Becky et al.

I just mailed my last Christmas card. I've spent many nights seated at my kitchen table scrawling individualized blurbs of love at the bottom of each newsletter. Tick, tock, more cards done, more colored rooftops visible from our deck. Christmas inches closer. Maybe it's because we moved, but this year I was especially thankful for all the people on my Excel file a.k.a. The Spreadsheet of Joy. I'm in my dream home surrounded by upgraded finishes and more square feet...but none of it makes me happier than my peeps do.

The last few years were pretty intense for our family. There are days I wake up, stretch, and gaze across the valley still shaking my head we're still alive and well. (Cue Barry Manilow's "I Made it Through the Rain".) We survived. Life isn't just beautiful, it's crystal clear. Moving clarified relationships: which ones will last, which ones will fade. I am thankful for those who are sticking with me.

Jenn was my first next door neighbor in my first home. She has since moved twice, but she remains my FNDN (Forever Next Door Neighbor). Our fence created a bond that can't be broken and we'll be friends for life. After Jenn left, Becky moved in. I remember Jenn had multiple offers on her house, but she and Ryan prayed to sell their home to the right people. They didn't take the highest offer but the home was sold to the right people, to Ryan and Becky.

Becky had four well-mannered and honest boys. She worked full-time. She was always in scrubs, pulling in, changing in a phone booth, and pulling back out to head to a soccer game. Becky's arm had a large dent in it from donating blood and plasma weekly, from which she took her treasures on the trip of a lifetime to California. Becky was always involved with scouts. A fellow neighbor confided at a recent pack meeting Becky baked individual loaves of banana bread for every boy scout but came up one loaf short. She went home that night, baked an additional loaf, and delivered it to the straggler before heading to work early the next morning. That was Becky.

Jenn planted fruit trees in her yard in hopes of harvesting peaches, apples, and nectarines down the road. She grew a raspberry patch as long as her house. She often shared her crop with us; I have a sweet photo of our two daughters hunting for deep pink berries in their Sunday dresses. Just before we moved, Becky brought over a laundry basket full of apples. She asked if I could use them because she didn't have time to get to them. I made applesauce with Becky's "Jenn apples." That night as I boiled, mashed, and strained the sweet pulp I got a little emotional (surprise surprise). I felt like the spirit of Jenn was in Becky, or like the home Jenn always wanted remained that home with Becky. If Jenn had still been living there she would have brought me apples. But she wasn't, so Becky brought them. I was lucky to have had two busy mothers with hearts of gold for my next door neighbors; each willing to lend a hand, an ear, or their apples. Good women do much good; stacked schedules can't stop them.

This year, as I wrote Becky's Christmas card, I had the overwhelming feeling that I needed to record how she was my smiracle when I was pregnant with Archer. I had shared the story at church with a few people, but I guess it needed to be written in stone:

When I finally got pregnant with Archer I was overjoyed. I was also really hoping it was a girl. RE had been the easiest child and I was comfortable with girls. When I found out it was a boy I was visibly upset, stunned, and then guilt-ridden for feeling so. I just didn't know what I was going to do with a boy. I put on a happy face and lied to many people about how excited I was to have a boy. But I wasn't. I was terrified.

I was worried about being whacked with a sword for the next 18 years or eaten out of house and home (which RE is currently doing). I worried about stinky, giant feet and voice changes. I worried about unfamiliar anatomy and my total lack of love for sports. I mean, if they didn't play American Girl dolls or ride bikes with flowery baskets what did boy moms do? I fretted and stewed, stewed and fretted.

Weeks passed. I felt like my true feelings about boys were starting to harm the boy growing inside me. Cue the smiracle. I was in my second-story master bathroom early in the evening. I heard laughter; genuine bursts of happiness. I turned to the window and looked over Jenn's and Becky's fence. Becky was in her scrubs, just home from work, playing some kind of ball game with her boys (who were big now...the eldest in high school). They were running bases and trying to get each other out. Becky was taking them down one by one. They dog piled her and she escaped. Running, chasing, the shrieks of laughter I heard from above. Becky was loving her boys and they loved her.

I had the strongest impression that boy moms do the same thing girl moms do: they love their kids and the rest is cake. I felt the Spirit witness that I would love my boy and that it would be natural and easy to do so. I felt that my boy would make me laugh and that he would make me happy. All this went down while I was spying on Becky in her backyard. Jenn's raspberries and fruit trees were witnesses.

Isn't it glorious how long it can take a miracle to unfold, like a home-selling prayer succoring a worrisome boy pregnancy eight years later? Isn't it funny that when we are true to our emotions, when we simply live our lives and laugh in our backyards, we are other people's miracles? Isn't it odd that when you think no one is watching you're actually saving someone? And isn't it divine that anyone can be an instrument in the Lord's hands, even those that claim to not be musical?

Et al. is an abbreviation for the Latin phrase et alia which means "and others".

Photo of my first "Mom letter" from Archer, written October 2017. Always an exciting day to get the first of many "mom mails" to come. Our kids say Da-Da first, but they write M-O-M first!

I love me some boys. I even had a second one. I love being charged, tackled, and kissed. I love ninjas, destruction, dirt, and fire trucks. I love mini barrel chests and muscle flexing. My boys did not wreck my china closet—they turned my already-blessed life into Shangri-la.

Becky's Fruit Dip (always served at our street's July 24 party)

1 packet Dream Whip, made as directed

Add:

1 c sugar

1 pkg softened cream cheese

1 t vanilla

I can't think of Becky without picturing a disposable bowl full of fruit dip and a second bowl full of apple slices and strawberries, each covered with Glad Press-N-Seal wrap. Oh, neighbors. So good for the soul.