My mom is not a spotlight mother. She doesn’t do her song and dance for an audience (though perhaps she’ll give you a private jig or two) and she doesn’t perform for accolades. She is the quintessential support-giver. A team player. The kind of person you only hope you have standing behind you in any given moment, good or bad.

I say this because I’ve realized a lot about my mom during the last few tough months of my life.

Claudia Jones Lawton is nurse by trade, but I’m know she’s so well-equipped for this field because God built within her the gifts for a good nurse… Compassion, honesty, integrity, hospitality. Claudia, with gifts in tow, came first into this world — the nursing profession was the perfect fit for her. I can’t distinguish “my mom” from “my mom the nurse” because they are one and the same! When mom rubs my swollen feet with lotion, gives advice on medicines over the phone, or listens to my frustrations with concern, she does so out of love that flows from deep within her being.

She is simply the best mother on earth, the only woman I’d want next to me in all my good and all my bad moments. I hope to be half the woman she is someday, half the mother and caregiver to my children that she has been to me. I love you, mom! Thanks for putting up with us kids for all these years…

xoxo Becca Ruth

Woohoo! Yesterday and today were big days para la familia Lawton de Lincoln, Nebraska… My dad graduated from the University of Nebraska with his doctorate in Educational Administration. His hooding ceremony was held yesterday at Kimball Hall, and the commencement this morning at the Devaney Center.

Dad has been working on this degree for many years, slaving away at his dissertation (on the visions of two Christian college presidents, no less — names to be printed here later because I can’t remember one of the president’s names). It means a lot to me that my dad set such a high academic goal, then completed it. This success encourages me towards similar pursuits in the future. For certain, this accomplishment reflects quite highly on my mother, who waited for the process to come to completion and supported my dad in so many ways throughout the years.

Hip hip hooray for you, Pop! We are all very very proud of you and think you look simply smashing in your doctoral regalia!

*Thanks, Adam, for taking such a nice shot with my camera!

Not so long ago…

Bang! The screen door slammed shut. Bang! Bang! Again and again. Loud drunken voices on the porch next door late at night. Vroom, vroom. The big scary guy on his motorcycle, not moving anywhere just revving the engine for effect. Boom, boom… boom. Boom, boom. The deep bass, determined not to be contained in the basement party escaped up the stairs and out the side door, ten feet south and up into our bedroom window. Through cracked eyelids, 3:00am. Evil thoughts enter the minds of tired Tredways but no scheme seems like decent revenge. Argh. Don’t know how on earth this might happen, but please, God, let them move!!!

Just moments ago…

Charity. Renae. Joie. Brook. Gratitude, joy, friendship, community. Bang! The screen door slams and a voice is heard, pleasantly chatting on the phone with a friend. Bang! Bang! A porch party, glasses of wine, great conversation, lots of laughter. Vroom, vroom. Charity yanks ferociously on the lawn mower, willing the darn thing to start up. Days spent outdoors tending to the gardens, deciding how to maintain Pastor Brad’s rapidly growing perennials, making plans for summer barbecues. Light, spilling out into the dark night, telling me Renae is getting ready for bed. The beams from her room cast into mine, reminding me of a college dorm, but so much better. Comfort. Knowing that sisters live next door, always ready to love us.

And we love them back.

I told myself last week that the only reason I’d skip church again was if I was vomiting.

This morning I didn’t want to go. Well, I wanted to go. I wanted to feel the light and joy on my face, raining down from the voices around me; to hear the words of salvation, given by ministers in front of me. I wanted that. But, I didn’t want to physically be there.

Putting aside all excuses for a few moments, I bathed and stretched out my limbs in a hot tub. Then I convinced myself I could indeed make it to church, an answer to a quick early morning prayer.

Balancing Eggo waffle and leather bible, tripping over the stones in the alley, buoyed by the puffy white clouds and blue sky, I found Zion.

And it didn’t matter that my old lady knees protested at the stand-up-sit-down-again motions of the service, that my legs needed reshifting five times during the sermon, that I bumped my head on the pew in front of me while putting on my coat because I was cold… then promptly got the giggles because of the head bump.

If perfection were needed for church attendance, none of us would have made it this morning.

So, why then do I wrestle so intensely with the desire to look like I “have it all together?” Newsflash: I don’t have it all together, not even remotely. And, I’m sorry if I’ve ever made someone else think so. My current physical trials reveal a mere fraction of the disturbances in my soul, wrinkles I deal with moment-by-moment, day-by-day.

Just like raindrops on a sunny day—like our odd Nebraska weather this Sunday afternoon—I stand as a sinner receiving grace. Doesn’t make much sense. Can’t wrap my mind around it. All I can do it open my mouth and take a drink. Sweet, sweet grace.