Father’s Day ‘11

Happy Father’s Day, to all the dads in my life.

To mine:

To my dear father-in-law, and to the future father of my children:

To my friend, who’s faithful fathering is an encouraging inspiration:

To my little brothers who’ll be fathers one day.

One sooner:

one later: 

To my spiritual father, who has always pointed me to my true Father:

I’m grateful for all of you!

(All photos in this post were taken by Kori Hoffman)

Cold Spaghetti

I made spaghetti for dinner last night.  It was a quick meal, thrown together not long before needing to leave for Sunday evening service.  The pasta was still quite hot when I lumped it into tupperware to refrigerate, so I put it out to cool. Topped partially with a lid, I left it as we went to church then out for milkshakes with dear friends. We arrived back home later and I eyed the capellini and sauce. I checked the temperature, and of course it was completely cooled.  I ate a small chunk of the cold spaghetti, and instantly thought of my dad, transported to my parents’ kitchen island, standing, surveying littered leftovers.

Leftover consumption by my dad has always been a fine art. I can’t even begin to count the number of memories I have of him eyeing a bounty of tupperware, contemplating his coming dinner, which would always end up a funny concoction of the week’s previous meals. But there was always something about leftover spaghetti. It was special. I remember him many times heaping the pasta into a bowl.  It was ready for the microwave, yet he took his time, choosing other bits of this and that to complement his main dish.  All the while, he would pick at the cold spaghetti tupperware from which he had already dished his leftover dinner. My mom would wonder aloud if he’d be hungry for the cooked spaghetti after eating all the cold. I giggled to myself last night, as I did whenever I witnessed this taking place in my parents’ kitchen.

As I lidded my cheap Ikea tupperware full of cold spaghetti and memories, I wondered how many moments like this bring dad to mind that I don’t even notice. For a split second my eyes got misty, thinking maybe I wouldn’t be able to recall all the things that remind me of him till he’s gone. Cold spaghetti is just one. Hootie & The Blowfish (whose song we danced to at my wedding) is another.  A memory mushroom bloomed for a minute, as one recollection of him led to another.

I get to see him this weekend. Maybe we’ll get to eat cold spaghetti together. Even if we don’t, I’ll have to tell him how much I love that he does that.

What They’re Made Of

Snips,

Snails,

And puppy dog tails.

That’s what little boys are made of.

Him

Driving ten hours to visit my best friend from college was nothing. The long winding roads between our deep South college town and her Southeastern state of residence seemed shorter because of sheer excitement. I finally arrived, and hugged my friend tight. After all, it had been at least a year since we’d seen one another. We tucked my things away in her cozy apartment, and headed off for a drive around town so she could show me the city’s sights at nightfall. I became excited to see them in the next day’s light. We ended up at a Caribou Coffee after our little tour. No moment wanted for conversation, reminiscing, laughter. We were already getting loopy; me from 10+ hours on my bum, her from the day’s preparations for a guest. You know how best friends are when it’s been too long…

After sitting in comfy chairs and delving into each other’s lives with haste, she said, “Hey, I want you to meet my guy friends. They live right around the corner, they’re so great.” So we walked out of the coffee shop still chattering away, feeling like we had never been apart, getting ready for a fun long weekend together.

We walked up the steps to her friends’ apartment, the loopiness taking its full course in us with each moment later into the evening. She knocked on the door, the two of us giggling like school girls.  A tall guy welcomed us in, merely saying hello and introducing himself, his roommate soon to follow. I responded in kind, and the two of us girls sat down on the couch as I was further acquainted with our hosts. 

We stayed for an hour or so. My b.f. caught up with the roommate of our greeter; they were fellow musicians. It hadn’t taken long for all of us to feel like old friends. We shared a love of many things: books, music, theology, laughing… It’s a wonder they didn’t kick the two of us out, for our conduct was not unlike that of children. But these guys didn’t seem to mind our silliness. As my friend and the roommate were discussing music details for a coming church service, I remained alone with the guy who had answered the door. As I started amusing myself with a nice electric keyboard of theirs, he just… watched me. I didn’t feel uncomfortable, and I guess he didn’t either. We talked intermittently as I played remnants of songs I learned as a young girl. After awhile, my friend and I no longer fit to be awake, much less among any other humans, bid the gentlemen farewell.

That was it. No immediate sparks, no fireworks. (For me, anyways.) That was the night I met my husband. I could have never known, as I was only passing through town, on a last-minute roadtrip no less. Though I was open to a relationship at that juncture in life, I wasn’t looking for one. I found out later that it didn’t take long for him, despite my general tomfoolery, to set his regard on me. I was entirely oblivious to this fact. 

But I’m glad he didn’t let my ignorance keep him from making his intentions known. I soon began to notice his kind, dark eyes, his bright smile, his tender, serving attitude, how handsome he really was…

I’m glad I met you on those shaky apartment steps, on a day and amidst circumstances that could not have been formulated by anyone but God Himself. Thanks for marrying me about a year later.

Love you.

The Broadaways

Last weekend, I had my second opportunity to do a family photo shoot. They were gracious subjects, and so patient as I dealt with my camera’s idiosyncrasies. I’m not sure if it’s because I have two younger brothers, but little boys have a special place in my heart. They’re just funny! So it was really fun to spend time catching moments with these little guys.

Here are a few of my favorite shots of the Broadaway family:

Although the focus of this photo is the parents’ shared glance, I love how the little one is looking straight into the camera. Mr. Serious. 

Quintessential father-son moment. So high!

I think this one might be my personal favorite:  1. Mom’s laughing smile is so natural and beautiful.  2. Older brother reached over on his own to give his baby brother that squeeze!  3. Baby’s reaction to said squeeze is adorably priceless. It’s a real interaction between family. Catching those moments is always a treasure.

This little guy is all boy, his mama tells me. He couldn’t resist exploring the rocks, climbing the hills, pointing this way and that in the little valley behind our new apartment, which is where the shoot was held.

Goodness gracious. What a face.

Broadaways, thank you so much for letting me do this with you. Your boys are endearing, and your family so sweet!