"Mo" names than I can count

My mom says, that she named me Monique because it sounded "sophisticated"

Monique. Danye. Criddell..."it rings with professionalism", she says. 

When I told my parents that I wanted to be a neurosurgeon my name took on its own impetus. My initials were MDC, for crying out loud, MD Criddell...Medical Doctor Criddell=way to go, mom! Nailed it!

With this name I was destined to be a medical maven. It was kismet.

My mom held me in her arms and branded me with sophistication and purpose. She just knew that family, teachers, friends and strangers would learn of my name and utter it with the sincerest of respect and awe.

That dream faded to black shortly after I started private school at two. Much to my mother's dismay I was given a nickname. "Mo". Mom tried to stop it but it was too late. I don't think folks called me "Mo" because it was easier, either. This is just who I am to the world...not some stuffy uber professional physician but that down to earth, round the way girl that you feel like you have known for decades...(I'm postulating here but it sounds good to me)

I have acquired many a moniker in my short life. Here are a few of my favorite handles...

Moneca (pronounced Mo-knee-kah)

Mom is the only one who calls me this. She says it when she is being loving. It just sounds the same way a warm blanket feels. I just wanna wrap myself up in it. I also think she may be attempting to redeem "Mo" by adding an exotic suffix. Mom is pretty persistent. 

Scooter

This alias is the brainchild of the one and only Mike Criddell...my daddy, ya'll. He said that when I was little I scooted around a lot...always on the move. Hence the most logical nickname ever.

KeKe

Alright, I have a love/hate relationship with this name. I love the people who gave it to me. I hate the reason. I was ALWAYS the only black student in my class from the age of 2 to 18...there may have been one more but we were usually scattered. (Only blacks in the joint, stand up!). The sweet reasoning of my high school classmates went something like this: you are black and KeKe is a "ghetto" name so we will call you KeKe...That only stuck for one semester.

Moqui (pronounced Mo-Key)
My best friend and I used to work in the nursery at church together every Sunday when we were in high school. She gave me one of her wallet pics and signed it "I love you, Moqui." My best friend...spelled my name all kinds of wrong. We read it and laughed. it stuck. A week later everyone else and their mama (literally) was calling me Moqui. This ticked her off because it was her special name birthed from a typo and not theirs...15 years later and she stills hates it when others call me that.

Moie (pronounced Mo-E)
 My crew in college predominantly consisted of Indians from India. Most of their names ended in some "E"sound. Tigi, Romy, Letty and Angie (still counts). The natural thing to do was assimilate at least by name. To this day, Tigi and Angie still call me Moie. 

MoMo

This is my favorite. My nephews call me this...just "MoMo". And for some strange and yet perfect reason all children that I meet find their way to this nickname sans suggestion. It amazes me every time. I feel like I am knighted with a Nerf rubber sword into some secret toddler society where there are "No Adults Allowed" signs tacked up everywhere.

"I shall dub thee, MoMo."

It has taken a lifetime to acquire these names and more. New friendships mean new names because nicknames usually mean, "I love you". And when I met James I came full circle... and heard my name as if for the first time. 

Eight hours into our second date I noticed that he kept calling me Monique. I redirected him towards Mo-ville letting him know that my friends call me Mo and he was welcome to do the same. 

He said...

"No offense but Mo sounds like a guy's name to me. Monique is the name of a beautiful, intelligent woman and that is what I think you are...but if you prefer for me to call you Mo, I will."
(= way to go, James! Nailed it!)

Starry-eyed and swooning, I said...

"You can call me whatever you want."

It's been Monique ever since. He cut right to my mother's heart for me....He cut right to my heart and I love to hear him say my name.

Beautiful Day in Vietnam

Ya'll, I was close to being in tears last night over the wonderful Mr. Rogers. It's a wonderful day in the neighborhood whenever he was around. Ya feel me, 80's babies?! Someone posted a buzzfeed.com post on "21 heartwarming & beautiful facts about Mr. Rogers facts"

Somebody call the Pope and grant this man sainthood. Develop some practical theology curriculum based on his show. Something. His words were simply true. He wasn't rudely intrusive but he challenged mindless prejudice. He wasn't irresponsibly provocative but  he is legendary nonetheless.

He is kind of a big deal and I am a big fan if you haven't figured that out by now.

I want to buy a box set of his DVD's and show my children...

That's right. It's a sweater-jacket sleeve. Can we just stop for a moment and take it all in?...

I didn't cry when I got engaged or even at my wedding...Few things move me to tears but when I see just plain-and-simple good people being good...I can't help myself.

So after pulling myself together over and over again as I read through reasons 1-9 I get to number 10, barely halfway through, and I could no longer contain myself. Overwhelmed and misty-eyed with emotion I go into our kitchen to share the fullness of my nostalgic experience with James. I showed him this video...

Without missing a beat James says, 

"Did you know that Mr. Rogers was a Marine sharpshooter and he had over 150 kills during the Vietnam War?! He was a stone cold killer."

I just stared at him in refute...

"No he wasn't/didn't! And don't ruin my moment. I choose to believe in the "wonderful neighboor" Mr. Rogers not the assassin."

James began to research for instant evidence by way of Google on his I-phone. I love James and James loves history...war history...he knows it well. James is also a really, really good person, nothing contrived about it. So a bruised up, gun-slinging, trigger-happy, Mr. Fred "Go Ahead, Make My Day" Rogers is the perfect hero for James. 

And low and behold his facts are mere urban legend. I stared at him again now both relieved and slightly disturbed.  

With Mr. Roger's good name restored and all right in the world after a brief three minute unrest James turned to me..

showed me this picture...

and says, "Stone. Cold."

Spoiled not Spanked

It's not always hot in Houston...sometimes it rains, sometimes it floods. Ok, it floods a lot, and it is hot all of the time. I remember one day in the fourth-ish year of my existence when it rained in Noah go-grab-your-ark proportions. I was a wee tot so my memory of the peripheral details may be a bit skewed but here is what it looked like from my vantage point.

The news dosed out as many flash flood warnings as they could. My sister, brother and I watched the T.V. closely while my parents were still at work (I'm pretty sure they were at work). At some point they both likely called home to instruct us to keep safe inside. So between the sounds of the emergency tones blaring on the television, my parents clear admonition, and the neighborhood kids playing outside we determined (and by we I mean my brother and sister who are 7 and 11 years my senior determined) that going outside wouldn't be so dangerous after all. So into the deep brown bayou water we went. I remember I was wearing this one piece white terry cloth shorts set with a rainbow elastic waistband. I can still feel the heaviness of that itchy outfit when this memory surfaces. I also remember riding a neighbors canoe down the middle of the street. Then my mind flashes to being inside with my dad...my very upset, frustrated and confused dad. Mike Criddell was not a proud poppa that day. My sister and brother were served up a grade-A butt-whoopin that afternoon. I didn't see it but I have no doubt. Then it was my turn (here is where Mike Criddell starts telling the story)...up to this point I had never been spanked. Just as my dad braced me I said, "Hold on, daddy, can we talk?" He kneeled down looking me right in the eye, chuckled and said, "Naw little girl, I am about to give you a spanking." I continued..."I love you; you know that right?...but daddy it hurts my feelings when you yell at (or are upset with) me so I want to make a deal. If you don't ever yell at me I promise I will do whatever you ask me to do." I stuck my little bold 3 inch hand out for a seal-the-deal handshake and the old man took the bait....errr, I mean he took the deal and shook my hand. 

I can honestly say that my dad held true to his side of the bargain and I am certain that I probably did not. He has never yelled at me in anger. He never and I repeat, never raised his hand to swat my little well-deserving toosh.  My dad will tell this tale to anyone who will listen...in fact I'm sure you have already heard it, whoever you may be. He tells it to relatives and potential business partners alike. He is completely indiscriminate. This is more than a cute little story about a clever toddler who got her way one rainy, Houston afternoon. This story epitomizes my dad's character. It is the purest summation of our relationship.

That is dad's favorite story about me but let me tell share a few about him.

My Ace...
My dad calls me everyday just to talk. He sings, "Heeeeeey Good Looking. Whaaatcha got cookin?" And we enter into a discourse of equals. We are two old men in Central Park playing chess...my father and I. We are in tears laughing over silly relatives and Maury Povich revelations. We discuss politics and educational bureaucracy. The old man even receives theological counsel from me. Somehow I feel like his babygirl and his trusted colleague all in one sitting. I am loved. I am respected.

My Hero...
When he first spoke to James on the phone he talked about me for an hour. I asked James, "How did it go?" He said, "Your dad said he would walk any distance to get to you if had to...and you know what?...I believe him." I do too.

My Reminder...
When life is unfair, he reminds me who I am. A guy broke my heart once...made me cry. Dad was so gentle. He stood at the foot of my bed and said, "I once broke a girl's heart. She was kind and pure like you. I wish I had never hurt her. I didn't know who she was and he doesn't either, baby. Someday someone will know and he won't break your heart." And then he turned and walked away.

I watch him...

Every Sunday morning...
He looks at my mom during worship with his heart turned inside out. He is a pool of pathetic puppy-love around my mom and he has no qualms about it. In his eyes there is the dichotomy of pure joy and despair. He is in love and he refuses to hide it but you can see the hurt of the constant realization that he cannot live without her. I am blessed to witness this public look of love...his audacious adoration.

Whenever he is with my nephews...
He knows how to treat them like men. He rubs the tops of their heads. Firmly, "I am the Father. I am the leader."...Gently, "I know you. I see you. I love you."

These are the conversations that I remember. These are the sweet indelible images left in my mind by a man who knows no end to love and sacrifice. You haven't laughed until you have sat through his tales of being "Twinkie the Kid". You haven't danced until he has asked for your hand to bop with him through a Motown classic. You haven't seen a true champion of innocence unless you are his child. To be loved by Mike Criddell is a blessing and an honor. He is a student of his offspring. A keeper of promises. The tenderest teddybear Marine there is.

You see...
I am a woman who is loved well. I can identify and accept the love of my heavenly Father because of the love that is shown to me by my dad, Mr. Mike Criddell. Check the expiration date because I am spoiled and he wouldn't have it any other way.

Pip Pip Cheerio

Three actors and one company have made many folks in this great nation a tad bit uncomfortable and exposed.  People all over America were/are still raving "Cheerios done did it now!"

I'm not going to lie. I do feel quite special that I get to voice my opinion on the matter. My sweet hubs and I like to play this game called, "Is he/she black?" The rules are quite elementary. James sees someone and asks me, "Is he/she black?" What he has learned over the past two years (I originally typed five years. Getting a little ahead of myself) is that black people come in various tints and hues. We look different from each other...real different. We can be light enough to make our own brothas and sistas think us to be white. We may be infused with copper tones that leave the average onlooker assuming us to be Indian or Cuban. And sometimes we look black but the textures of our hair lend themselves toward Asian ancestry. We are the things crayola dreams are made of. So beautiful. So diverse. My eye is trained to notice nuances in the members of my vast black tribe because studies have shown that you actually notice more differences among those whom you look like (in short). I think that is simply fascinating. So, I like playing this game with James because it is ever-evolving and sometimes the answer is, "I just don't know what they are". 

We participate in this "I spy" sport for more than just amusement. We are also selfishly curious. This is a part of the sweet treat of mixing things up. Like Forrest Gump says, "You never know what you're gonna get." The potential gene pool for our offspring is a wealth of diverse biological permutations that neither side of the family has ever experienced before. How exciting is that? We used to worry about if our own identities would be lost in a sea of gray. Anxious tension rose and we quickly spouted off traditions that we would want to hold on too...I actually said Kwanzaa and I was adamant...not that there is anything wrong with Kwanzaa but I have never celebrated that A day in my life...ever. What can I say, I was desperate. Needless to say, we cut away from frivolous kibitzing and settled in the excitement of doing something new for our mixed up (albeit, futuristic) crew. 

Thanks to the miracle of modern technology I didn't have to look farther than Google to see my future offspring.

 Apparently, if James and I have a little boy it will look like me with a mustache and a Michael Jackson curl.

And our bright-skinned, green eye-ed daughter will be quite fashionable with her terry-cloth earmuff headband to keep her fro at bay. (I mean, what is going on here???)

Whatever they look like...I can't wait to see them...Whoever they are...I can't wait to know them. They have much to teach James & I. This is my prayer for them.

I hope you are welcomed into a world that thinks you are precious and worthy simply because you exist. I pray you understand that the expansion of your cultural backdrop is a gift to the world not a curse. I pray that neither James nor I force you into a check-box on a piece of paper but that you feel free to explore every aspect of you. I hope you dance. I hope you laugh. I hope you love well. I hope that you don't compare your skin color, eye color or hair texture to anyone, especially your siblings because God knows you may all be different. Shun negativity. Turn a deaf ear to mean people. Do Good. Soothe the scars of history by living a life of reconciliation. Know that you are beautiful. Know that you are loved.

Pip Pip, Cheerio!

*And, no, this is not some cute way to tell the world that I am pregnant because I am not.*

Skillets & Apple Cider Vinegar

There are so many neat spots on the campus of Baylor University. When I was a student at Truett I became quite familiar with the special spots around Truett Seminary.

There are these tables outside in the courtyard. I remember when my friend Michelle and I began a singing flash mob of sorts of Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen. (I LUH that song). We started in and several other students stopped pretending to be studious and joined. Our canticle activities coincided with the Waco Regional Baptist Association monthly meeting right on the other side of a  wall of (not sound proof) glass doors...oops.

Oh and I love the study table on the third floor. There are no collapsible legs supporting that handsome display of oak and glass. It is a straight-up ascots and Bourbon type of structure, if you know what I mean. I felt like I was doing something with my life when I studied theology on the beary quiet (SicEm) third floor. Also, I was always under the impression that the more seasoned seminarians earned the right to that table so I didn't sit there until my latter years.

And every building has the esteemed "poo" bathroom. Don't act like you are too good to poo in public because we all find this bathroom in our respective places of work. Truett Seminary...3rd floor...I needn't say mas.

My favorite places are public but deceivingly romantic. The bench right outside the doors of the narthex and the long couch on the inside. I spent many a last-minute hour formatting footnotes and cramming in those places. I had my first conversations with James in those places. I reverted to my gitty second grade self on that long couch when, flustered and not wanting our conversation to end, I blurted out to James, "So you wanna come to my birthday party in the park?" Mind you, this query followed a deep conversation about the ails of being a mature 30 year old in seminary...forever a pathetic nerd am I.

That brown metal bench on the outside...the one on the left...that was where James sat eating his lunch one day. I passed him three times (or circled him like a vulture, whatever) while I talked on my phone in utter disbelief that I might actually like this guy. He says he watched me pace. I still didn't know what in the world we could possibly have in common when I finally got the nerve to say "hi" and sit my butt down. We talked for an hour just like we did the first time we talked on the couch.  James explained to me the importance of cleaning and disinfecting with apple cider vinegar. My ears perked up and my heart began to stir but I knew I was in love, in love I tell you, with my Moody-man,when our talkfest veered a smooth right to the land of cast iron skillets. I have had a lifelong love affair with my family cast iron skillet...Mom will turn over to me every, last thousand-year old heirloom she owns but I best not touch that skillet that we have been cooking with for 30+ years. My present from my parentals for my dirty 30 party in the park...my very own cast iron skillet (I still want theirs). My Moody man told me that he could burn, clean and oil it for me...I just about died. He was killing me softly with his words (in the best way possible) . He was wooing me with his cookware prowess and I knew he had to be mine.

My Mo-lijah Moment

You ever try to unwind the coiled telephone cord of a land-line phone? The more you pull and untwist the hairier the circumstance becomes. I felt an absurd amount of tension last week, AB.SURD. It wasn't regular tension either. It was wifey tension. If Webster's Dictionary defined "Wifey Tension" it would read something like this...

Wifey Tension /ˈwīfē/ /ˈtenSHən/:  stress felt from the overwhelming thought that you probably suck as a wife and need to get yourself together.

Marriage is not so much about two holy faces aglow in global ministry with your better half by your side as it is being open to God to use this holy relationship to slice straight to the heart of your own brokenness. 31 years alive and it's like Monique and Mo are just being introduced. I hope they can be friends because Mo is quite a little snot sometimes. And, maaan, I sounded jaded but I really do love this season of life because I trust God and I trust James and I don't fear this level of vulnerability because of the love I feel. I am exposed but not injured, humbled but not humiliated. And, really, this is the blessing of it all.

I called my mom and I was just about shaking and ready to cry. I told her of the many ways I was discovering my flaws and how I am ready to be done with them. James fully accepts me for who I am but Lord knows that doesn't give me license not to change. And we aren't talking major baggage, folks but whatever I am hauling around is heavy none-the-less. I mean, I whine when I should just say what I want. I nag when I promised myself I wouldn't be that woman. I don't always say "thank you". But the real crapper is that I'm so incredibly helpful. Let me tell you how helpful being helpful is when ain't noooobody asked for my help...So I am learning to trust James to be the man I love and married because he vowed that he would...loving, dutiful, selfless, focused...a grown man who was living an adult life long before I came along and doing just fine. Don't get me wrong we add to each others lives but my man is no child.

You ask, "Monique, when did you first know you had a problem?" I'm glad you asked. I was on my way to work one day while James was catching his last bit of rest before class. I leaned over, kissed him goodbye and I as walked away I said, "Did you finish your homework because you know you need to get it done?...And have you started your paper...you should to that today so you won't be stressed this weekend.." To this volley of questions prescribed for any lazy 3rd grader my husband smiled and responded... "Yes, baby...no, baby...good idea, baby." and capped it all off with a resounding "You know, you are going to make a good mother." (he says he was being sincere and I believe him).

So I asked my mom, shaking and fully irritated with myself (2 months later)..."Did you ever do this and when will God fix me so I will stop?". Her (eh, hopeful) response was that after 43 years of marriage God is still working those things out in her (and she had the nerve to chuckle).

I went to the lake last Friday for my weekly MyDay Friday...day-off...mini-retreat...time alone to read my books. I prayed(ish) but I didn't know what to ask for. I read. I pondered. I looked at the water and felt the wind hoping that the Holy Spirit might inspire a life-changing thought correlating nature to my current condition rendering a "fixed" better wife...Didn't happen. Finally in my fourth hour while reading a random line in a random fictional book God reminded me that the Holy Spirit is praying for me...He, Himself, the Holy One. This took my breath away. I had my own personal, still-whisper, Elijah moment...and it touched me to the core. So I going to stop pulling and untwisting because I have not a clue where to begin but the Lord's does so I think I will meet him at the lake again and see what else He has to say.