A Blessed Christmas to You All

At exactly 2:34 a.m. this morning I heard the sound. It wasn't hard to miss because it came from somewhere about 6" from my face: "Aaaahhhh Grandma!" accompanied by another sound that mom's and grandma's all over the world know too well. THAT sound occurs when a child has eaten way too much candy...need I say more.

Two clean sheets, three blankets and new pajamas later, parents and child and grandma are all back in their beds. But I find myself unable to get back to sleep. Not because of the previous incident...I'm a nurse and my granddaughter is fine. I am just unable to turn off my mind.

I replay other Christmas mornings in my mind and find myself smiling. My husband, who was not a morning person, somehow managed to be out of bed before anyone else, dressed and ready for the day. He not only woke up our family but called several close relatives to wish them a Merry Christmas. Not all were as "merry" as he was that early in the morning but it didn't matter to him. He would make a pot of coffee, I would bake our traditional butter braid, and the kids would hurry through their breakfast because of the gifts of love under our tree.

But before that happened, we read Luke 2 together: God becoming man...in a dirty manger...with a teenage mother...for the world...for each of us. After we were through we would pray together and then open presents. This was our tradition, year after year, in the Hughes household.

That tradition changed five Christmas's ago when LeRoy passed away. Today my son will read Luke 2 and we will pray and gifts will be opened. But praise the Lord, the Christmas story remains the same: God becoming man...in a dirty manger...with a teenage mother...for the world...for each of us.

My best wishes to you all as you celebrate the miracle of Christmas!

A Blessed Thanksgiving

I always hesitate to say "Happy Thanksgiving!" I know that happiness is temporary while joy is permanent. I guess I could say "Joyful Thanksgiving!" but I think people would wonder if I am losing it. I wonder that myself many days without additional opinions to confirm it!

My cup truly does overflow this Thanksgiving. My son is home for the day, my daughters, husbands and grandchildren will be here this evening, my home is warm, my health is great. But there is one precious blessing that guides me EVERY day: the One who went from God to Father to Daddy on one August afternoon in 2005 has never left my side for a second. He guides, directs, encourages, and blesses me on this journey as a widow.

I listened to a sermon a few months ago in which the minister suggested that each of us write a prayer that we offer to the Lord each and every morning. Not words that we say as a ritual but rather an offering to our Father. May I share mine with you this Thanksgiving:

I arise today, Father, because You have allowed it and caused it to be so.

I want my life to be centered on the things that matter: that You be glorified, that I be worthy of Your calling, that the desire of my heart is to be filled and fulfilled by You, that the power within me comes from You and You alone. I do not want anyone to see Nancy Hughes...I want them to see Jesus and Him alone. Because You have allowed me to arise today, Father, and caused it to be so. Amen.

Because of Christ, I am blessed. May each of you have a joyful, blessed Thanksgiving.

Not Again!

What a strange feeling…almost 4 years to the day and it happened again! No electricity and I am alone. No husband to get a fire going in the fireplace. No voice to tease “It’s gonna come back on in a little bit, Nance. Aren’t you always telling me that candles are romantic?”


Some things haven’t changed: the fireplace still refuses to allow its contents to be lit to warm the living room which in turn leaves only two barely-burning candles that have just enough of a wick to chase the shadows back into their corners.


But tonight I notice something different – subtle, yes, but most definitely a change: there is a peace deep inside of me that wasn’t there four years ago. I am still grieving over my loss and missing my husband as much as before. But the fear of the future and what it might hold has been replaced with a conviction that absolutely nothing happens to us that does not first pass through our Father’s Hands.


“My hope is built on nothing less…”

Four Years

It has now been four years since my husband passed away. I wonder what he would think of all the changes since he’s been gone: 3 more grandchildren; gold paint on the living room walls; our shed demolished in a storm; my short, spiky hairdo.

Some things haven’t changed: his friends meeting every morning at the Blue Top to drink coffee and discuss the world’s problems; the redbird (or a relative) continuing to rip tiny holes in our screened door in the bedroom at 5:30 am every day; my ability to have perfect golf form and yet somehow miss the ball completely when I swing; and of course – missing him.

But I have noticed a subtle change in our lives…we are able to talk about LeRoy, about the “Remember when…” times with smiles and often with laughter. We are not “over” the loss as some have suggested. The tears still come and go and perhaps they always will because we will not get to watch him showing his grandchildren how to play t-ball or ride a pony or catch a perch with a Mickey Mouse fishing pole.

And I don’t know that the “time heals everything” concept is entirely true. I believe it is more that we are choosing to trust the Lord to get us through each and every day as He reminds us that He is faithful through the storms that bring needed rain as well as the storms that bring destruction.

LeRoy would have loved the 3 new grandchildren and he would have approved of the gold living room walls. Losing the shed would not have been a big deal to him. But the short, spiky hairdo? That’s up for discussion…at the Blue Top over coffee.

The Father's Day Winner

Today is Father’s Day. A wonderful idea, having a day set aside for fathers. A great way to show them how much they are loved throughout the year. What man doesn’t need one more tie with the picture of a golf ball on a tee with “Tee’d off that you got this tie, Dad? Happy Father’s Day!” underneath it. But it’s a hard day for those children whose fathers have passed away, like my three children.

I sat in church today and listened to the contest we have every year: oldest dad present (we had one who was 92), grandfather who would admit to babysitting the most grandkids at one time by himself (the brave man in that category watched 5 kids). My husband would not have won either of those categories; nor would he have won the other ones: dad with the longest arm, grandfather who had jumped rope with a grandchild most recently, or father who would admit to burning down his tent while camping with his son (I don’t make these up…I just report them!).

But my children knew that their dad would have won several other categories hands down. For example, dad who could burn French toast but still make it taste good. Or dad who could come home from work exhausted yet somehow find the energy to shoot a basketball with his daughter for 2 hours. What about dad who used his coon hunting money to buy his son a bicycle or dad who went to every freezing cold high school football game for four years simply because his daughter was a cheerleader.

Oh, I know those are not categories that you would probably ever see at a Father’s Day contest at church. But in our household, there was a clear winner for every one. I can sum it up by telling you that one Father’s Day, all three of our children gave their dad a card that said “Dad, when we grow up, we want to be just like you.” It doesn’t get any better than that.
Happy Father’s Day.

Hunt For Red...Bird

He came back…about 6:30 this morning. I heard the sounds in my sleep and was awake in seconds. Let me explain.

Saturday is my one morning to occasionally sleep in. I am an early riser and always have been. I wake up at 5 a.m., hop out of bed and am singing within 10 minutes. On one of those singing mornings my husband, who was NOT an early riser, rolled over in bed, looked at me and said “If you were a bird, I’d shoot you.” Those words would come back to haunt him a few years later!
Back to the visitor this morning: a gorgeous red cardinal who was alternating singing at the top of its lungs with repeated attacks on the screening on my sliding doors to the deck outside my bedroom, ripping holes with each attack. Any chance to sleep in was cancelled but this “early bird” reminded me of another cardinal a few years ago who devised a battle plan to attack the same screen.

Morning after morning it came, viciously hitting the screen and grabbing the mesh with its claws. When it tired of the game, the cardinal would fly away (presumable to prepare for the next day’s battle) but the results of the attack remained. We began to see the pattern of tears and rips that only grew with each day’s attacks. While we admired the bird’s tenacity and mental toughness, we started devising our own battle plans. First, we tied a yellow and black shirt at the top of the screen that flapped with every breeze in order to frighten the cardinal away. All that did was cause three neighbors to call and leave similar messages on our phone: “Hey, I think someone tried to break in the sliding doors on your house and you must have scared them away fast…all they left was a yellow and black shirt.” We tried tying plastic bags, balloons and every other thing that we could think of but no such luck. The bird kept coming back.

My husband became obsessed with the cardinal and threatened to shoot in the air to scare it off. “What would the neighbors think,” I questioned, “if they heard a shotgun blast at 6:30 in the morning?” “They would think I got the guy in the yellow and black shirt,” my husband responded. I was not convinced so he plotted and schemed to think of a way to get rid of the bird.

Two weeks later I came home to a wonderful surprise: on our kitchen table was an empty shotgun shell with a red feather in it! I ran into the living room. “You got it! You shot that cardinal! Hallelujah!” I yelled to my husband. He gave me the smile of a triumphant hunter and said “One shot. That’s all it took.” As I searched for more accolades for his success, I heard a familiar sound coming from outside our screen doors in the bedroom: mesh being torn and ripped by tiny claws. “You didn’t kill the bird,” I accused. “It’s back! I hear it!” My husband got up from his chair and headed to the bedroom as he yelled over his shoulder “I didn’t make up that red feather. The bird is dead…gone…kaput!” But it wasn’t.

A confession followed. “I saw a pile of red feathers by the deck and I figured a cat got the cardinal. So I decided to “dress up” the facts just a little” my husband admitted. “How was I supposed to know that the bird had a brother?”

I miss those days of red bird attacks and battle plans. And I miss that triumphant hunter most of all.

My First Date

I had my first date since my husband passed away three and a half years ago. The phone call came on Monday, with an invitation for dinner on Valentine’s Day. I have known Noah for almost 6 years. He is kind and considerate, with a quick wit and easy smile. I said “Yes, I would love to go out to dinner with you.” But he had one condition on the date: I would have to pick him up. Not a problem, really. That’s the way things are done these days. And besides, it’s a little hard to reach the gas pedal when you are not quite six years old.

Noah, my grandson, was ready when I drove up his drive and met him at the door. He had on khaki slacks, a navy and grey stripped shirt…and a printed tie. His hair was gelled and he quickly informed me that he had used his very own bottle of cologne – quite liberally, I might add. My gift to him for asking me out was a red rose boutonniere. A few pictures later we were on our way.

The ooh’s and aah’s were everywhere as Noah opened the restaurant door for me, helped me take off my coat and asked me to order my meal before he ordered his. The waitress could not contain her smile as he announced that he was taking me on a date and dug in his coat pocket to pull out the money for the meal.

Over a dinner of ham and cheese sandwiches, suzies, and chicken strips, we talked about everything imaginable: how red ketchup and yellow mustard mix to make a shade of orange, why there were animal heads hanging on the walls of our restaurant, why we shiver when we are cold and sweat when we are hot, what kind of ice cream was the best (vanilla was the unanimous selection), where crushed ice comes from, what we had done on Friday, how proud his grandpa would be of him. But most of all we laughed. We laughed as we tackled the serious subject of “what if’s”: What if somebody couldn’t tell the difference between the smell of a skunk and the smell of popcorn? What if a coyote ran up on my deck and couldn’t figure out how to get down? What if a dinosaur sounded like a zebra when he roared? The “what if’s” got even sillier but the laughter never ceased. The date ended at the front door with a precious kiss and a declaration of “I love you, Grandma, and I had a great time!”

Some day my Noah will be 16 or 17 years old and he will be going on a date again. I have no doubt that he will still be kind and considerate and the quick wit and easy smile will touch the hearts of females everywhere. But how honored I am to know that Noah chose me to be his first date. We made a Valentine’s Day memory that I will never forget.