The Stress Test

A couple of years ago when I was first diagnosed with diabetes, my doctor sent me to have a cardiac stress test, in part because one of the biggest complications of diabetes is heart disease and in part because of my family history (heart disease has been prevalent in my family in a big way for many, many years). I had never had a stress test before, and considering how out of shape I was at the time, it was not a pleasant experience to say the least. This is the dictionary definition of a cardiac stress test: "Cardiac stress tests compare the coronary circulation while the patient is at rest with the same patient's circulation observed during maximum physical exertion, showing any abnormal blood flow to the heart's muscle tissue (the myocardium). The results can be interpreted as a reflection on the general physical condition of the test patient." Now here's my personal definition: "The patient has a bunch of wires taped to his or her chest and is forced to walk/run on a treadmill until it feels as though the heart is about to burst." If you've never had a stress test, trust me ... they are definitely stressful.

I've come to understand that constant, ongoing stress can do many things to the body, not to mention the sheer havoc it can wreak upon a person's mind. I'm amazed that considering the level of stress that many people are under in today's world, more folks aren't having stress-induced strokes and heart attacks ... and I'm really amazed that there aren't folks on every corner having complete mental breakdowns. Worries about the uncertain economy, stretched-too-thin feelings of busy lives, emotional upheaval from broken or wounded relationships, expectations from employers trying to do more work with less people ... those all add up to stress plus stress plus more stress. And all that stress? It's a recipe for failure at some point; no one can hold up under tremendous stress forever ... eventually we all break under the pressure at some point. Though it may not be a break that is visible to others looking in from the outside, even the hardest stone can be crushed if enough force is applied.

Most people don't have a clue how stressful my job as a senior editor can be ... they think, oh how cool that you work for an advertising agency. They don't understand that there are non-stop, quick turnaround deadlines or that if I don't catch an error or make a mistake in editing and a piece goes to print, it can literally cost hundreds of thousands of dollars if the ad has to be reprinted. There are times when I wake in the night worried that I failed to put a copyright on something or that I didn't get the correct chemical name with its corresponding product. Recently, I've been dreaming a lot about work, especially on nights following especially stressful days. Having said that, I wouldn't be at all surprised if my dreams tonight are filled with work-related scenarios because today was high-pressure in a big way.

I was thinking this evening as I got my things out of the car about stress tests ... those of the body, but also those of the mind. I've realized something lately, something about stress and pressure. I can never pass those kinds of tests under my own power or by my own determination or will. If I try, I will always crack ... I will always crumble ... I will always fail. The only way I can pass the tests of stress is if I rely on the One who is greater than all things and stronger than any pressure.

"My health may fail, and my spirit may grow weak, but God remains the strength of my heart; He is mine forever." Psalm 73: 26.

First Love

There's probably not one person reading this post who doesn't remember their first crush ... whether it was directed toward someone you attended school with or a teacher or the kid who lived down the street or your camp counselor at YMCA day camp. I'm pretty sure that most of us can remember that pitter-patter of our hearts when the person who was the object of our affection was in the same room we were in ... or ... oh my goodness gracious ... if the person actually took notice of us, we simply melted. I'm also sure that many of us can well recall how devastated we were if our love fell into the unrequited category ... if the person who garnered our truest love and devotion didn't reciprocate our feelings, we were simply crushed. Come on ... you remember it, too ... don't even pretend that you don't.

The church I attend is blessed with many people who are musically talented, including our worship minister who leads the team of singers and musicians. Each week, they give of their time and talents to offer up an atmosphere of praise and worship and reverence as they direct our hearts and minds toward God. As is true with many things in life, some Sundays the music really pierces my soul and completely lays my heart open before the Lord. Last Sunday was one of those times ... every song spoke to me, and God whispered to me with each word. I fought so hard to hold back the tears, and yet they came as they so often do now during the worship times at church. And as I do so often now when I can't hide those tears, I lowered my head and covered my eyes ... humbled, weak, broken once again.

Though I've heard it many times, there was one song in particular last Sunday that spoke to the very core of my being. It's called "First Love," and if you haven't heard it, it's a powerful, powerful song. I haven't been able to get the lyrics out of my head or off of my heart ... and again, I've heard this song many times before in worship. Obviously, there's a reason why God has me pondering the words to the song ... you see, He always has a reason and a plan and a purpose for me. Even when I feel that I can't take another step or draw one more breath, He reminds me that He's my first love, my true love ... that He's truly the reason why I breathe. Even when I feel lost or alone or unworthy, He reminds me that He chose me ... He chose the cross ... that He loved me first. Even when I feel I have no direction or purpose, He reminds me that He sacrificed everything for me ... that He wants nothing less than all of me. That's what I would call the best first love of all, friends ... the best first love of all.

"My highest call, my greatest cause
Is loving You
Your perfect love has won my heart
Now I am Yours

Your sacrifice demands my life, and I will live to honor
Your holy name, the price You paid and so I sing

You're my first love, You're my true love
You're my reason, You are why I breathe
I will give You my devotion, all of me
All of me

You chose the cross, You chose me
Surrendered Your life, You chose me
Though I did not deserve, You chose me
So I choose to love just as You chose me
I put You first as You first loved me
I'll treasure Your grace as You died for me."

Taking Off the Mask

Several years ago, my sister and my mom flew to Kansas City and spent a week with me and my children here in Kansas. It was the first time my sister had been here to visit, and we had so much fun ... Sis, Mom, me and the kiddos. I remember one evening after we had been on the go all day, we decided to rest and watch a movie together. The kids chose "The Mask" starring Jim Carrey, and Mom and Sis rolled with laughter as they watched the crazy antics of Mr. Carrey's character Stanley Ipkiss when he would don the mask. You see, the ancient mask had special powers so that whenever someone put it on, all of their inhibitions were gone and they, in movie theory anyway, were able to fulfill their deeply suppressed and hidden dreams, whims and desires. Even the smart but mild-mannered dog Milo changes into a ferocious, save the day beast when he experiences the mask.

I've been thinking a great deal about masks lately, which is what prompted my recollection of Mom and Sis getting such a kick out of the movie we watched together on that evening so many years ago. There's a scene in the film where Stanley visits a psychiatrist who has written a book titled, "The Masks We Wear," and in the scene, Dr. Neuman says, "We all wear masks ... metaphorically speaking." I find it curious that in the movie, wearing the mask unleashed pent-up emotions and desires ... some would say that it granted the wearer the freedom to be real and transparent, to show his or her true colors so to speak. But most often in daily life, we define wearing a mask as a form of hiding away, an attempt to cover the person who lies within. And perhaps most of all, we associate the wearing of masks with a quest to fit into whatever role we are trying to play. We certainly don't associate mask wearing with granting a sense of freedom in any way.

There were a lot of people on the trail tonight as I took Oliver for a walk, probably because it was such a beautiful evening. After a half-hour or so of walking, I leaned over to give Ollie a drink of water and as I did, I heard someone call my name. I looked up to see a young couple and their two children ... I said hello, the kids loved on Ollie for a bit and then we all went on our way. As we walked toward home, I began to think about all the people I've met out on the trail over the last couple of years ... a true tapestry of people of different ages, from different walks of life, at different places in their journey. It struck me that though I've chatted with many of them, I don't really know them at all ... I only know the "them" I've seen on the trail. And by the same token, they don't really know me either. They don't know if I'm who I say I am or if I'm wearing a mask ... a mask of confidence, a mask of independence, a mask of discipline.

After Ollie and I got home, I played ball with Julie until she got tired and then I stretched out on the couch and placed an ice pack on my aching shoulder ... yes, it's hurting again, which probably means that I'm eventually going to have no choice but to have surgery. As I laid on the couch, I couldn't stop thinking about masks, about all the masks that I've hidden behind throughout my life and about the ones I find myself still wearing. And here's the thing ... God wants me to be real, even if the real me isn't pretty or strong or smart or happy. He would rather see my tears than a painted-on smile. He would rather watch me open my arms for a hug than to hide my loneliness behind a veil of strength. He would rather me be real ... open ... honest ... transparent.

Take off my mask, Lord, and make me real ... whatever that means, Father God, wherever that leads ... take off my mask, and reveal the me you created me to be ... real ... open ... honest ... transparent.

Spy Kids

My three kiddos loved to pretend that they were spies when they were young, especially my sons ... but even Meghann got in on the act. She was usually the secretary who gave the "spies" their missions, or she handed out the various "high-tech" gadgets they needed to accomplish their assigned tasks. I don't remember where the spy game came from, if they created it from their vivid imaginations or if some movie or television show inspired them. I do remember, however, that they would spend hours and hours having a great time in make-believe spy world. This morning at church, my little movie buddy leaned over and asked if we could go see a movie today and said she'd like to see the latest installment of the Spy Kids series. As I drove home from church, I smiled as I remembered my three little kiddos and their own spy kids adventures.

Quite honestly, I didn't expect the movie today to be very good ... I suppose I should know by now to trust my little friend's judgment in choosing movies because she hasn't picked a bad one yet. There were lots and lots of gadgets, a ton of action and of course, good guys and bad guys. There was even a talking dog (with a British accent, I might add ... think canine Bond, James Bond) who had a whole set of robotic tricks up his paws ... and his tail. Nuff said on that one. While the eventual outcome of the plot was more than predictable, it was the basic premise of the storyline that struck me. I'll give you a hint ... the subtitle of the film was "All the Time in the World." The bad guys had this device that stole time, and if someone didn't stop them, time would run out. The main bad guy wanted to travel back in time so that he could do things differently, change the course of time. Oh, and the name of the time-stealing device? The Armageddon Device. Yeah, I know, for someone like me who sees deep meaning in everything, my mind was off to the races at the first mention of the word Armageddon.

Sitting in the theater as the movie neared the end, tears pooled in my eyes as one of the kids spoke some really wise and insightful words to the bad guys. I realized the truth in the lines ... we can't go back in time ... all of us think we have all the time in the world ... we don't appreciate the time we have until it's gone. Over and over in the movie, one theme was repeated ... letting those you love know you love them, spending time with the ones you love, the importance of love and family. I couldn't help but think about my post yesterday ... in the end, all that matters is how I love God and how I love others. As I watched the movie this afternoon, God added another layer to the lesson He's been teaching me over the last week. Love is about time ... taking time, making time, appreciating time, never taking time for granted. I know, who would have ever thought that a movie like Spy Kids would have touched me so deeply? Just additional proof that God can choose any method or avenue He wants to speak to me, to teach me, to change me.

My prayer this evening has been that I will love with a pure heart ... that God will cause my soul to burn with a desire to spend my time wisely ... to spend my time loving ... that He will sear the truth of the fleeting nature of time deep into my mind and help me to treasure every single moment. I don't have all the time in the world ... I have the time He gives me ... the precious time He gives me.

In the End

Working for an advertising agency means that I work with a lot of young folks; in fact, I work with several young people who are the same age as my children. I know ... weird, right? And yes, sometimes it makes me feel old to realize that I am twice as old as some of my co-workers. But I also think sometimes that working with younger people encourages me to remember what it's like to be young, and I hope that perhaps it helps to keep me somewhat young at heart. Working with young creative types in the world of advertising also means that they come and go with more frequency than most other fields. They are always moving from one agency to another, for the opportunity to work on a client they feel is more glitzy or challenging, or for an increase in salary. In fact, just last week, two young gals in our office announced they were leaving to pursue other opportunities.

As I chatted with one of the girls after the office was told of her impending departure, she said something that has made me think ... a lot. She said that in the end, you make the best decision you can with the knowledge and information you have and pray that things work out. Yep, pretty wise for someone so young, I'd say. Her words, together with the words from a friend in an email this week and a conversation I had this morning with a younger friend ... one whom I haven't had the chance to just sit and have a long talk with for a while ... have made me realize this evening that God had a big lesson in mind for me this week, a lesson so important that He kept presenting it to me in different forms from very different people.

One of the most difficult parts of my journey through the last couple of years has been coming to the realization that I had become proud ... very proud ... and that God's plan for me included breaking my stubborn will and my prideful spirit. My mom would have said it like this ... God needed to bring me down a few notches. I was arrogant in my skill as a speaker; I was proud of my ability as a writer; I was downright cocky about how many people wanted to be friends with me. Yep, I was proud alright ... proud and arrogant ... and God has brought me down more than a few notches. It's not fun to be humbled, not fun at all. But I know that it's necessary, and that it's because He loves me more than I can ever possibly understand.

You see, friends, in the end, it doesn't matter how many times I stand on a stage and speak if I don't give all the glory and honor to God. In the end, it doesn't matter if I write a book that sells 10 million copies if I don't understand that every word on every page comes from Him and that I am nothing but a scribe. In the end, it doesn't matter how popular I am if I don't realize that the most important relationship I will ever have is the one with my Lord. In the end, so many things simply do not matter. So often, I try to make myself believe it matters how I look or feel or act or talk when in reality ... in the end, all that really matters is how I love ... how I love God and how I love others. Someone said to me recently that it's never a sin to love. Think about those words ... it's never a sin to love ... those are deep words, searching words, convicting words, life-changing words ... it's never a sin to love. God puts no conditions on love ... we do. God places no parameters on love ... we do. God sets no limits on love ... we do.

In the end, all that really matters is how I love ... how I love God and how I love others. God looks at my heart ... God knows my heart ... in the end, all that really matters is how I love.

"'Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law?' Jesus replied: 'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.' This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.'" Matthew 22: 36-39





 

Sugar and Spice

Perhaps I've grown accustomed to my daily commute from a suburb outside of Kansas City to the downtown loop where I work, and I suppose I should be used to it by now since I've been making the trek for almost 15 years. I detest the rush hour traffic, but I don't really think of it being a 20-mile drive each way ... it just doesn't seem that far from home to work to me anymore, except, of course, on days when it snows like crazy. Most of the people who have been a part of my life or the lives of my children live in the same general part of town where I do. And for all the years that I have worked downtown, I can count on one hand the number of people who have driven downtown to have lunch with me. Forget that there are some really cool restaurants around my office, which is located, I might add, in the Crossroads Arts District. People seem, however, to think that I work halfway across the world. You have no idea how many times I've invited folks to come have lunch with me and their response was, "But you work all the way downtown." OK ... come downtown oh, say, once in 15 years? I make the flipping drive every day of the week, people, in the middle of rush hour ... not mid-afternoon when there's not a lot of traffic. All the way downtown ... sheesh.

Now that I've got that little rant off my chest, today someone came to have lunch with me. And she drove from the same part of town that I live in to come have lunch with me. And she brought her 3-week old baby girl. Yep, you read that right ... she drove "all the way downtown" to have lunch with me in the awesome little coffee shop next door, and she brought her 3-week old baby girl with her. There is so much I could say about her doing that ... driving downtown, caring enough to want to see my face, going to all the effort that an outing with a baby entails, asking me probing questions about my faith, my health, my mind. Yep, I could write more than a paragraph or two about the love and concern that was packed into my lunch outing today. But instead ... instead, I'm going to write about her baby girl ... her precious little baby girl.

She was dressed all in pink ... she is a baby girl, after all. Her hands were tiny, but her little fingers were long. Her little nose was adorable, especially when she would scrunch it up when she stretched. She smelled like a baby should smell ... like powder and lotion and milk and sugar cookies and ... well ... she smelled like a baby. And there's no scent on earth that compares to the scent of a newborn baby, not even one. Her eyes were deep blue, but she was too sleepy to keep them open very long. Her tiny little body wasn't much bigger than a football, and yet every part of her was sheer perfection. She snuggled as I held her and she went to sleep, and I watched her little face in awe of the miracle who rested in my arms. It was hard for me to take my eyes off of her ... looking at her was like looking at the very hand of God.

After the two of them left, I sat at my desk thinking about babies ... about another baby girl who will arrive in January. I'm still a bit overwhelmed at the thought of my son having a baby of his own; I'm not sure why, but it's just hard for me to get my mind around ... my son is having a little girl of his own. As I thought about Matt becoming a dad, I began to think about a song from the movie The Lion King that talks about the circle of life. I just got home a little while ago from helping at Bingo at the retirement home ... it's probably not a coincidence that I spent a significant amount of time today with girls at four different places on the circle of life ... one just beginning her journey, one a young mother of three little girls, one a mom of four whose oldest is in his senior year of high school, one a lovely lady in her twilight years. Four precious girls, I thought as I walked inside my house. Four precious and sweet girls.

"Sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of. Sunshine and rainbows and ribbons for hair bows, that's what little girls are made of. Tea parties, laces and baby doll faces, that's what little girls are made of."

Thank you, Lord, for girls ... ones on their way, brand new ones, ones in the middle, ones near the end ... thank you, Lord, for precious and sweet girls.

Walk On

It's no secret to those of you who've been reading along with me for the last couple of years as I've chronicled my life in this blog that I've become a dedicated walker. I walk almost every day; in fact, just about the only days I don't walk are days when I'm too sick to put one foot in front of the other. I love my walks on the trail ... many, many days, those outside walks are the best part of my day. If my heart is aching, my walks ease the pain. If my spirit is wounded, my walks soothe the hurt. If my body is weary, my walks infuse me with energy. Those walks mean a ton to me, even more so since I made a promise last November to a precious wiener dog as he drew his last few breaths cradled in my arms ... I promised my little J.R. that I would walk on without him ... I promised him that I would walk on.

For those of you who are new to this blog, I began walking because J.R. had an injured spine caused from abuse he had suffered before he came to live with me. Those walks with J.R. caused me to eventually be diagnosed with diabetes, and I will never forget the day my doctor told me not to ever underestimate that J.R. saved my life. If you go back to my posts from 2010, you'll find many that talk about my time on the trail with J.R., about the journey he and I shared as we walked and talked and lived and loved together. Many times when I am on the trail with Oliver, the wiener dog who now shares life with me and Julie the Lab, someone I talk to or something I see makes me think of J.R. And a lot of those times, my eyes fill with tears ... I love Ollie very much, but I still miss J.R. and perhaps I always will. For all the times I've thought of him on the trail, an event last night will most definitely go into the folder in my heart that is labeled "My Little Fat Buddy."

Many of you will recall stories I posted of how J.R. was frightened of many things ... thunder, rain, other dogs, the vacuum cleaner, the broom ... and you will recall that he was especially frightened of other people. He adored me, but I often thought he would have been exceptionally happy if he never had to interact with any other human. He would go out of his way to avoid walking near other folks on the trail, quite the opposite from Ollie who knows no strangers. One night as J.R. and I walked, we came upon a group of young men who were mentally and physically challenged out for a stroll with their caregivers. As we approached, several of them began to clap and wave at J.R., who immediately got behind me with his tail tucked between his legs. When a couple of the young men asked if they could pet my dog, I cautiously agreed and lifted J.R. into my arms. I could tell that he was nervous as the group gathered around him laughing and smiling and patting him on the head. But as they took turns petting him, J.R. seemed to understand that the young men meant him no harm and that touching his furry little head and back was bringing them great joy. I will forever remember that night and how by the time J.R. and I moved on, he was wagging his tail and licking the hands of the young men as they loved on him.

I hadn't seen the young men on the trail again since that night almost a year ago, and I've often wondered if they had moved or if something prevented them from coming out for a walk. And then last night as Ollie and I walked, I saw them coming toward us on the trail. Actually, Ollie saw them before I did, and he began to run ahead of me, tail wagging, ears perked up, more than ready to meet some new friends. I heard one of the men exclaim as he clapped his hands, "Look, look, look ... it's a hot dog!!! Oh, boy, oh, boy, oh, boy ... it's a hot dog!!!" I pulled Ollie back on his leash and leaned over to lift him into my arms, but he wouldn't have it and he wriggled and squirmed until I put him back down on the trail. As the young men swarmed around him laughing and petting him, Ollie rolled over on his back for them to rub his tummy. Look at him, I thought ... he's loving this ... he's simply loving this.

Tears filled my eyes as I thought about the night the young men patted J.R., about how very different Oliver is from J.R. So different, I thought, so different and yet both of them touched these young men in a special way. Even though I fought as hard as I could to hold back the tears, they ran down my cheeks and dropped on the pavement in front of me. One of the young men looked up at me and saw that I was crying, and he tugged on the sleeve of the boy next to him. The two of them stood up and wrapped their arms around me, and one of them said, "Don't cry, lady, don't cry. Don't be sad, I'll give you a big hug. Hugs make tears go away. Hugs and apple pie always make tears go away." I couldn't help but smile at the sincerity in his voice as I wiped the tears from my face. "If you want to come to our house, we have apple pie and you can have a piece, can't she Joe? You already got two hugs and now you need some pie. Then you won't be sad anymore," he said earnestly. Joe smiled at me and said, "Maybe the nice lady can come over another night, Timmy. It's getting late tonight, though, too late for pie." I agreed with Joe that it was too late for a visit, and Timmy and the other young men hugged me and Ollie before they went on their way. As I watched them lumber down the trail, Timmy stopped and turned around and shouted, "Don't forget the apple pie, lady! Don't forget!"

I cried and cried as Ollie and I finished our walk ... as I walked on ... with my mind jumping back and forth in thinking about J.R. and thinking about the young men. I've thought all day about Timmy's words ... don't forget ... don't forget. I promise I won't forget, Timmy ... I won't ever forget.

Ahoy Mateys

It's funny the things one remembers from childhood ... some good, some not. One of the events from my childhood that I recall vividly began as something good, but it certainly did not end well. My sister had taken me and my niece to play Goony Golf ... my Chattanooga readers will certainly remember Goony Golf on Dayton Boulevard ... a miniature golf course with all kinds of crazy characters and structures watching over each hole. We were almost finished playing when for some reason still unknown to me, I stepped directly behind my sister as she was about to hit her golf ball. Again for some reason still unknown to me, my sister swung her club back as if she were about to launch the ball into space. And she connected alright ... she connected her golf club with my mouth, more specifically with my two front teeth. I'll spare you the gory details of the mayhem that rapidly ensued, but it was a full two years before my permanent teeth finally descended to fill the gap left by my missing two upper front baby teeth that my sister ... well ... that my sister managed to disintegrate with her superpowered Goony Golf swing.

This afternoon, I was chatting with my boss on the phone and we began talking about eye styes ... I know, what a topic to be discussing. Donna shared with me that she had styes quite often when she was young, and she talked about how unattractive her eye would become when one of the dreaded styes would form. I was completely empathizing with her until she made the following statement ... "I had a teacher who got tired of looking at the styes on my eyes and he made me wear an eye patch that he made from green construction paper and a string." I don't know why, but the thought of my boss as a little girl sitting in class wearing an eye patch made from green construction paper looking like a leprechaun pirate cracked me up ... to the point that I laughed out loud. OK ... I'll admit it ... I laughed so hard that I snorted. Thankfully, Donna has a great sense of humor and laughed with me ... whew.

Donna went on to talk about how humiliated she felt when she had to wear the eye patch, and her words made me recall those two years when I had no front teeth. My teachers would tell me not to smile in class pictures because of my missing teeth. Other kids teased me and called me snaggletooth. It was humiliating and embarrassing, and like the styes on Donna's eyes, I couldn't do anything about it. I couldn't make my permanent teeth appear any faster, and Donna couldn't make her styes heal any quicker.

As I readied myself to leave work this evening, I found myself thinking about how much I was teased when I was young ... about how many times I felt humiliated and alone. It would have been easy to allow those years from my youth to define me as an adult ... sometimes it's hard to forget the stinging words or actions of others, to forgive, to move forward and leave the past behind. Climbing into my steaming hot car and flipping on the air conditioning, I leaned my head back against the headrest and closed my eyes. I felt the gentle arms of my Lord wrap around me ... I felt His presence reassuring me that I am His ... I felt His peace settle over my heart. He loves me all the time ... it doesn't matter to Him if I'm a toothless pirate ... ahoy mateys ... God loves me and He loves you, too. Yep, He surely does.

Puddle Jumping

There's something about kids and puddles after the rain ... it's almost like the puddles beckon kids to jump in them and splash anyone else who is in the near vicinity. All three of my kids liked to jump in puddles when they were little, especially when they were wearing white sneakers. The whiter the sneakers and the muddier the puddle, the more they seemed mesmerized with jumping and splashing. I know I made a lot of mistakes in raising my three children, as do all parents I suppose. We are, after all, only human and therefore will always goof up from time to time. But, there was one thing as a mom that I think I was pretty good at ... for the most part, I was good at seizing the moments with my children. We went for bike rides around the neighborhood. We shot hoops when they came home from school. We went to midnight showings of movies. We went on vacation each summer. We baked and decorated sugar cookies at Christmas. We had water gun fights. We worked puzzles on the kitchen table. And after it rained ... we jumped in puddles and splashed and laughed and got our sneakers dirty and got mud on our legs and faces.

It's been stormy in Kansas City for the last few days, and this morning we had a gully washer downpour that lasted until around lunchtime. Later in the afternoon, though, the clouds cleared and the sun came out. By the time I left work to come home, it was hot and the humidity made it feel like a sauna when I stepped outside. After I ate dinner, I decided that it had cooled off enough that I could take Ollie the wiener dog for at least a short walk. While the streets and the sidewalks were completely dry, there are some low spots on the trail that take a while for the water to drain off after a hard rain. Because there was so much rain this morning, most of those spots were covered with giant puddles tonight ... really giant puddles.

For as much as my big dog Julie loves any kind of water ... puddles, creeks, ponds, lakes, bath water, the garden hose ... Ollie isn't too crazy about it, unless you count him jumping in the shower with me, I suppose. When we walk on the trail after a rain and there are puddles, Ollie goes out of his way to walk around the standing water. He also refuses to go outside to potty in the rain unless I hold an umbrella over him, and even then he raises his little paws and gives me a pitiful "How can you make me stand in this wet grass?" look. But back to tonight's walk and the puddles. As I watched Ollie make his way around puddle after puddle, I couldn't help but smile at his determination not to trudge through the water. If there was someone approaching on the path and he couldn't get around the puddle, he would stop in his tracks and wait until he could walk on dry pavement. And his plan was working well until ... until we came upon a spot in the trail that was more than just a puddle ... the water completely covered the trail, and I'm not talking just a trickle either ... it stretched from one side to the other, and it was at least two feet across.

Ollie saw the water before I did, and he didn't just stop ... he stopped and sat down. When I tugged on his leash and told him he was going to have to walk through this puddle, he laid down on the trail. I stood there for a few minutes trying to convince my wiener dog that I was mad at him ... he didn't believe me, probably because I couldn't stop grinning because he looked so cute laying on the pavement refusing to walk in the water. Eventually, I picked him up and carried him across the water, and he happily walked the rest of the way home ... dodging all the puddles along the way.

As we walked toward home, I began to think about the difference between Ollie and Julie when it comes to water. To Julie, every drop of water represents the opportunity to have fun ... to splash, to run, to jump, to swim ... while to Ollie, every drop of water represents fear and the need to find a way around it, even if that way around means simply refusing to move at all. Perspective, I thought, my dogs are teaching me about perspective. Crossing the street to go home, I realized that there are times when I see the puddles in life as things to be embraced and enjoyed, and I can't wait to jump in the water and get my feet wet. Other times, though, I see puddles and I'm overwhelmed with fear and dread, and I stop in my tracks and refuse to move. Perspective, I thought, it really is all about perspective.

Growing Pains

I distinctly remember the feeling of growing pains in my legs when I was young ... the throbbing, intense pain in my calves would often wake me in the night and I would walk around my room trying to ease the ache. All three of my children experienced growing pains as well, but my sons never hurt the way that my daughter Meghann did. Many, many nights, she would wake me crying and begging me to help her, and I would stumble out of bed, give her a dose of Tylenol, put the heating pad on her legs, and lay in her bed with her until she eventually went back to sleep. For all the times that Meg would plead with me to make the pain stop, not once did she ever ask me to make her stop growing ... not once did she say, "I don't want to grow anymore, Mom ... I want to stay the size I am."

This morning at church, the pastor spoke about growth and three key areas that are needed to grow effectively as a Christian ... Bible study, discipleship and prayer. While each of his points were well presented, and the sermon thought-provoking and real, one statement he made at the beginning of his message struck me in a big way. He said that growth is painful ... that we don't pray that God would stop us from growing but that we pray that He would see us through the pain that comes with growth. And he used an example that also stuck with me ... microwave popcorn. He talked about how the first 30 seconds to one minute, nothing happens to the popcorn and you may think there's something wrong with the bag. Then one kernel pops, then several, and then all the kernels seem to pop at once. It simply takes time for the popcorn to pop completely ... and it takes time for growth as well.

Sometimes I wonder at the path God currently has me traveling, and more than once I've pleaded with Him to see me through the pain. More than once I've cried out to Him that I don't understand why this season of life has to be part of Him growing me. More than once I've felt His arms wrapped around me as I cried myself to sleep. More than once I've thought there must be something wrong with me ... and it hit me this morning in church ... I'm the popcorn in God's microwave ... eventually, the heat of the oven is going to cause me to grow. Growth is painful, and I think maybe the secret to growing up is holding on ... waiting ... being faithful ... trusting in God's plan.

Today was the first Sunday I've been to my church in a couple of weeks, and it always amazes me how it seems that when I'm there, God has something He wants me to hear ... some lesson He wants me to learn or some truth He wants to reinforce in my heart. A week or so ago, I stumbled on a couple of verses in Job that jumped off the page when I read them, and they've been on my mind ever since. "Why do I put myself in jeopardy and take my life in my hands? Though He slay me, yet will I hope in Him." Job 13: 14-15. All week, I've been rolling those words around in my head trying to understand what God was saying to me ... why He led me to those particular verses at this particular time. And then the sermon this morning ... growth is painful ... there are days when I feel as though I can't go on for one more moment. And the truth is that I can't ... on my own, I put myself in jeopardy and take my life in my hands. It's only when I can say, "Though He slay me" ... slay my pride, slay my stubborn will, slay my emotions, slay my strength, even slay my physical being ... only when I can say, "yet will I hope in Him" ... only then will I truly grow.

Growth is painful, Lord, and sometimes the legs of my heart ache so badly ... help me to put my life in Your hands and not my own ... help me to proclaim that though You slay me, Father God, yet will I hope in You.

All the Way

Sometimes the greatest blessings come in teenie tiny packages. Like the way a kiddo can bless you with a hug or a belly laugh or a look of wonder at something that to an adult seems like an everyday occurrence. Or the scent of a newborn baby nestled in your arms for the first time. Or the kiss of a dog that is grateful to be given a second chance in life. Or playing games with folks who are farther along in life and short in stature, like my little mom or my friend Annie. Some of the sweetest memories my kiddos and I have of Mom and Annie, and some of the biggest blessings we've ever received, are from times of sitting at a kitchen table playing checkers or canasta or marbles or Uno. I can still picture Mom's eyes squeezed shut as she laughed at Brad trying to cheat at checkers, and I often think of the twinkle in Annie's eyes as she would say, "All back home," when she would send the kids' marbles back to their starting place.

Last night was Bingo night at the retirement home, and there was a large group of folks in attendance. I helped a gentleman who is non-verbal, but I sat across from a fellow who is quite a character. Every time I've been there to help, "Mr. Character" is smiling and cracking jokes ... I've yet to see him in a bad mood, and I often wonder if he's always so happy. I do know that he, as well as many of the other men and women who come to play on Thursday nights are pretty serious about the game of Bingo ... they definitely like it when they win.

When the evening's activities are complete, most of the residents make their way back to their rooms on their own using walkers or wheelchairs. There are a few, however, who need some help getting home, so most weeks I get the opportunity to aid someone who needs a ride down the hallway. Each week thus far, I've been blessed to walk a different person to his or her room, and I totally enjoy hearing their stories as we roll along ... how many children and grandchildren they have, where they are from, what their favorite kind of music is, what books they enjoy reading ... each one of them has blessed me in a special way. But last night ... last night, I received an extra special blessing from the precious little lady I escorted to her room.

It took us a bit to get to her part of the building, and as I pushed her in her wheelchair, she chatted about babies and what she had done that day. She said, "Oh, no, honey ... you can go faster!" when I asked if I was rolling her too quickly, which made me chuckle out loud. When we arrived at her room and I helped her inside, I immediately noticed the beautiful array of potted African violets lining her windowsill. I instantly thought of the violets in my kitchen ... violets that my little mom transported from Tennessee to Kansas when she moved here. My new friend showed me some of her things, and I smiled when she said, "I love pretty things, you know." She's a dainty little gal with beautiful white hair, and she looked quite lovely in the outfit she had on. "She's lovely inside and out," I had been told before we departed the activity room, and as I took her hand to say goodnight, and she placed her petite hands around mine, I realized that those words were indeed very true.

When I asked if there was anything I could do for her before I left, she asked me if I would read to her from the Bible. I replied that I would be honored to read to her, asking if she had a certain passage she would like to hear. She said she was especially fond of John 14, so I turned to John and began to read. "Let not your heart be ..." I stood in wonder as the sweet little lady spoke softly ... "your heart be troubled. Believe in God; believe also in Me. In My Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you." Tears pooled in my eyes as I listened to her recite verse after verse from memory ... I stood in the precious woman's room humbled and amazed and touched to the very core of my soul. When she finished, I stumbled for words, finally asking her when she accepted Christ. She promptly told me that she was in the third grade when she invited Jesus into her heart, and that she was baptized in a lake and the water was cold. And then she said something that has been stuck in my head since I said goodnight to her last night.

"God has led me all the way, you know, all the way through life. He's been there all the way."

Humbled, amazed, touched ... she's 100 years old, friends ... 100 years old. What a blessing you were to me last night, dear lady ... what a blessing. And I am more than sure that you've been a blessing all the way through your life ... all the way indeed.

Masterful Perfection

For many years, I carried a note in my wallet that was sent to me by a lady I met at one of my first speaking events. There weren't a lot of words on the small cream-colored card, but there was a ton of wisdom and insight packed into those few handwritten lines. Her words lovingly encouraged me to remain steadfast in my walk with the Lord, and to stay ever faithful to what He calls me to do. Her words gently reminded me that God's timing is so very different from my own, and that I mustn't try to hinder or rush His perfect plan for my life. Her words passionately implored me to understand that God never expects perfection from me, and to acknowledge each day that He alone is worthy of all glory and honor and praise. The note eventually disintegrated from years and years of me taking it from my wallet, opening it up and reading it ... oh, how I wish I would have thought to laminate that note from my precious sister in Christ, oh, how I wish I would have.

I'm a bit of a perfectionist about a few things ... editing, folding laundry, the way I eat my food, the order that my dishes go in the dishwasher, writing, how my hair is styled, the methodology for the correct scooping of Cool Whip from the container, the texture of my clothing ... OK, maybe I'm a touch more perfectionistic than I'd like to admit. I can't help it, though, that there are certain things that make me a little crazy if I sense they are done incorrectly (translated ... done differently than I would do them). I've been known to rearrange my dishes after someone else had loaded the dishwasher; it's rumored that I've smoothed out my Cool Whip following a renegade scooping; there's even a possibility that I on occasion consume my food in a certain order or create the "perfect bite."

If I haven't learned anything as I've grown older, I've certainly come to learn that perfection in this earthly life is nothing more than wishful thinking ... the truth is that the more I begin to believe I can be perfect or make my circumstances be perfect or expect other people to be perfect, that's when I fail the most, fall the hardest and hurt the deepest. As much as I've come to understand that neither I nor my circumstances nor other people can or will ever achieve perfection, I've also come to realize that there is no failure too extensive, no fall too far, no hurt too penetrating that my God can't repair and restore and renew me.

I think often about the note I used to carry with me ... about the words from someone I barely knew that meant so very much to me. I think about staying true and faithful to what God calls me to do, and I think about how often I've strayed from the course He would have me follow. I think about God's timing and about where I currently am in life, and I think about how often I plead with Him to hurry up and "fix" me. I think about God being truly and completely perfect, and I think about how often I choose not to praise Him. I think about my sin ... I think about how far from perfect I really am ... and I know ... there is no darkness that His light cannot conquer, no place that His arms cannot reach and no sin that He cannot forgive.

He was, is, and forever will be masterful perfection.

Shadows and Windmills

My first year of college was not exactly what one would call stellar by any means. Though I was a high achiever academically in high school, my GPA for my initial year of studies at the collegiate level dictated that I spend the next two semesters on academic probation ... yes, my grades were indeed that low. Lest you think I lost the ability to study or that my IQ dropped dramatically after completing my high school years, please allow me to assure you that my capacity for scoring lower than I ever had on tests or perfunctory essays had absolutely nothing to do with knowledge or skill or intelligence. My academic fall happened for two reasons ... I was bored with the classes I was taking because I didn't know what I wanted to do, and I rarely went to class because I was either in the student center playing poker (and winning, I might add) or I was home sleeping off the remnants of the night before ... nuff said on both of those subjects. I did, however, eventually graduate magna cum laude with a double major when I finally got into the game of college and played by the rules.

I'm sure you're wondering what changed, what the spark was that caused me to become interested in college for what it was meant to be ... a place of learning rather than a non-stop party. Without question I owe my eventual success in obtaining my degree to two professors, one in the English department and one in the Spanish department, one a female and one a male, and both passionate about helping students discover their talents and pursue their dreams. The two of them reignited my love of reading and story-telling, and they introduced me to some of the greatest writers of all-time in both English and Spanish. I fell in love with Chaucer, Milton, Shakespeare and Dante, and I can still quote passages from their works even now. As much as I adored English literature, however, one Spanish author's eloquent fictional tale of a man in his 50s and his imaginary quests for adventure quickly became my favorite story, perhaps made more so by the romance of reading it in its original Spanish iteration over the course of two semesters in a directed studies class. The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of la Mancha written by Spanish author Miguel de Cervantes captured my mind and my heart in a big, big way, and in my opinion, well deserves the honor bestowed upon it by countless critics and reviewers as being "the best literary work ever written."

I'm sure by now you are wondering where this post is going, but trust me, I've got a point. On the weekends, I often take Ollie the wiener dog for a walk in the early morning rather than the evening; I'm not sure why really, but I like to get up and go for a walk on Saturday and Sunday mornings. And a few weekends ago, I was struck by something that Ollie has done on every single one of those morning walks ... but first, I need to explain a bit. The sun shines differently in the morning than it does in the evening. What I mean is that it shines from a different direction, therefore it causes shadows to be cast differently from morning to evening. So when Ollie and I walk in the mornings, he can see his shadow in front of him on the pavement of the trail and he can't when we walk in the evenings. And every time we walk in the morning and he sees his shadow, he thinks it's another dog, I suppose, because he goes crazy. He chases his shadow; he barks at his shadow; he bites at his shadow ... it is stinking funny to watch that crazy little wiener dog try so hard to get his paws and teeth on that "other" dog. In Ollie's mind, the dog that lives in his shadow is as real as he is ... he simply needs to find a way to catch him and win the battle.

One of the most famous parts of the story of Don Quixote is the recounting of him securing one of his neighbors, Sancho Panza, to be his squire by promising the unknowing Sancho that he will make him governor of an island. A series of famous adventures ensues, beginning with Quixote's attack on windmills that he believes to be ferocious giants. I won't tell you how the story turns out ... you should read it. Especially the part about the windmills ... it's fascinating and it's famous. As I watch Ollie battle his shadow ... his own imaginary canine giant ... I often think of Don Quixote drawing his sword and lance and squaring off against the windmills he turned into giants in his mind. And when I begin to think of Mr. Quixote, I begin to wonder how much time I've wasted fighting giants in life that exist only in my imagination ... how many times I change harmless things or situations that are actually for my own good into fierce and frightening beasts that I feel I have to battle.

Chasing shadows and fighting windmills ... my prayer tonight is that God will keep my mind clearly focused on Him ... that He will help me see things as they are ... that He will allow me to view shadows in the light of His Son and feel the breeze from the windmill of His Spirit.

Back Up

My oldest son Matt's first car was a turquoise Ford Ranger pickup truck that he purchased from a friend of ours. I remember how excited Matt was when the day finally arrived that he could jump in his "new" truck and drive on his own. We had brought the truck home a week or so before Matt's 16th birthday, and it had been parked in our garage with Matt anxiously awaiting his first solo drive. I had recently purchased a new car, a brand new car, for the first time in many years ... a burgundy Subaru Outback, and I was beyond proud of that car. On the day of Matt's birthday, I had gone to the store to buy groceries and for some reason that I can't remember now, rather than pulling my car into the garage next to Matt's truck, I had parked it on the driveway on my side of the garage. I was in the kitchen making dinner when Brad came ripping in the back door shouting, "Matt hit your car, Mom, Matt hit your car!" Only one of the many times Brad tattled on someone, I might add, earning him the affectionate nickname of Tattles that he carried with him proudly for many years.

I tried to remain calm as I went outside to find out what had happened and inspect the damage to my beloved Subaru. Matt, in his haste to drive his truck, had indeed hit my car as he backed out of the garage. And then, he had pulled forward and scraped it again ... and then, he tried to back up once more and hit my car again. To say that I was not at all happy with my eldest son is an understatement in a big way, but if I recall correctly, I at least managed to stay relatively calm. In the following months and years, our family came to realize that driving wasn't one of Matt's greatest strengths and we still tease him even now about his lack of driving skills when he was younger. Fortunately, he married a gal who is an excellent driver, and she has worked with her hubby to help him improve dramatically when he's behind the wheel. The last time I rode in his car, though, he backed up and almost hit another car ... some things just never change, I suppose.

I've been thinking a lot lately about backing up in life, about how so often I think I should back up and try again and maybe then I wouldn't hit anything along the way. The old saying "If I knew then what I know now" pops into my mind quite a lot these days, and I find myself contemplating how I would do things differently if I could back up and start over. But then I think about Matt and his truck ... he hit my car the first time he backed up, he did more damage when he tried to undo what he had done in the initial backing up, and then he tried to back up again and messed things up even more. There's something deep and profound in the scenario of Matt's three-time scraping of my car ... really deep and profound, at least to me anyway. You see, Matt did nothing wrong in wanting to back his truck out of the garage; in fact, had he driven forward, he would have ended up with his truck in my kitchen ... not good, not good at all. His trouble began when he didn't watch where he was going as he backed up ... and his trouble multiplied threefold when he continued not to pay attention to how close his truck was to my car.

I think that's the way it is in life ... there are times when I need to back up, put my transmission in reverse and just drive backwards ... times when going forward means I will drive through a wall and tear up my house. There are times when I need to back up and say I'm sorry and ask for forgiveness. There are times when I need to back up and admit that I was wrong. There are times when I need to back up and reevaluate my priorities. There are times when I need to back up and map out a different route. What is important is that I pay attention while I'm backing up ... that I keep my eyes open and my mind aware of the obstacles and dangers that may be close beside me.

Help me to keep my eyes on You, Lord ... to let you be my compass and my guide ... whether I'm going forward, backing up or even traveling sideways at times. Help me keep my eyes on You.

Dog Poop

Maybe it's a Southern thing, but for as long as I can remember, there's been one particular expression that we use when we are sick. "I feel like dog poop." Which of course for me and my often unusual thinking mind begs two questions ... where in the world did that saying come from and why do we associate dog poop with feeling cruddy? It seems to me that a dog would feel better after it pooped ... I know, sometimes it scares me, too, as to where my brain heads at times.

At any rate, I feel like dog poop today ... actually, I've felt like dog poop for a couple of days, but today I caved in and went to the doctor (thank God for a doctor's office who is open for urgent care on the weekends). I've got ear infections and a yucky throat, an upset stomach and a pounding headache. So for those of you who email me if I don't blog for a few days ... no blog until I feel better. I'm snuggled on the couch with my hounds and some Life Water, wishing I could have a giant Sonic Reese's Blast and watching worthless and meaningless movies ... think Without a Paddle and Dumb and Dumber ... yep ... told you I feel like dog poop.

If you're in Kansas City, enjoy the beautiful evening ahead ... heck, wherever you are, enjoy the beautiful evening that God has blessed you with ... every day is a gift from our Father ... even days when you feel like dog poop.

I Will Testify

My dad was pretty easy going for the most part, but there were a few things I learned pretty early on that were Daddy's way or the highway. Things like where he kept his tools in his workshop or the way he carved his cheese or the level of respect he expected me to give to my elders ... certain things I simply knew were never going to be negotiable with Daddy. And one of those non-negotiable items was church ... growing up in my dad's house meant growing up in a Southern Baptist church, no questions asked, no debate, no argument ... as long as I lived in his house, Daddy expected me to attend the Baptist church. And attending a Baptist church in the South meant going to services not only on Sunday mornings but on Sunday and Wednesday evenings as well ... every week ... yes, three services a week, every week. I know that boggles the minds of some of my friends from the Midwest, many of whom attend churches that only have Sunday morning services and then meet in small groups once a week away from the church itself. But honestly ... we went to church three times a week, and we had full-blown services each time, plus we did Sunday School and Training Union before the Sunday morning and Sunday evening services.

I have a ton of memories from my youthful church years, but one type of service we often had left many fond recollections seared into my heart and mind. Quite frequently, our pastor would step aside from the pulpit and ask if anyone had any prayer requests or anything on their heart they would like to share. Many, many times the needs would be so great or the pain so deep that he would ask the congregation to come to the altar of the church and pray ... oh, do I remember those prayer times ... oh, do I remember the fervent prayers of some of those older saints ... down on their knees, lifting up their brothers and sisters before the Lord. I also remember times when someone would rise to their feet when the pastor asked if anyone wanted to share ... when a person would stand and say, "I will testify," and then proceed to proclaim the name of Jesus, to praise Him for the gift of salvation, to recount the change He had brought about in his or her life.

It's been almost 12 years since I met Jesus Christ ... face down on the floor in a small prayer room at my church. Even though I grew up in the church, my knowledge of God was head knowledge only. It wasn't until my life was completely unraveling that I finally admitted my need for a real and life-changing heart relationship with my Savior. And the most amazing realizations of that day for me? He had been waiting for me to come to Him ... He was ready with open arms for me to invite Him in ... He loved me long before I loved Him. I was baptized that same afternoon ... a cold and rainy Monday afternoon in September ... with my children and a few close friends there to share the moment with me. My life, as those of you who read this blog on a regular basis well know, has certainly not been perfect since that day; in fact, in some ways, it's been more challenging than ever before. But I can't imagine life without Jesus, and I'm so grateful that He stepped into that little room that day and covered me with His precious blood.

Sometimes I miss church the way it was when I was young, sometimes I really do. I attend a rather large church, so I understand that one of those old-time praying and testifying services just wouldn't work well for our format. But there are still times when I find myself wishing for the front of the church to be filled with people on their knees praying for one another. There are times when I'd like to see someone jump up and say, "He saved this old sinner boy ... He surely did ... praise His holy name." And there are times when I would like to hear an entire service filled with voices raised in unison in praise and worship to the Father. Even as I type those words, I'm well aware that God calls me to pray for my brothers and sisters every day, that He gives me countless opportunities to testify to His saving power and immeasurable grace and mercy, that He desires my heart to reside in a constant state of praise and worship.

Thank you for the day You saved me, Lord ... thank You for the people You put in my life to lead me to You. I will pray, Lord, and I will testify ... You saved this old sinner gal ... You surely did ... praise Your holy name.

Walk Together Children

Someone asked me not too long ago why I tell stories about my son Brad so often in my posts. Brad would quickly tell you he thinks it's because he is my favorite child. But Brad also thinks he is everyone's favorite friend, brother, nephew, cousin, roommate, employee, filmmaker ... you fill in the blank, and I promise Brad will think he fits the bill of being the favorite in that category. The truth is that I love all of my children equally ... sorry to pop your bubble, Bradley. But it is also true that Brad is the one of my children who somehow seems to offer up the most material for story-telling and the one who doesn't mind his mother sharing those tales with the entire world ... again, sorry, Bradley, but you are indeed like a simmering cauldron brewing up some really good stories.

I've mentioned before that Brad has a tendency to ... well ... get very passionate about certain subjects from time to time, and he's been that way for as long as I can remember. In our little family, we affectionately call them "Brad rants" ... given the necessary kindling, Brad can really get fired up on a subject. And the thing is that he's stinking smart, so when he gets going, I often feel that I have nothing intelligent to contribute to the discussion. So I just listen ... especially when his rants involve politics or economics ... I just listen and wonder at all the information that is packed into my son's brain. I mention the semi-famous "Brad rants" because this particular post is going to be my own rant of sorts ... just a word of warning in case you want to bail out rather than continue reading.

One thing I have tried to hold true to in penning this blog is that I maintain a spirit of openness and transparency in my posts, which has precipitated my disclosure concerning many areas of my life. I think perhaps I underestimated, however, the number of readers this blog would eventually generate when I first began writing in this format back in 2008. But even now three years later and with the number of readers growing daily, I still feel led to be transparent in this forum. That means that on occasion I will write a post that may offend some of you ... a post that may convict some of you ... a post that may sadden some of you ... a post that may anger some of you ... but hopefully, many posts that may bless some of you. Having said that ... here comes my rant.

My southern friends will understand these words completely ... I've been stewing on this subject for a while now. I recently received an email from someone explaining why she hadn't been in touch with me for several months. She didn't say she was too busy. She didn't say she had moved out of town. She didn't say she had been sick. She didn't say she had gotten divorced. She didn't say someone in her family had passed away. She did say that she was afraid of "catching" my depression. She did say that if someone as positive and upbeat and strong as she had known me to be could "fall" to depression, she certainly could as well and that terrified her. She did say that when the "old happy" Terrie returned, so would she. My prayer for my "friend" is that she nor anyone in her family ever suffer from a chronic, lifelong illness or fight the war of depression.

I've posted before about people distancing themselves from me, and the truth is that began because of my diabetes (which, I might add, I have learned to keep under control very well), and not because of my depression. Some would say that I've isolated myself from others, and yes, that is true as well, especially in recent months. And it is true that part of my self-isolation is due to depression. But it is also true that a great deal of my withdrawal is a direct result of others first pulling away from me. I refuse to argue the cause or effect or why of it all ... it simply is what it is. What I do want to say is this ... God commands us to love one another. He doesn't say when the person is healthy. He doesn't say when the person is clean. He doesn't say when the person is young. He doesn't say when the person is a believer. He doesn't say when the person is wealthy. He doesn't say when the person is smart. He doesn't say for a while. He says love one another. He says care for one another. He says listen to one another. He says pray for and with one another. He says help one another. He says forgive one another. He says do all those things for one another even when it's hard. He says walk together children. He says walk together all the way until the end of this life. He says love ... He says care ... He says listen ... He says pray ... He says help ... He says forgive. He says walk together children.

"Walk together children, don't you get weary
Walk together children, don't you get weary
There's a great camp meeting in the promised land.

Keep on walking when you're happy
Keep on walking when you're low.
Keep on walking through the midnight
Keep on walking down that long, long road.

Walk together children, don't you get weary
Walk together children, don't you get weary
There's a great camp meeting in the promised land.

Walking through the wilderness, the burning desert sand
Sometimes it's the hardest thing to find a place to stand, Lord.
On the far horizon where the golden sunset glows
We'll sit down by the Jordan where the milk and honey flow.
So don't you be discouraged children, don't you be afraid
Let's walk that straight and narrow way.

Walk together children, don't you get weary
Walk together children, don't you get weary
There's a great homecoming in the promised land."

Side by Side

There are certain statements that come from the mouths of teenagers that can send chills down a mother's spine. Those of you who are moms who either had or currently have teens in your homes know the types of statements I'm referring to ... "I wrecked the car" ... "I'm failing English" ... "He (referring to his younger brother) was here when I left" ... "That money was for food?" ... or one of my all-time favorites ... "Mom, don't be mad." I look back on the years of raising three children alone and I marvel at the fact that the four of us managed to live through all the "stuff" that we encountered along the way. I know now that the only way I made it as a single mom was because of God's grace and mercy ... and, of course, more than my share of Starbucks cafe vanilla frappuccinos. I miss those, by the way, in case you haven't gleaned that little tidbit from reading my posts. But, as usual, I digress ... back to the subject at hand.

Around six years ago, I came home one evening and was met by Brad at the door leading from the garage to the kitchen. As soon as I got out of the car, he said, "Mom, don't be mad," ... not good first words to hear after a stressful day at work and a long commute home in the car. "Oh, Brad," I started to say when he interrupted with "Wait until you see what she can do, Mom." You see, Brad and Meghann had taken me a couple of times to see a yellow Lab at the shelter near our home and I knew when I got out of the car and saw Brad in the doorway that I had lost the fight over getting another dog. Hence, after watching her catch sticks and then tennis balls and then a Frisbee and bring them back and drop them at Brad's feet, Julie the Lab became part of our family.

It became evident very quickly that Julie was Brad's dog ... she adored him. She slept in his bed. She sat in his lap. She wrestled with him on the floor. She rode in his Jeep. She went to the dog park with him. She ate his food. No, really, she did eat his food every chance she got. She seriously loved Brad. When Brad moved out to go to college, the apartment complex he chose to live in didn't allow pets so Julie stayed home with me. Not very happily, I might add ... she missed her boy in a big way for a long time. But then, all of a sudden, Julie decided life with this old gray-haired gal wasn't so bad and began to transfer some of that Brad adoration to me. After all, I was the one filling her food bowl every day and tossing the Frisbee with her each evening. I suppose she decided she might as well love me since she was stuck with me.

That was a little over four years ago, and recently I've come to realize just how deeply my big hound dog loves me and how in tune she is with my daily routines. Perhaps I'm just more aware in this season of my life what true unselfish love really means, the importance of sticking with someone through thick or thin, the soul-touching power of a hug, the loyalty and devotion present in a paw on my knee. Last night as I trudged upstairs to walk on the treadmill, it struck me that Julie walked right by my side as I climbed the stairs ... just as she does every single time I walk those stairs. In fact, it struck me in a big way that Julie is always by my side when I am home; no matter where I am, she is always with me. When I go into the kitchen, Julie comes in and lays on the rug in front of the sink. When I sit on the couch and type on my laptop, she places her head on my leg. When I lay in the hammock in the backyard, she climbs in with me. When I'm cleaning in my room, she finds a spot on my bed and watches me. When I am sick, she faithfully sits by my side. And when I'm walking on the treadmill, she stretches out next to it and patiently waits for me to finish.

I know that God teaches me life lessons through my furry friends ... I know that He does. And as I looked at Julie resting and waiting for me next to the treadmill, I knew that He was again whispering a lesson. "I am always with you, Terrie ... I will never leave you or forget you or forsake you ... I am ever loyal and true and patient and faithful ... I love you unconditionally and unfailingly ... for now in this temporary life on earth and for all eternity ... I am here ... I am here ... I am here."

Thank you, Lord ... thank you.

God, Dogs and Drugs

Perhaps one of the areas in life that best exemplifies God's creation of us as individuals is that of our professions, the jobs we work at, many of us for most of our lives. When it comes to what we do to earn a living, we are as diversified as snowflakes in the winter. Even within the same field ... say, teaching, for example ... you would be hard-pressed to find two teachers who approach the sharing and teaching of knowledge in exactly the same way. And while we may spend time in our youth searching to discover what we are supposed to do in life in regard to a job, most of us eventually come to know and understand that there are some forms of employment that are more suited to us than others.

I have a ton of respect for people in the medical profession and especially more so during the last couple of years. I respect folks who provide medical assistance to both humans and animals alike. It's a good thing that God chose to make me a language person, because I would not have made a good doctor, nurse or veterinarian. It's not that I couldn't care for people or animals ... that part of medicine I could handle just fine. It's the making of life and death decisions that would rip me apart; to know that the choices I made could influence the length or quality of their lives would make me crazy.

A couple of weeks ago, I had to take Ollie the wiener dog to the vet because he had a rash on his tummy ... turns out it's a staph infection, which, according to the doggie doc, is pretty common for low-rider wiener dogs whose bellies rub the dry, crunchy grass in the summer. He prescribed a 4-week course of antibiotics, which I give to Oliver twice a day in a dollop of peanut butter. He hates the capsules, but he loves the peanut butter. And of course Julie has to have a dollop of peanut butter when Ollie gets his ... fair is fair after all.

On my kitchen counter, there is quite the array of prescription bottles along with my morning and dinnertime pill organizers. Call it a pride thing if you will, but I refuse to purchase another set of containers for the medications I now am supposed to take before I go to bed each night. It already goads me that I have to use organizers at all and that I have four I use on a daily basis to keep up with all the meds. Hence the reason I have the assortment of bottles on my counter ... I simply will not add another pill organizer into the mix. When I brought Ollie's medicine home, I placed it with my prescriptions so that I would remember to give it to him. It only took until his second dose for me to realize how easily I could goof up and take his medicine or give him mine, so I came up with a plan ... I would lay his bottle on top of my breakfast and dinner organizer, and believe it or not, that has worked flawlessly. I take my drugs and then I open his bottle and give him his little capsule.

As I stood at my counter last night swallowing my pills and giving Ollie his, the tears that now seem to ever lurk just below the surface for me began to fill my eyes. There are three things that are keeping me on my feet, I thought ... three things that are keeping me going ... my faith in God, my dogs who depend on me, and the drugs that I take each day. The truth is that I have days when I stay in my pajamas all day and don't leave the house, days when it takes every ounce of energy I have to make myself get out of bed, days when fear of the future grips my heart like a vise, days when I long for the person I once was ... the fun-loving, happy gal whose life was filled with family and friends, lots of laughter and an abundance of good times. Maybe one day, that old gal will return, maybe she's gone forever or maybe ... maybe ... maybe God is trying to shape me into someone completely different and new. Maybe His way of telling me to hold on, to be patient, to wait it out is in causing me to think in threes ... keep your faith in Me, Terrie ... care for the dogs I've entrusted to you ... take the drugs I've provided to help you. God, dogs and drugs ... God, dogs and drugs ... God, dogs and drugs. I suppose that only God knows the answers to the multitude of questions and wonderings that pulse through my mind on a daily basis now ... I suppose He is the only One who does.

"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze." Isaiah 43: 1-2

Please Forgive Me

Last night it was actually cool enough that I went for a walk outside, and I took Ollie the wiener dog with me. I've written before about how my newest dog friend knows no strangers. After being cooped up in the house for the last two weeks because of the heat, he had to greet every single person he saw as we made our way along the trail. But there was one group of folks in particular that Ollie seemed unusually drawn to ... a young mother surrounded by her three blond-haired, blue-eyed children.

The kids were quite taken with Ollie, so the young woman and her children walked with Ollie and me for a while. When I told the gal that I had three kiddos who are close in age like hers, she asked me a question that made me laugh out loud. "Did your children argue and bicker when they were young?" When I replied that they still argue and bicker from time to time, she asked me how I handled those sibling battles when they were young. I shared a couple of funny "fight" stories about my kids, and as we reached the place where she said they needed to turn to go home, I said, "You know, in the end, it's all about forgiveness ... about being able to ask for it, able to extend it and able to receive it ... it's really all about forgiveness."

Forgiveness, I thought as Ollie and I said goodbye to the little family and continued on down the trail ... forgiveness really is what it's all about. Ultimately, it's the forgiveness of my sins by my Father in heaven that is the most important piece of forgiveness, but lately I've been heavily burdened with the need to extend forgiveness to others and to also ask for forgiveness for wrongs I have done. I have a burning desire to make things right with anyone whom I've hurt or offended or slighted in any way. I want to be certain that my heart and soul are right with my Lord first and foremost, but also that I have a clear and clean peace about my earthly relationships as well. I've never felt the way I do ... oh, I think for the most part, I've tried to make amends with others when I was wrong, but this is different ... it's as if I am driven to have there be no ill will or hard feelings between me and other people. Perhaps my awareness of the brevity of this life has given me pause to consider things in a much deeper manner than I ever have before; perhaps God is refining me in preparation for eternity. At times it almost feels as though He is scrubbing my heart and soul and mind with a Brillo pad ... that He's trying to get rid of all the grit, all the baked-on hurt and pain and unkind words or thoughts, all the dirt that has ground its way into my life over the years.

Tears filled my eyes as I walked ... forgiveness ... forgiveness ... please forgive me, Lord ... please forgive me. Before Ollie and I ventured out on our walk, I had set my iPod to the shuffle function which means that it randomly selects songs to play from all the music files on it. I almost came out of my skin when the song "Please Forgive Me" began to play ... I'm telling you, friends ... God lives and walks and breathes and speaks to me out on my beloved trail. I wept all the way home, overwhelmed with the knowledge that God made the way for my forgiveness through the sacrifice of His only Son ... overwhelmed with the knowledge of how deeply God desires that I long for His forgiveness ... overwhelmed with the knowledge that He urges me to seek forgiveness from my fellow man ... overwhelmed with the knowledge that His Word demands that I graciously extend forgiveness to others.

Please forgive me, Father God, for all the times I fail You ... for all the times You call me and I don't listen ... for all the times my heart is filled with stubborn will and pride. Please forgive me for those I wound ... for those I abandon ... for those I disappoint. I need Your grace and mercy, Lord ... please forgive me. 

"My sleep is gone, my heart is full of sorrow

I can't believe how much I've let You down.
I dread the pain that waits for me tomorrow
When the sun reveals my broken dreams scattered on the ground.

Please forgive me
I need Your grace to make it through.
All I have is you, I'm at Your mercy.
Lord, I'll serve You
Until my dying day.
Help others find the way
At Your mercy, please forgive me.

I can't believe the God of earth and glory
Would take the time to care for one like me
But I read in the Bible that old story
How he pled for my forgiveness while he was dying on a tree.

Please forgive me
I need Your grace to make it through.
All I have is you, I'm at Your mercy.
Lord, I'll serve You
Until my dying day.
Help others find the way
At Your mercy, please forgive me."