him, he is perfectly adorable, and will turn four years old in August.

Setting: Amanda and Lee's car, on the drive from Butler to Birmingham. Amanda told Blake that my house was far away, and that you had to get on an airplane to get there.

BLAKE: Lane, why is your house so far away?
ME: I don't know, Blake. That's just where I moved to, but I wish I didn't live so far.
AMANDA: Blake, where do you want Lane's house to be?
BLAKE: Close to MY house!

Yes, my heart melted. Sweetest. Thing. Ever.

twenty-NINE

Well, there it is. I turned 29 on Monday, and I've been expecting the gray hairs to sprout and the lower back & knee pain to start ever since. Luckily, neither of those has transpired yet (although I will admit that I found one gray hair a couple months back and basically had to be talked down from throwing myself into the canal).

That said, the big day itself wasn't nearly as traumatic as it might have been. I went to work, like I always do on Mondays, and my boss brought Sprinkles cupcakes to celebrate. I had lunch with some funny friends who always make me laugh. Dinner with more wonderful friends followed work, and then I went to sleep pretty early.

There is a wonderful legitimacy that comes with being 29, I think. I've decided that this is going to be a great year. I feel blessed and lucky to have the family and friends that I have, and despite the fact that I live so far from many of them, I think that as I get older, I appreciate them more and more. My job is dynamic and interesting, and I'm finally comfortable enough with my experience and skill set that I can relax a little bit and enjoy it. I guess that as it turns out, 29 isn't all that rough after all...

Amanda, this is for you.

This was too long to post as a comment on your blog, so I put it here. Your post, and your memories of vanilla ice cream and graham crackers made me think of something that happened to me recently.

I was sitting in my living room the other day, praying about a trial that I have coming up that involves the death of two children. I pray a lot about work, just because it’s stressful, and oftentimes, I’m dealing with victims who aren’t cooperative, or defense advocates who seem to think it’s fun to be aggravating just for the sake of being aggravating. This case is a special one, though. It's been pending for over a year now, and I really want a conviction, not for myself, but because it will mean justice was served for those two babies. I haven't known how best to handle a few difficult issues that have arisen, and finding myself at an empasse, I did what you've done: give it to God.

The scripture that I was led to during my prayers was Jeremiah 29:11 (the Bible actually opened to this passage on its own). I thought it was odd when I read it initially: “I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” I first found it utterly unhelpful, and I thought that there must be another scripture on that page that I was meant to read. After all, the reason that I have the case at all is because these children are dead; these children have had their futures taken from them.

As I often do when thinking about children, I then started thinking about Grandmamma, which initially made me sad all over again. But then, I got the most peaceful feeling; I just knew – in that moment – that God's Will will be done with that trial now, even if it's not the ending I foresee or would prefer. He has a plan. He knows better than I do. And no matter what happens, it will be for the best because it is His plan, not mine. He gave me the reassurance I needed with the trial, and He gave me some very sweet memories of my grandmother as a balm to heal some of the hurt of thinking about these two babies who never had anyone like her in their little lives.

I'm saying all that to say this: I know God gave me Grandmamma's spirit to help me through that moment. I know it because of how my dinner turned out that night. One of the saddest things for me, usually, about making scrambled eggs and grilled cheese is that I can’t make them taste like Grandmamma’s tasted. But on that night, both were perfect. I haven’t felt that peaceful in a long, long time.

I love my family...

...they're great for entertainment. In fact, I could base the plotline of an entire sitcom on my Aunt Enone. So, because my family will celebrate her 80th birthday on Sunday, and because I sadly will not be there, I offer the following story as an example of why I miss her as much as I do:

My mama called me a few days back to tell me that Aunt Enone had been having some trouble with her eyes and that I should call and talk to her when I had a few minutes. Obediently, I called the next day to check on her, and she filled me in on the whole story. She had gone to her weekly beauty shop appointment, just as she has every single week ever since I can remember. This trip was notable, though, because when she put her eyeglasses back on as she was getting reay to leave, she noticed hat suddenly, she couldn't see. She called my aunt to come take her home, since obviously, she couldn't drive.

I asked if her vision had improved any, and she said that she thought it had. Well, that was a relief. Here I am, thousands of miles away, thinking that she's had a stroke, or that she's got an aneurysm or something. I was really worried!

Apparently, so was everyone else because everyone said a special prayer at church on Sunday morning that God would heal her eyes. As my Uncle Bob would say, God still answers prayer! And we know this because after church, one of Aunt Enone's friends, who had coincidentally been at the beauty shop at the very same time as Aunt Enone, came to visit her. Also coincidentally, she had been experiencing some vision problems of her own. After hearing the specialprayer request at church, it occurred to her what both their problems might be.

Lo and behold, they swapped glasses and had been wandering around for three days wearing the wrong ones, both of them too blind to realize that they had taken the wrong glasses from the beauty shop. Amen! Both are cured!