Before church this morning

The importance of roots

From today's Briefing:

Our red oak stands proud. Its limbs reach for the street and the sky and the front porch all at once. Its canopy offers shelter from the sun. Its leaves shake in spring wind, provide comfort in summer heat, dazzle in autumn sunsets, drop with winter’s first kiss.

That tree grows stronger each year, defying its scrawny first year at home, way back in 2002, when we moved in to our brand-new neighborhood. The tree seemed to struggle at first, showing few signs of progress.

Early spring after early spring, Steve would stand on our front porch, arms crossed, studying the tree. After ample investigation, he’d nod and say, “This is going to be THE year for the tree.”

We’ve endured six springs without Steve. In his absence, at least once a year, I stand before the tree, cross my arms, nod and declare it the year of the tree.

I’ve lived in this home, with that red oak in the front yard, longer than I’ve lived anywhere else. My little family has been a member of this pocket of Frisco, Texas, for almost 13 years.

Living in one place for so long — after three decades of somewhat nomadic behavior — feels comfortable and comforting.

Take last Saturday, for example.

We attended a youth baseball game at our nearby community park. The starting pitcher was third-grader Adam, honorary extra brother in our home. He lives in the house behind ours. I’ve loved him since before he was born.

And now I get to watch him stand tall on the mound, red-white-and-blue cap pulled low, mitt on his left hand, baseball in his right. Strike, ball or hit — it doesn’t matter. That’s our Adam, pitching in a game he’s loved his whole life.

In another neighborhood later that night, I stood in a crowded kitchen, raised a glass and toasted the engagement of Lindsay and Alec. We’ve known Lindsay for five years. Her mom is one of my most honest, most faithful, most hilarious friends.

This family has struggled, but they are now strong.

They all stood together — mom, dad, two sisters, one brother and a brother-to-be — surrounded by people who love them. There were a few sentimental tears, balanced by laughter and infectious smiles.

The soul of this community, of my community, is the people. They are a huge influence in why I remain in this house, with that red oak, even without Steve.

In his final weeks, he was confined to this house. He took his final breaths in our bedroom. Though those memories can be haunting, I’ve never once considered leaving.

Cooper, Katie and I are invested in the people around us. We grieve when a neighbor is diagnosed with cancer, and we rejoice when she is in remission.

We marvel that the young man across the street, who was 5 when we first met, is about to graduate high school. We give thanks for dedicated teachers in every grade, for talented instructors in every instrument, for compassionate coaches in every sport.

With each subsequent year, I expect our roots will grow deeper. I hope that my children feel secure, comforted and protected.

I pray that these years at home, in one place (with a few adventures sprinkled in), give them confidence to stand proud, to reach up and at the same time reach out, to provide comfort to others.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Before church this morning

How sweet it is to spoil once in a while

From Saturday's Briefing:

When I take my children to special events, ballgames or concerts, I rarely spend money on extra stuff. I don’t pay for overpriced T-shirts or souvenir mugs or stuffed animals. Memories from the event are the only souvenir we need.

And food? Just the basics, if that, please. I’ve been known to smuggle in granola bars and juice boxes to ward off visits to unhealthy, uber-expensive concession stands.

Apparently, the rules don’t apply when I’m chaperoning other people’s adorable children.

Last weekend I took my 9-year-old, Katie, and our kindergarten friend Mattie to American Airlines Center to watch the Disney on Ice presentation of Frozen. We belted out the soundtrack on the drive down the Tollway. We admired dozens and dozens of tiny Anna and Elsa lookalikes as we stood in line to enter the arena. We posed for photos in front of cardboard snowflakes.

We were ready to embrace the entire Frozen experience, no extras required.

Katie, having lived with me her entire life, already knows my stance on vendor sales. She loves to look at merchandise on display, but she rarely asks to take anything home.

Mattie, on the other hand, knows nothing about my spending habits. Plus, she saw her mom hand me $40.

We’d barely entered the building when she spotted the first of many snow-cone stands.

“I want one of those!” she enthused.

“Let’s look at all your choices before we spend your money,” I advised.

She obliged. Yet nothing would break her devotion. The girl wanted a snow cone. And she was so charming and so polite — how could I turn her down?

So we stood in line for crushed ice drenched in bright red syrup and served in a plastic stein. Anna on one side, Elsa on the other.

Mattie, already bubbly about the show, was now positively giddy.

Snow cones may induce happiness, but they lack nutritional value, so our next purchase was a kid’s meal for Mattie — hot dog, potato chips and a small Sprite. Of course that meal lacked nutritional value as well, but at least she’d no longer feel hungry.

Before the show lights dimmed or a single performer skated on to the ice, we had our first tiny spill. A smidge of red snow cone dripped on Mattie’s pastel peach dress.

“That will wash right out,” I chirped, as I draped more napkins in her lap.

She’d barely polished off the snow cone when intermission began.

“I’m hungry,” she said. “I’m really hungry.”

A cotton candy vendor strutted nearby.

“I’d like some cotton candy.”

I exchanged skeptical glances with Katie. Neither of us knew the right answer.

“Does your mom usually let you eat cotton candy?” I asked.

“Well, I’ve had it before.”

Now, if this had been my own child, I wouldn’t have even entertained the question. Of course you don’t need cotton candy after eating a giant cup full of liquid sugar.

Yet this wasn’t my own child. This was a 6-year-old caught up in the magic of her favorite movie come to life before her eyes. She wasn’t greedy. She just wanted a little fluffy sugar to take the edge off her hunger.

How could I refuse?

Katie bounded down the stairs until she met up with the cotton candy vendor, then returned with a bag of blue and pink spun sugar, topped with a wearable crown.

By the time we walked out of the arena, crown on Mattie’s head and plastic stein in her hand, all the cotton candy was gone — except the bits stuck in her hair or clinging to her white sweater.

When we returned Mattie home, I sought forgiveness in lieu of permission for the excessive sugar feast.

I later learned that our young friend had a classic sugar-fueled meltdown later that day. She crashed early and hard — a little reminder of why I usually exert more parental control, and why it’s sometimes fun to slightly spoil children who aren’t your own.

Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. Email her at tyradamm@gmail.com.

Top: Mattie and Katie walk toward the arena.
Bottom: Katie, Mattie (and the snow cone) and me

Holy Covenant Easter egg hunt: Then and now

Top: Tyra, 9-month-old Katie and an Easter Bunny in April 2006
Bottom: Tyra, 9-year-ol Katie and Amy Easter Bunny in April 2015

Left: 4-year-old Cooper hunting eggs in April 2006
Right: 13-year-old Cooper amusing his momma by re-creating the photo in April 2015

After church this Easter morning