Failure isn’t an End Game

Slamming my messenger bag across the room was probably not the most descreet thing I could have done.

“What’s going on,” my Dad asked as he entered the room.

“It’s over. I failed my algebra test. It’s just over,” I replied.

“So, you failed it. And?” My dad replied, rescuing my messenger bag from the corner of the room. My facial expressiin must have echoed my internal confusion as my Dad continued on, “Failure isn’t final, baby girl, unless you decide that it is”.

I knew then (& now), my Dad was right. Failure will and does happen.

We are, simply stated, flawed folks. We will and do fail.

However much we fail..however career ending, life-changing or day altering it may be, it does NOT have to end there. Failure does not have to be final.

I promise you this. I have worked over 10 jobs in my life, endured divorce twice, lost a child, and buried a beloved friend.. I am certainly top of class for failures. It wasn’t (and isn’t) final for me. It isn’t final for you, unless that is your choice.

Fear first?


If you asked me what one word I would use to describe myself a year ago, I would confess it was Fear.

Fear comes so many ways. We fear the monster under our beds, our parents anger, we fear not being liked at school, or not succeeding. We fear losing our jobs, our homes or family. We fear war or we fear ourselves.

We learn fear so young.

And I think it’s a necessity. How are we to understand/appreciate peace if we have never known fear?

I’d like to think fear-filled me of last year was a requirement for knowing a peace-appreciating me this year. May it be so, Lord Jesus.

Pig Day: My two favorite pigs

Don’t expect to read of Porky, Petunia or even Wilbur. My two favorite pigs are ones you don’t likely know…yet.

Creamer Pig

As I was told as a child, the creamer pig was a gift once to my Great-Grandma Brock near the end of her days. At some point in time, it was passed along to my Grandma Lowe.

Memaw, as we called her, never used the pig to serve actual cream. He sat upon a shelf near her kitchen window, where she would often keep her wedding ring when washing dishes and would keep little things she would find such as a stray hair barette or a wheat penny. Year after year, creamer pig would sit by her kitchen window. And get blamed.

In good fun, of course. My Memaw would blame creamer pig if potatoes were under cooked or cornbread a tad too crispy. She would smile & pat creamer pig upon his wee white snout.

In April 2007, my Grandma would leave her home my Grandpa had built them to eventually move into a nursing home. Today would have been her 93 birthday, in fact. She passed away on 7th September 2014.

In fall of 2010, my mom sister and I would reenter my grandparents house again..for our last time. The house was now falling in, most of the floor giving way to the cellar beneath and roof heavy with age. Black mold coated so much, and the air was painful to breathe.

Not much in the house remained, having been heavily scavished by my uncle. But tucked in the corner on what was the livingroom was two cardboard boxes. My mom lifted the lid of the top box, and nestled in grey blankets of newpaper were knicknacks, whatnots that once belonged to my grandparents. My mom and I scooped up the boxes and carried them out.

I would take the boxes to my mom’s home, and fill the kitchen sink full of warm soppy water. One by one, I would baptize each item and tenderly wipe away the years of dust and stain of newsprint. Among those items was the creamer pig.

I, too, have never used the creamer pig for actual cream. I place my rings in it when I wash dishes and fill his hollow wuth bread ties (which I have found many purposes for. That’s a post for another day)

Pigg Lee Pig

My youngest son was less than 2 days old when my sister brought him the plush pig.

I knew immediately this pig, who I named Pigg Lee Pig, was going to be different. The nurses came into my hospital room, making jokes that my youngest son must want the pig bad, because somehow my son had scooted himself until he could touch the pig.

As my son grew, Pigg Lee had to go through every rite of passage that my son did: bottle breaking, potty training, and first night sleeping in a big boy bed. Around the time my son was two, I began to make up bedtime stories about Pigg Lee. In these stories, Pigg Lee was the sheriff of an old west town called Little Town.

As children sadly do, around the age of 11 or 12 my youngest son no longer showed any interest in his pale pink pal and Pigg Lee retired to a shelf along with a t-rex that was his older brother’s. I would sit that year and begin to type up the tales (& tail) of Pigg Lee Pig, and hope some day to publish them.

Do you or your children have a beloved pig?