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I wrote this short story my senior year of High School.  I have no idea what provoked it.  If I have to guess, what provoked this story I would say “fear”.  

Well my story begins like this I am a 6’0 tall, brown skin young lady, with big legs that feels really hurt and lost right now.   I cannot remember all the events that have taken place but I will try.   All I remember is screaming and being really upset for a very long time.   I was in bed taking a nap when my father walked in and said to me “Tera, I am going to pick up your mother.  I will be right back’.  I simply said “ok”.  I rolled over and attempted to go back to bed.  I was had finally fallen asleep.  I was up for hours because my high school sweetheart was cheating and recently dumped me.  My heart was ripped to shreds and I was trying to make sense of the events that had taken place in my social life.  Little did I know my life was about to get worse.   I was passing the time and (in and out of sleep) when I realized it had been about 2 hours.   My father had been gone a very long time.   I sat up in my bed and reached for the phone.   I called Mr. Williams.  This is the place my dad was picking up my mom from her best friend’s house which was not far from our home.   Mr. Williams stated my parents had been gone for hours.

After the call, I sprung from my bed and put my clothes on.  I remember my heart racing.  I was trembling with fear.   It was an instant response that something was wrong.   I ran out of the home only to realize my dad had driven my car.  I saw his van parked in the drive.  I remember seeing my mom’s spare keys on the hook.   I grabbed the spare keys and headed to the Williams’ home.   On the path to the home I saw the caution tape and my car wrapped around a pole.  I remember thinking….where are my parents.  I parked the van and ran to the caution tape.  The scene was being cleared to there were not a lot of details but they told me the person in the car were sent St Vincent Hospital.  My heart racing, I jumped back in the van and headed to St Vincent.  

I went to the information desk for help and I was told a social worker would be down to speak with me.   A social worker?  Why in the world would I need to speak with a social worker.  I want to see my parents.  I waited patiently and I was taken into a room.  In the room, the social worker and a minister came in.   I instantly broke down.   It was instant.  As they began telling me the details of the accident, I felt trapped in a bad dream.  I remember thinking about all of our good times together.   My dad was my partner in crime.  We were very close and did everything together.   I was his shadow.  Our connection was instant.   I was adopted at 18 months and from the day he picked me up were connected at the hip.  My best friend!  My best friend was gone?  I felt so lonely.   I felt my whole like drifting away with every breath. 

My mom was a different story.  We had our differences.  However, she was a good mom.  I think she did the best she could with the skill set she had.  She was loving.   She had my best interest at heart.  I then wonder about the afterlife.  Will my parents go to heaven?   The feeling of sorrow and loneliness had come over me.  This was my senior year.  My parents would never see me walk across the stage.  My parents would never see me get married.  My dad would never walk me down the aisle. 

The moment of truth was ahead of me.  I had to go identify the bodies.   My parents were so bruised and beat up.  They were swollen and almost looked as if one tear was streaming down my mother’s eye.  Was she crying in her final moments?  Did they suffer?  Was it instant?  In their final hour did they think of me?  All these thoughts and emotions were flooding my head.  How will I make it?  How will I pay bills?  I had already signed my volleyball scholarship for college.  Can I go to college with no parents? 

My mind then jumped to logic.   There had to be a logical reason these events had taken place. The only logical reason I could l think of was the fact that God wanted me to be more responsible.  God wanted my to be independent.   God wanted me to the poster child for surviving.  In the past year, my grandmother (roommate) and grandfather had passed away. It was such much pain to carry.  We all resided in the same home.  I was the only living person. 

I was also still broken from my recent break up which seemed minimal at the time yet had some emotional impact.  My first order of business was to contact everyone in my family and tell them what happen.  I had to contact my parents church.  I felt like I told the story repeatedly.   I had to decide if I was having one funeral or two funerals?  How would everything be taken care of?  Events like this make you love and appreciate friends and family in my/out live(s).  My aunt stepped in and took over.  I had some major decisions to make. You helped me not feel sorry for myself and throw a pity party.   She helped me find my independence. She helped tell my story.  She put me in grief counseling which help me immensely.  The day of the funeral was not extremely sad.  It was a celebration of two great people.  Two great souls.  I found comfort in knowing they would always have each other.   It was the way God intended it to be.  

It is my belief that athletic ability should be considered a type of intelligence.  We have all heard the term “dumb athlete” but I really feel like athletes are far from dumb.  The ability to manipulate your body or command your body to respond to situations in seconds is not an easy feat.  I know as a volleyball player the first thing I did in preparation for a game is watch the competition.  I would try to figure out who was my threat.  Would I need to compensate for my weaknesses or the weaknesses of my team?  Would this be a fast pace game or slow?  Will this game be easy to dominate?  All these things were running in my head before I played.  In preparation for the games the coaches always outlined a game plan.  Which offense and defense to run.  Our job as athletes was to execute.  Our ability to execute the plan laid or adjust to the game plan in (sometime) in moments would determine the outcome of the game.

    These are “all things” that go into play before you put on a uniform and walk on to the floor.  I loved to get in my opponent’s head.  I was a somewhat soft-spoken person but a different animal on the floor.  I was a very obnoxious and boisterous player.  That was the game I played to set up intimidation.  I remember my boyfriend in college came to watch me play, he was floored.  I thought I was a totally different player on the floor.  I was my alter ego.  I was in “role play”.   This was all part of the plan.  Athletics taught me how to plan.  This was before “volleyball” I.Q. was a thing but it the perfect term for the what was taking place.  In volleyball, players are reading body language.  Players are watching the arm swing.  Where does this player like to hit?  If she tips….where is it going? I have been watching tape as a coach and tracked where every hit (spike) is going.  I can tell by the way the player is approaching the “attack”. It is a game of math.  It is a game of percentages.  The scientific term is “bodily-kinesthetic intelligence” also known as athletic intelligence.     

Years and years of hard work go into producing a final product!  Even persons with natural athletic ability to have work.  I am grateful for the experience at all levels.  Every year, I got better and better.  I understood what “the zone” was.  “The zone” almost feels like an out of body experience.  It is your body respond without thought.  I have experienced “the zone” in basketball.  It just feels like everything you throw at the ream goes in.  Every set the setter throws up is a kill in volleyball and it goes straight down.  Every time your hand goes up for a block, the ball is going straight down.  It is almost hard to believe.  Your body is on autopilot and your mind is in tune to it.  I used this response a lot in everyday situations.  I am a problem solver as most mothers and fathers are.  I am the fixer.  I am proactive.  I am planner.  What should I expect?  What is coming?  How should I prepare?  Athletics taught me that.  Even appearance!  When I hit the court, I want to look a particular way.  I wore my sock “like this”.  I wore my hair “like this”.  It is all part of the athletic environment.  It is a competition on all levels.   It is about the 3 P’s  preparation, presentation, and performance. 

My Father: The Man Who Loved Me First

There are some people whose love feels bigger than life itself. For me, that person was my father. His love was the absolute best—steady, unwavering, robust. He was a wonderful father and a devoted provider. I place his spirit right up there with Jesus, Gandhi, and Mother Teresa. His compassion for people was unreal. Even at 83 years old, until COVID forced the world to slow down, he was still out feeding the homeless. If I had to describe him in three words, they would be KIND, LOVING, and CARING.

He always told me, “Baby girl, I loved you first.”
He used to tell the story of seeing my picture in a lineup of children. He said, “I don’t want to see anybody else. That’s my daughter.” That was who I was to him. That was what I meant to him. I loved him deeply, and I stayed close to him whenever I could.

Growing up, I often wondered how such a wonderful man ended up with my mother. She was battling as much pain as anyone could imagine. He said to me, “Baby girl, I told your mom I was going to spend the rest of my life with her.” That was his promise. That’s my plan.” Even as I dreamed of escaping the chaos, even as I learned to tiptoe around someone whose moods controlled the entire house, my dad was my peace. As I got older, we found our way out of the house and breathed.

My First Coach

My dad was my very first coach. I played softball for him, and let me be honest—I was terrible at first. But he never gave up on me. He took me outside. He took me to the field. He practiced with me. He told me—even when I couldn’t see it—that I was going to be a great athlete.

He was a stern coach. He studied the game, read books, wrote out practices on paper, and set up workouts in our attic. We lifted weights and talked about life. He told me stories about growing up in Little Rock. Those were our moments. Just me and me.

I started out uncoordinated, playing catcher and outfield. But with time, I became fast. I moved from first base to pitcher. I could steal bases, run like the wind, and talk my talk on the field. SPORTS Lacey and everyday Lacey were two different people. However, sports became my superpower. He was the one who helped me tap into it.

My dad didn’t just coach me—he coached the entire neighborhood. My friends played for him, too. We had uniforms, hats, and every weekend felt like an adventure. We piled into his Silverado and went to practice together. Those memories still make me smile.

A Man of Peace and Purpose

My father created stability in ways I didn’t recognize until adulthood. The lawn was always immaculate. The cars were spotless. Bills were paid. The house was stocked with food. My room was beautiful. I always had the toys I wanted. I was his princess.

He even let me pick out a puppy when I was ten—Dollie. She became my other lifeline. And he had the same patience with animals as he did with people. I watched him befriend stray dogs, feed neighborhood animals, and offer his gentle spirit to anything breathing.

He was also a cleaner. Every Saturday morning, Minnie Riperton filled the air. He vacuumed, dusted, and cooked the few dishes he loved to make. My dad was a drinker sometimes. Unlike my mother, he was a happy drunk. He was loving, affectionate, and loud with his appreciation. We’d watch Razorback basketball together, especially once I learned the game.

My dad was a smoker too, and he survived lung cancer. But the thing that finally made him quit wasn’t sickness—it was me. At four years old, I pretended to smoke using the toy syringe from my doctor’s kit. When he asked what I was doing, I said, “I’m doing what you do.” He never touched another cigarette. He had tried many times, but that moment changed everything. He wanted to be the example I needed.

He was that kind of man.

He even gave one of his kidneys to his sister, Aunt Sue. She ultimately passed away when her body rejected it, but he never regretted trying. That was his heart. After I had my son, Tyler, their bond was just as strong. He put him in suits, took him to church, and brought him to the food pantry. To this day, if Tyler wants something, “Grandpa” is going to send it.

Faith, Loss, and the Unbreakable Heart

My parents didn’t go to church for most of my childhood. They had both been hurt by religion in different ways. Everything shifted when my grandparents moved in with us. My maternal grandmother was fighting breast cancer. My paternal grandfather was blind and in a wheelchair.

My dad cared for his father with honor and affection. He dressed him up every Sunday and took him to church. They looked so sharp together. My grandfather had been absent for most of his life, so those years felt like healing—almost like reclaiming lost time.

I will never forget the day my grandfather died. I was seventeen. I heard my dad screaming, “DAD! DAD! DAD!” I had never heard pain like that. I can still listen to it in my mind. It broke something in me to witness his heartbreak.

The funeral was held at the church where he grew up. The pastor told my father he could have the service there only if he promised to return. And he did. He joined the church. He became President of the Choir. He sang solos. He ran the food pantry for twenty years. COVID shut everything down. His service was his ministry.

The Things I Never Told Him

There are things I kept from my father—not because I didn’t trust him, but because I knew he loved me fiercely. Fiercely enough to do something that would cost him everything. My dad once walked in on someone robbing our home and shot the intruder. I remember the trial. I remember the fear of losing him. That fear stayed with me.

And so when I was hurt years later—deeply and violently hurt—I said nothing. To protect him. Because I knew he would kill the man who harmed me. That silence is a burden I still carry. But it was wrapped in love.

March 12, 2022: The Day My Hero Left

My father passed away on March 12, 2022. It was one of the worst days of my life, but I knew the moment it happened. A friend called to say he had fallen, and an ambulance was outside. I started packing to go home, but suddenly a wave of peace washed over me.

I knew then. My hero, my first love, the man who loved me without condition, was gone.

COVID had changed him. It slowed him down. Trapped him inside. For a man who had lived in motion, lived in service, lived among people, that was devastating. Watching him weaken broke me.

But I find peace in knowing he is free now—singing, dancing, smiling that big, beautiful smile. Still loving people. Still loving me.

I love you, Dad.
I always will.
Until we meet again.

I was 42 years old, but my “mind” had converted back to my 13-year-old “self”. I was crying.  I was shaking.  I was in a full anxiety attack.  I felt like I was out of control of my own body.   My ex was very unsupportive on this day and in normal fashion.  Any time that was celebratory for me, he always felt the need to break me down or take aim.  This was a norm for a 10-year relationship.  I was an avid worker in the community and received numerous awards and before every program the norm was for me to be in a fight that usually ended up in tears before I took the stage.   I showed up at the church about 30minutes before my son and I were to be baptized.   I had some clothes he left at my apartment, so I handed them over to him  (my ex) when he arrived at the church.   The first question he asked me was “why are you doing this”.   “Are you doing this for attention”.  Haven’t you been baptized?  I was really confused because he rededicated himself to the church via water baptism less than 5 years prior and I have the video on camera.  However, behavior like this always seemed to make me spiral.  My son and I had to meet up at the station set up to get our t-shirts.  I remember thinking to myself  “Please take it one moment at a time”.  My trauma response converted back to my first baptism at the age of 13 years old. I remember giving my heart to God right after I was violently raped by a family friend.   I remember feeling like I had no one who could help take the pain I was hiding inside but God and I walked to the front of the church and gave my life to him.   I could not understand why I was still “there”. I was a grown woman with 4 children and that attack happened almost 30 years prior, but I was replaying the events over and over in my head.  I think this was the breaking point for me. I realized then I had to get some serious help, or I was going to make some poor decisions and I was not the only person that would be affected by my “poor decisions”.  My ex could not handle any discussions on mental health.  I would experience intense episodes of depression after my knee surgeries.   Some days I was so “low” I could not get out of bed.  I would just lay under the covers.  He would send the children in to cheer me up.  They would come lay in the bed with me.  The twins loved watching cupcake shows.  We would lay there and talk about how we were going to make cupcakes.  My sons would just love me.   All my kids are very loving.   I know in those moments it was hard on everyone but when it was time to go to work, I could always get up.   Most of the time I was tired.   I was working several jobs.  I work full time for an International Insurance company.  I was working part time at the City, and I would do little odd jobs like driving for Lyft, Uber, or food delivery.  When I was at home my body just shut down.   I had become the “breadwinner” for my family.  This was a role that I had not agreed upon but this was the situation I was in.  However, I made it to the line.  They called our names and we would go up and get Baptized.  My son was 8years old at the time and he went before me.  To see him go in the water and come out was such a blessing.   I was so happy to be able to witness it.  Then it was my turn.  I walked up and got in the pool of water.   They called my name and I went down and came up.  They helped me out and my 8 year-old was there waiting for me with a towel.  I felt like that was one of the sweetest moments of my life.  My baby held a towel for me after I was baptized.  It really helped me focus on what was important.  It was not important what others thought of me. No one “wants” to be labeled CRAZY but we all have crazy in us. I also realized there is someone out there that can deal with my crazy as much as I was working and taking care of my family.   My son went to school and told his teacher his mom had 8 jobs.  I was so embarrassed.   He was only in the 3rdgrade.  That was not one of my parenting finer moments.  My son and I were baptized, and I had survived the day.   At that moment I decided trauma counseling was necessary.  I was not going to keep reliving my past and getting triggered.  I had to be functional. The idea of trauma counseling was mentioned to me in Marriage Counseling.  I did some research on it after the marriage counseling session, but I was not open to the idea of what felt like “hypnosis” or “time travel”.  It sounded weird and scary. After a couple of other episodes, I decided to try it.    It took a whole year.  I was in counseling faithfully every week.  It was offered at my children’s school.  It was all free and it was one of the best decisions I have ever made. I followed the whole program.  There were weeks I had to take breaks and not do EMDR (just talk) but I completed the process.  I was released from counseling. I was told I did so well I did not need it (counseling).   I had a lot of baggage to deal with.    I still have bad days but now I know how to deal with it. I know when I am being triggered.  I know how to stay out of the traps with old or new relationships and I understand what just does not work for me.  I also know who needs the same counseling I had.  I have turned into a counselor to a few “love” interest…so much so I think I need to start charging them billable hours!!!!  I am not a therapist ,but I am a good listener.  

I stood over her, my 12-year-old body shaking because I could not believe what I was seeing.  Her face was smashed and bleeding. I could tell she was a beautiful lady.  She was petite. She was in what looked like to be a military uniform.  I would later find out she was in the military and home for a break.  She laid there lifeless.  All my 12-year-old mind could process what was before me.  When I discovered her a dog (tan Pitbull) was in the area.  My young mind thought?  Is the dog responsible?  I look back and think of how innocent I was at the time.  It was before I was violently attacked (raped) at 13.  It was around the time of my harassment by a female family friend (lesbian advances).  I thought back at all those instances where my innocence “slowly slipped” away.  I think by the age of 16 years old the trauma I had experienced had consumed 85-90%  of my mind. 

I did not know what to do.  I just sat there and stared and then I finally snapped out of it.  I must tell someone (I thought).   I need to run but how could I leave her?  She was not moving so maybe she was gone.  I was the only person on the playground.  My mom was an educator at a local private school and I was always dropped off early.  I know there was a playground monitor around somewhere in the area but where is she.   I finally saw what appeared to be an adult and ran.  At that point I was crying and the lady embraced me in her arms.  I was talking so fast she could not understand me.  All I could say is “A lady”.  She said “what baby”?  There is a lady over there and she is not moving!  Her face is smashed in and she is bleeding? 

This was way before cellphones so we ran inside where I remember staying until my mother was called to pick me up.  The rest of the day was a blur.  That image has stuck with me for over 30 years.   Why?  How? Who did this/that?  These are the questions that ran through my mind?  My mom came to pick me up and I just remember going home.  She wanted me to lay down but every time I closed my eyes I kept see this woman’s face.  I kept seeing her lifeless body repeatedly. I saw blood. I saw her eyes that looked like one tear had fallen.  I saw this image for many many months to come.   I never went to counseling.  I don’t even remember a conversation about it with my parents.   My home functioned is as “ if we don’t talk about it” it did not happen.  This is when sports became therapy.      My dad was my first coach.  I played softball for him at 10 years old.  I learned at a really young age sports is where I could do and be what I wanted.  I could get really “angry”.  I could be “sad”.  I could show emotions.   It was all ok.  People would tell me” I love your passion”.  I would think in my head.  I am just trying to stay sane.  I also began to write.  I would write sometimes and be so afraid of what was on the paper I would tear it up and bury it.  Was I this angry?  Was I this hurt?  Was I demonic?  I really didn’t know.   I just knew it was not normal so I had to put on an extra show to act normal.   I know I would have been a great actor because most nights I was tormented and got very little sleep but when the lights came on, when I went to school, when I was around friends;  I was silly.  I was the life of the party.  I think to outsiders at time I was perceived as shy however, when I warm up I can/could work a room.  My athletic ability pushed me to be more.  It pushed me to be more present at times when I wanted to zone out.  It was the driving force behind a lot of my successes.  The drive for perfection can be a double edge sword.  I had very little off days.  I pushed myself so hard.  I had to always have perfect grades.  I had to always have my “body” look a particular way.  I always had to have my hair like this or that.  It was a never -ending cycle.  This cycle carried on and on for years.  How long can I keep this up?  How long can I hide these secrets?  About 10 years after the incident, I remember sitting in a sociology class in college.  The professor flashed and image on screen.  The first thing that popped in my head was “this woman”.  I shared my story and obviously the professor and class was mortified.  I was referred to a counseling center.  I did go.  However, I stepped back into my normal (as a college athlete).  I began showing up early for practices.   I would run before and after.  While admiring my dedication to athletes, no one notices I was on my way to a mental meltdown.   I would beat myself up because I never understood why I could not shake old stuff.  Why is this bothering me?  I am a Division 1 athlete at the top of my game on a full ride scholarship?  I have great grades.  I have my own place.  Why do I care?  Why is this haunting me?  It was not until the age of 44 years old (after trauma counseling) did understand. 

The little girl in me needs “attention”.  She is screaming for the attention I never got.  She shows out at times.  I had to learn how to love on her.  My trauma counselor even made me give her a name.  I call her Rosie after my grandmother.  I know it sounds crazy but there are times I must love on Rosie now.  I know when she is clowning.  That inner child shows up in all of us.  It is an ongoing battle.  I am just glad I understand it now.   It is labeled “protecting your peace”.  I must at all cost.  I really must as a mother of 4.  My main goal is to be there for them.  I want to before them what I did not have.  

Nothing makes you understand the importance of your existence like a near death experiences.  In my case, I can’t real say my experience was near death because I was not actually living in the home at the time of the fire. I was living in another city.  Thank GOD!  I was 37 weeks pregnant with my twins and my husband at the time had taken a job in Nashville and we had just moved (less than 4 weeks).  I wanted to stay in Memphis throughout my whole pregnancy because I loved my doctor so much and I wanted stay around family and friends but taking children to school, no sleep (the twins had me huge and swollen), trying to sell our home (which means keeping it clean).  We ended up hiring a cleaning service (my husband was a real MVP for that move).  It was just too much so 4 weeks before the twins were due I moved to Nashville.  The home sold to the first couple that viewed it.  I spoke the tragedy up in a since.  I said that was so easy that was to good to be true.  Why? Why? Why Lacey? 

….but lets go back to the start!

     My last 3 children were intentional.   I remember getting really offended when people felt they had the right to make a statement about my ex-husband and I having 4 kids. I recall being in Target one day after moving to Nashville and an older Caucasian lady looks at me and says “Honey, I don’t envy”.  I told her well you should.  My kids love me and I am great mother.  Her face was very shocked at my response.  I was an only child so I knew I was going to have more than one child.  I have tons of friends in my neighborhood but I always felt very lonely.  I always had everything I wanted but it would have been nice to have someone else to play with. I became pregnant with Ivan on my honeymoon.  My husband didn’t have any children and we wanted to get pregnant right away.  I never thought getting pregnant  would ever be a problem but after or first son Ivan getting pregnant a second time was harder at 37.   However, I conceived the twins and I found so early in the pregnancy.  I may have been 6 weeks.  I found out really early.  After finding out I was afraid to tell anyone because I was afraid I would lose them.  I know.  It was really silly…then one day my ex (husband at the time) said lets make an announcement.  My face said it all.  FEAR!!!!  I know I am not the only lady that took my miscarriage as if I had done something wrong.  I did.  I felt so bad.  I kept asking myself…did I work to much?  Did I travel too much?  Maybe if I just sat down.  It was crazy.  I had fixed in my head I killed my baby and I may kill these too.  However, the old me kicked in.  I am busy body and I cannot be in one place.   Anywho, the twins were healthy.  The only real issue I had was high blood pressure.  I had so much fluid on me.     My ankles! My legs!  I hurt so bad.  The twins were so heavy.  The largest twin (which was also the youngest) was horizontal the whole pregnancy or transverse breach.   It was so painful to have a more than 7 pound baby across my stomach.  Miss “Baby B” was taking up all the food from Miss “Baby A”. Baby B is still bigger than her older sister to this day.  I wanted to know the gender of the twins.  I could not wait until ultrasound day.  On the day of the first ultrasound Baby B would not cooperate!! Do we sense a going theme here with Baby B?? Well Baby B has always lived by her own will.  She still has the same spirit to this day that I can appreciate.   Baby A was thought to be a BOY.   I even went out an purchased a blue bib that day! Well we were wrong.  The twins were girls which we found out in the second ultrasound.  Baby A & B put on a whole show.  I think they did because dad was in town.  I was glad for my “girls”.  I kept thinking in my head….what would I do with 4 boys.   I did not know at the time that girls are a different animal all together.  The night of the fire I remember it like it was yesterday.   My husband and I would call each other Honey.  I remember after the separation I had to reprogram myself not to say “HONEY”.  That was an adjustment for me.  I have called this man HONEY for 12 years.  That is whole different story. 

On the night of July 9^th, I recalled my husband coming in the bedroom and saying  “the house is on fire”!  I looked at him…what house?  He said the house at home.  The house in Memphis! The house in CORDOVA!  He said “our neighbor called and the home is on fire and there a fire trucks and fire fighters all down the street.  The neighbor sent the pics below. 

After the fire, my husband had to travel to Memphis to walk the property with the assessor (insurance company). Prior to that day my Bestie called to check on me. I told her I was well and I told her about my husband idea of traveling to walked the property. My Bestie thought it may be a great idea if came came to see me while my husband traveled to Memphis. I thought I would be ok but I welcomed her company. Well….needless to say I went in labor. We leaved outside of Nashville 20-30 minutes so the drive to the hospital seemed to take a while and the GPS was sending us in circles. It is funny now but it was not funny then. We did make it to the hospital in time. The twins had to be born C-section because Baby B was transverse breach. I actually had a C Section Schedule in 3 days but babies come when they are ready. My epidural did not take and the Baby A’s heartrate was low so I had to be put to sleep. When I woke up from the surgery the nurse was entering with two babies and my husband was entering in the room. I always say we both missed the birth.

The housefire let me know that my children and I have purpose. We are here for a reason. We could have been in that home. The portion of the home burned the most is where I slept with my 4 year old child at the time. Would I have been able to get down the stairs and get both children out of the home? I am glad I will never find out. I am just glad God saw fit for us to move. The home was rebuilt; there were issues but that is another story that will be found in the book.

I still have a reason to smile. I still have a reason to love. I still have a reason to hope!

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Author’s Corner:  Happy Friday Eve! This is my family. They are my . I am blessed to have 2 boys and 2 girls.  They are my “why”. They are my motivation.  I strive everyday to be my best for them.  The journey is not easy.  Everyone comes out of childhood with bumps and bruises….some trauma.  You have to be willing to do the work.  It is not easy and it definitely is not pretty but it worth it.  I love you guys “on purpose”.  Let yo Light Shine!

Tera Upshaw aka Lacey Johnson (LJ)

I believe that death is not the end but it is a true belief of mine that it is possibly the beginning. It was a cold February Day. My husband and I were headed to my first doctor’s appointment. We were so excited. I know I had taken no less than 5 pregnancy tests to make sure I was pregnant. Ian was 3 years old and Tyler was 11 years. I remember being so excited about this office visit. I was going to hear my babies’ heartbeat for the first time. I was hoping for a girl. I had two boys and this was going to be my last child. I was 37 years old at the time and I felt like I was getting to old to have a baby. My biological clock was ticking. My belly was already getting big and I wondered how far I could be. I always gained weight very quickly and early in my pregnancies but I felt like I could be no more than 10 weeks. We went in to see Dr. Morgan. She very happy to see us. She checked my uterus. She told me it was very big and since I was considered an “at risk” pregnancy she wanted me to have an ultrasound completed that day. I agreed. She stated there were a couple of people in front of me but she would put the order in for the ultrasound. We sat in the waiting area. We read magazines. We talked. We held hands. My husband was very loving and supportive. The tech came out and yelled “Lacey”. It was my turn to go back. I was smiling from ear to ear. I went in and laid on the table and the tech warned me the jelly maybe cold on my belly. She put the jelly on my belly and began looking for a heartbeat. We heard echoes but we heard no heartbeat. The tech was completely silent and I saw worry on her face. My husband began to look concerned. We were reflecting on our first moments with Ian and we heard a heartbeat. She printed out some pictures and told me to give her a moment and she would be back. When she came back. Dr. Morgan was with her. I could tell by the expression on Dr. Morgan’s face this was not going to be good. Dr. Morgan asked me to sit up and it felt like from that point on everything was in slow motion. She said “we cannot find the babies heartbeat”. She showed me the pictures of the ultrasound and the fetus was inside. She said the fetus had passed away and I had two options. Began to cry immediately. She stated option one was to take a pill and the fetus could pass over several days. She said it would bleed like a cycle and I can come back for a follow up. Option two was to come back for a scheduled surgery. They would put me to sleep and they would remove the fetus. I picked option two. I remember crying. I remember crying until my head hurt. Ian was too small to understand but we had to tell Tyler and it was hard to explain. I felt like my heart had been ripped out of my chest. It was the kind of pain that knocks the breath out of you. I still think about my baby all the time. The ironic part was the fact it was due on my husband’s (ex) birthday. The baby was due September 25, 2013. God blessed us with a set of twin girls the following year.

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