The Tree House

I Promise

2012-02-28T19:16:00.000-08:00

Those two little words have gotten me into some tight spots down through the years ... I promise. They have also rescued me from some tight spots down through the years ... I promise. Funny how that works ... promises can make things uncomfortable, and promises can make things real and right.

So here's the story ... I promise I will post a "real" blog within the next couple of days ... I promise. I've been swamped at work and have been bringing work home on the weekends and at night. I'm working on a post that God started churning in my heart last weekend, but tonight it's a stormy night (and you faithful readers know how very much I dislike storms, especially storms at night) so I'm going to bed. That's right, I'm going to pull the covers over me and the hound dogs and hope that I sleep right through the rain and wind and thunder and lightning. I'm beyond tired, so maybe, just maybe, my plan will work. I really, really, really don't like spring in Kansas ... I promise.

Sleep well, friends ... may God keep you safe and give you rest and peace, especially in the storms of life.

The Procession

2012-02-26T16:24:00.002-08:00

My brother Jerry was a charmer ... everyone who knew him loved him. He had an easy smile and twinkling eyes like our dad, and he looked a lot like Daddy, too. People were initially drawn to Jerry by his laughter and sense of humor, but they stayed because of his caring spirit and generous heart. His position as a junior high school biology teacher and coach of the basketball team was the perfect fit for Jerry ... he was able to instill a love for learning and a desire to dream in countless students through the years. Jerry's love and compassion for his students were evident even on the night he died ... he was on his way home from tutoring a student who was home with a broken leg ... on his way home to change clothes and come pick me and Daddy up to take us to the game he was coaching that evening when he was involved in a car accident. Jerry died later that night, a cold January night when I was 10 years old.

I remember a lot of details from the days that followed Jerry's death, which surprises me somewhat considering it's been more than 40 years. I remember my mom's blank stare and sunken eyes the next morning. I remember Daddy's shaking voice as he told me that Jerry was gone. I remember my sister packing some clothes for me and walking me to the car of the folks who were taking me to their house for a few days. I remember expecting Jerry to walk in and say he was alive and well and that it was all a bad dream. I remember the newspaper article and the picture of Jerry on the front page. I remember the headline ... "Beloved teacher and coach killed in accident on Hixson Pike." I remember the huge Baptist church where Jerry's funeral was held. I remember the smell from the hundreds of flowers that surrounded my brother's casket. I remember there were so many people, the police closed the street in front of the church and people were standing outside. I remember it was cold that day and that there were flurries of snow when we left the church and climbed into the big funeral home cars. But for all the things I remember about those days after Jerry died, I remember the funeral procession from the church to the cemetery the most vividly.

It's about a 10 to 15-minute drive on a normal day from the church to the cemetery where Mom and Dad and Jerry are buried. But on the day of Jerry's funeral, it seemed to take an hour to go from Red Bank Baptist Church to Hamilton Memorial Gardens. Students lined the streets holding signs that said, "We love you, Mr. Dennard," "Rest in peace, Coach," and "Honor and integrity, thank you, Mr. D." I remember Mom and Dad crying in the limousine and Daddy holding Mom's hand as they saw Jerry's students standing along the road. I remember watching the hearse that carried my beloved brother as it drove slowly in front of the big car we were riding in. I remember police cars and motorcycles as they accompanied us on Jerry's final journey. I remember all the cars that were pulled over on the side of the road out of respect for the funeral procession that was passing. I remember all those cars on the side of the road ... stopped on the road so that the drivers and passengers could show their respect for my brother as he passed by.

Yesterday, I spoke at an event in southwestern Kansas, about a 3-hour drive from home. I always allow extra travel time when I drive to a speaking event, just in case there is traffic or an accident or I get lost. I arrived in the town about 45 minutes before the time the leader of the event and I had agreed upon. Almost as soon as I drove into the downtown area and began to look for the place where the event was being held, the car in front of me slowed, pulled off to the side of the road and stopped. I noticed that all the cars ahead were doing the same thing, and when I glanced in my rearview mirror, all the cars behind me were making their way off the road as well. I pulled over, too, wondering if there was an accident and looking at my directions to see how far I was from where I needed to be. When I looked up, I noticed that cars on the opposite side of the street had pulled over, too, and that's when I saw it ... an old-fashioned hearse with its headlights on, driving slowly down the street followed by several cars with their headlights on as well as they traveled behind the hearse.

As I watched the funeral procession pass by, I couldn't help but remember a cold day in January so very many years ago and all the cars that were stopped on the side of the road to honor my brother Jerry. I wondered about the person who had died, and I wondered about the family and friends whose sad faces I saw through the car windows. I wondered if the people in the town who stopped their cars knew the person who had passed away or if was old-fashioned, small-town respect that caused them to pull over. Driving home later in the day, I found myself thinking about the display of honor and respect I had seen along the road that morning ... and I began to think about how it is often after someone has died that many of us demonstrate the honor and respect we should have given while they were living. I wondered how many people die each day feeling as if they are unworthy of honor or respect, or even love.

Love with pure hearts today, friends ... honor and respect and love. Don't wait until it's time to pull over to the side of the road.

"Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor; not lagging behind in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord." Romans 12:9-11

Southern Comfort

2012-02-23T20:44:00.006-08:00

There was a time in my life when I drank alcohol ... lots and lots of alcohol. I'm certainly not proud of those years, and I did some really stupid things when I was under the influence of booze. If there were such things as do-overs in life, I wouldn't have used alcohol to soothe whatever pain I was experiencing at the time. I had two favorite drinks back then, gin and orange juice, and an American liqueur aptly named Southern Comfort. I alternated between the two drinks, depending on how much cash I had ... Southern Comfort was more expensive, so it was often a "treat" to myself when I could afford it. It is a fruity, spicy liqueur with an alcohol content that makes it pack quite a punch. Speaking of do-overs ... I can't help but wonder sometimes if all the alcohol that once flowed through my liver and pancreas at least in part caused me to develop diabetes. Yep, I would take a do-over on that one if I could.

The week after my granddaughter Coraline was born, my son Matt began asking me to bring some food to him and Becca. And Matt being Matt, he was very specific in the food that he wanted ... my mom's chicken casserole (the one that's become famous in my hometown of Chattanooga and is sold at Country Place Restaurant as "Granny's Chicken Casserole"), cheesy potatoes and homemade chocolate chip cookies. The pleading voice of my son convinced me that he would indeed starve if I didn't make his favorite Mom dishes. I got up early on a Sunday morning and made the two-hour drive to deliver food, held C.J. for a couple of hours, and drove back home. Later that night, I got several texts from Matt telling me how delicious the food was. Funny, Matt and Becca have cooked those same food items many times themselves in the four and a half years since they've been married, but according to Matt, the dishes I brought to them on that Sunday were the greatest chicken casserole, cheesy potatoes and cookies he had ever tasted. Now I know full well there was nothing special about the food I took to Matt and Becca that day, nothing special at all. Those dishes were about comfort for Matt ... the comfort of his mom caring enough to ... well, just caring enough to bring him some good old Southern comfort food.

My nephew and his little family called me last weekend, and we talked for almost two hours. I can't remember when I've talked to anyone for more than a few minutes, much less for two hours. Listening to their sweet Southern accents and their laughter was comforting to me and eased the pain in my weary heart, even if it was only for a while. I miss my family back home a lot ... I miss the comfortable feeling I have when I'm in Tennessee. The new doctor I'm seeing talked a lot at my appointment last night about comfort, about acceptance, about love, about fear, about judgment and about pain. As I drove home, I tried to remember the last time my troubled soul was at peace ... I tried to remember the last time I was comfortable, truly comfortable, in my own skin. By the time I pulled into my garage, tears were coursing down my cheeks and dripping onto my shirt as I rolled the doctor's words around in my aching brain. And as I readied myself for bed, I thought about her final words last night telling me that I was going to make it, that it wasn't going to be easy or fast, but that I was going to make it ... I thought about how comforting her words were, about how for the first time in a very long time, I felt a miniscule glimmer of hope pulse in my soul.

So here's the thing ... God always knows what He's doing, especially when I don't see His plan or purpose. The truth is I know myself well enough to know that if I didn't have diabetes or have to take several medications that dictate that I can't consume any alcohol, I would have been very tempted during the roughness of the last year and a half to pop open a bottle of Southern Comfort and throw back a shot ... or 10 or 50. I would have sought comfort in food and drink ... I know myself, and I know that I would have fallen headfirst into that self-destructive pattern. I know myself pretty well ... but God knows me way better. He's my real Southern Comfort ... He's my real chicken casserole ... He's my real family.

Only Today

2012-02-19T17:58:00.000-08:00

Today I went to church because I made a promise to two little kids that I would be there. Today I sat between the two of them ... one held my hand, and the other patted me on the back. Today I cried in church but I didn't sob. I chewed the inside of my cheek until it bled, but I didn't sob. I didn't sob because I was determined that I wouldn't lose it in front of those kids. I left before church was over and waited in my car for the kids to join me. I waited because their mom and dad had things they had to do today, and I had promised I would watch the kids. Today I took the little boy and little girl out for lunch. They ate pizza, and I ate a burger wrapped in lettuce. I ate every single bite of my burger because the little kids told me I needed to eat it all. I'm never hungry anymore, and my stomach hurts a lot. I've lost a lot more weight recently, but today I ate all of my burger and most of my salad. The kids reminded me to take my pills as we walked to the car. I took them to Target and bought them candy and sodas. I told them to choose some candy for their mom and dad and older siblings, and I smiled as they bickered over who liked what best. We went to my house, and they played with Julie and Ollie. Julie and Ollie were happy, and the kids were, too. My dogs wagged their tails ... a lot. The kids laughed and squealed ... a lot. I took them to see a 3D Imax movie, and I smiled at the expressions on their little faces as they watched the movie with the big, plastic glasses perched on their noses. I listened to them chatter in the car about all the critters from the movie as I drove them home. I walked them to the door and hugged them. I put the bag of candy on the stairs for the rest of the family. I hugged their mom and thanked her for letting me have the kids for the afternoon. I told her that today was a good day. I didn't tell her how much it means to me that she and her husband continue to allow me to spend time with their children, though they see the depths of my sadness. I didn't tell her how much it means to me that their family still loves me, in spite of my pain and my sorrow. I didn't tell her how desperately I needed to have just one good day, though I suspect that she knew. I smiled when the older daughter opened the door as I walked to my car and hollered out to thank me for the candy I had placed on the stairs. I drove home praying that God would bless their family and shelter their love for one another. I know it was only today ... but today was a good day.

The Cocoon

2012-02-16T20:42:00.000-08:00

When I hear the word cocoon, I think about two things ... the really weird movie about old people who discovered their very own fountain of youth through a bunch of alien pods in a swimming pool (it's sad that I know about that movie in the first place and even sadder that I've watched it enough times to know the storyline quite well), and my Bradley and his infatuation with all things buggy when he was little (countless caterpillars found a temporary home within Brad's tiny wooden bug box that he carried with him everywhere for several years). I'll spare you my thoughts on my first reference to what I think of when I hear the word cocoon, but I do want to share one thing in regard to Brad and his caterpillars. At the end of each day, Brad would release his bugs back into the wild of our back yard. On the days that there was a caterpillar in the mix, I would often tell him that if he wanted to keep the caterpillar until morning it would live and be just fine. And Brad would always have the same answer ... "No, Mom, the caterpillar needs to go so he can make a cocoon. If I keep him, he can't make a cocoon. And if he doesn't make a cocoon, then he can't come out of the cocoon all turned into a pretty butterfly." I maintain that kids have way more wisdom than we adults ever give them credit for ... way, way more.

I know I haven't been writing, and many of you have emailed asking about the new doctor I mentioned in my post from over a week ago. I've seen her twice ... two emotionally gut-wrenching and painful times, topped off by an emotionally gut-wrenching and painful visit to my regular doctor this morning, with the icing on the cake being the most miserable blood draw I've ever experienced. Tonight, both of my hands are throbbing and bruised ... but once again, I digress. The new doctor kept me in her office for two and a half hours Saturday, and then an hour and a half last night. And she insisted that I schedule another appointment, much to my deep dismay and in spite of my own insistence that sitting in her office answering her probing questions and sobbing my heart out is a waste of time and energy. But ... she talked about something last night that has impacted me ... as much as I hate to admit it, she struck a nerve deep within my wounded soul.

My memory isn't so great anymore, so I can't remember what caused her to talk about me being in a cocoon, but I do remember the analogy that she put before me. "You're cocooning, Terrie ... you've created a covering around yourself, withdrawn from the things you previously enjoyed, isolated yourself from those who love and care about you. Your cocoon is a safe place for you to hide from any judgment or condemnation that might come from others, and in many ways, it's the only place where you feel that you can be real. But ... just like the caterpillar ... if the caterpillar doesn't go through the process ... the quite difficult process ... of changing from a caterpillar into a butterfly ... if the caterpillar stays within the cocoon and doesn't come out ... he will surely die." Yep, you can bet those words struck a nerve deep within my wounded soul, alright ... a big old nerve way down deep inside of my soul.

The doctor went on to ask about those in my life who have stuck by me, those who continue to try to reach into my cocoon ... those who desperately want to help me find my way out, and she said she was confident that those who have been steadfast in their love for me will remain, no matter what. I think there's a wealth of truth in that thought ... those who have loved me through the last couple of years deserve a faithful and loyal award for sure because I certainly am not worthy of their love. I wept as she told me that I will be a very different person should I emerge, that I simply will not be able to ever be the person I was before ... that living in such a deep and permeating darkness will change me ... that it will either change me or kill me. My cocoon ... the place I've been hiding in ... if I emerge from it, I will be a different creature than I was before ... a more humble, real and honest creature with a new heart and a deeper, stronger faith ... and if I don't come out, I will most surely die. See that's the thing about cocoons ... either you go through the pain and fear and hurt involved in the process of change and find a way out, or you just die ... you stay buried inside and you just die.

I looked up the word cocoon in the dictionary when I got home last night, and I've been thinking about a couple of the definitions all day, especially after my time with my doctor this morning. "Something that keeps you safe for a season, but that stops you from learning to deal with problems" and "a covering that provides protection but that may also produce isolation." Both the new doctor who has known me for only a week and my doctor who's known me for many years are correct ... I am wrapped deeply within my cocoon. And I am facing the biggest question of my life ... will I find my way out?

What If?

2012-02-14T05:21:00.000-08:00

So here's the thing ... sometimes my words are few ... sometimes the words of another are plenty.

"We pray for blessings
We pray for peace
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep
We pray for healing, for prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering
All the while, You hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise

We pray for wisdom
Your voice to hear
And we cry in anger when we cannot feel You near
We doubt Your goodness, we doubt Your love
As if every promise from Your Word is not enough
All the while, You hear each desperate plea
And long that we'd have faith to believe

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
And what if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise

When friends betray us
When darkness seems to win
We know that pain reminds this heart
That this is not, this is not our home
It's not our home

'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
And what if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
What if my greatest disappointments
Or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can’t satisfy
And what if trials of this life
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are Your mercies in disguise" --- Laura Story

What if, Lord? What if?

My Hail Mary Pass

2012-02-08T19:53:00.000-08:00

I've never been a huge football fan, but every now and then I watch a game on television. You know, one of those games that are so important to a ton of people ... um, what's it called? Oh, yeah, the Super Bowl. So last Sunday night after I read on Facebook about all the parties and get-togethers people were attending to watch the big game together, I flipped to the channel the game was on and watched a few minutes of it with Julie and Ollie snoozing next to me on the couch. Tonight, I can't tell you which team won (yes, I know that some of you are groaning as you read those words); in fact, until I began watching the game, I didn't even know the two teams that were playing. I can tell you, however, that one of the announcers made a comment that caused me to spend a bit of time researching just what a Hail Mary pass is. I've heard the phrase used many times, but I never actually knew where the term originated or what it really meant.

Though they had been used before, the words were made famous when they were used to describe a game-winning touchdown pass by the Dallas Cowboys quarterback Roger Staubach in a 1975 playoff game against the Minnesota Vikings. It was reported that Staubach, who was a faithful Roman Catholic, said that just before he threw the pass, he closed his eyes and whispered a Hail Mary prayer. The dictionary defines a Hail Mary pass as a very long forward pass made in desperation with only a small chance of success, especially near the end of a game. Another dictionary described it as a pass that is thrown with a prayer because the odds against completion are staggering.

Those of you who've been reading this blog for a while know that I Iisten to the little kids say their Bible verses at Awana on Wednesday nights. Every once in a while, the director of Awana asks me if I will do the lesson for the kids during their group time, and tonight was one of those times. The theme for February is God's faithfulness, and she had asked if I would share about a time in my life when God was faithful to me. When she first asked me about delivering the lesson for tonight, I said no, telling her that I didn't want to cry in front of the kids and ... well ... I cry easily and a lot now. But the more I began to pray about her request, the more I knew that there was a story God wanted me to share with the children. So tonight, I stood before the room of little kids and leaders, and I talked about my little J.R. ... about when he entered my life and when he left. And at the end of the story, I brought out little Ollie to give the kids a real, furry visual of how God is always faithful in His love and care for us. I'm not sure how much the kiddos got out of the lesson, but Oliver all decked out in his blue striped sweater and his red harness was a huge hit.

I'm sure you're wondering what in the world the beginning of this post about a Hail Mary football pass has to do with an Awana lesson about God's faithfulness. So here's the thing ... I'm going to see a new doctor on Saturday morning ... a doctor whose specialty is treating women with depression. I don't really have a choice about going; my regular doctor threatened to put me in the hospital if I didn't agree to go, and I absolutely do not want to go to the hospital. I made a decision last week when my doctor put forth her ultimatum ... that going to the new doctor is my Hail Mary pass. I even told the new doctor when she called me to schedule the appointment that I thought my coming to see her was pointless, that it was nothing more than a pass thrown in desperation with only a small chance of success. I'm weary of doctors and I'm weary of drugs and I'm weary of depression. And then the leader of Awana asked me to do the lesson for the kids, and for several days as I prepared to talk to the children, I've had to focus on God's faithfulness ... I've had to think about how and why He brought me and J.R. together ... I've had to wonder if my Hail Mary pass with the new doctor has more chance to succeed than I believe.

I managed to get through the lesson for the kids tonight without crying ... well, at least I didn't cry until I got in my car to leave, and then I sobbed as I drove home and for a good while after I got to my house. And as I close this post, the verse that I shared with the kids at the end of our time together is pounding in my mind. God's faithfulness ... my Hail Mary pass ... lots to think about, friends, lots to think about.

"Your lovingkindness extends to the heavens, O Lord, and Your faithfulness reaches to the skies." Psalm 36:5

Just a Touch

2012-02-07T19:44:00.000-08:00

There are some people who are great cooks, those for whom cooking is just a natural talent. I am not one of those fortunate folks. I'm not a terrible cook, but I'm not a great one either. My friend, Annie, however ... Annie was an amazing cook. Everything she cooked was delicious, but I was especially fond of her meatloaf. No matter how hard I've tried, I've never been able to cook a meatloaf that even came remotely close to tasting as good as Annie's. I remember asking her time and time again how much of certain ingredients to add, and her reply was always the same ... "Just a touch of this and a touch of that." Obviously, Annie's measure of "a touch" must have been different than mine since I've never been able to replicate the deliciousness that she created.

I think there's a ton of truth in the words, "You never know how much you will miss something until it's gone." Whether that something is a person or a beloved pet or a job or health or so many other things in life, it seems to me that we as humans take a lot of things for granted every day ... at least I know that I'm guilty of being unappreciative so many times. Over the last week, I've had reason to be in situations that have caused me to become acutely aware of something that once was such a part of my life but that now, except on rare occasions, no longer exists. In the last week, I have felt the arms of my sons around me and their kisses on my cheek as we said goodbye ... a hug from a friend as sobs wracked my weary soul ... a hand of compassion upon my back attempting to soothe my wounded heart ... the tiny fingers of a newborn baby wrapped around my hand as I held her in my arms. And last week, I realized how much I've missed those moments ... those moments of connection, those moments of contact, those expressions of love and understanding.

To those of you who weren't afraid to hug me, to hold me, to touch me, to love me ... thank you. "Just a touch of this and a touch of that" ... I sure do miss you and your wisdom, Annie ... I sure do.

Time's Up

2012-02-04T17:28:00.000-08:00

One of my son and daughter-in-law's best friends is a retired professor whom they affectionately call Uncle Bill. His wife passed away several years ago, and so Matt and Becca often have Uncle Bill over to eat a home-cooked meal with them. And he often returns the favor by taking them out to the restaurant of their choice. Uncle Bill has become like family to the kids, and he's been very excited about the arrival of their first child. He is also a numbers guy, not a math guy, a numbers guy ... he is fascinated with numbers and their significance in our lives. Uncle Bill firmly believes that certain numbers carry certain meaning and that they influence people in ways they don't understand or recognize. For months, Uncle Bill has been telling Matt and Becca that little Coraline would make her appearance into the world on 02-01-2012 ... and though at their doctor's appointment the evening before she was born they were told that there was little chance that she would come on her own, my granddaughter was indeed born at 12:09 p.m. on 02-01-2012 just as Uncle Bill said she would. I know ... it kind of creeps me out a bit, too.

I, unlike Uncle Bill, have never thought much about numbers or their significance; truth is, I've never cared much about numbers at all. I've never looked for some mystical hidden meaning behind dates or times ... well, until a few years ago when something weird began to happen to me regarding a certain sequence of numbers. I can't remember when it started, but I do know that it has happened every single day since it began ... I see the numbers 1-2-3-4. I can go for hours and not look to see what time it is, but every day when I glance at the clock, it's 12:34 p.m. Every night I wake up and look at the clock next to my bed, and it's 12:34 a.m. At least once every day and often several times during the day, I encounter them ... 1-2-3-4 ... numbers on a project I'm editing, the time an email was sent to me, the amount of a purchase I've made, and on and on.

When I first started noticing that I was seeing the particular sequence of numbers, it was sort of unnerving to me. And the longer it went on, the more I began to try and determine what the numbers meant and why I saw them every day. I went through several possible scenarios before coming up with the most rational explanation ... when I kick the bucket, it will be at 12:34, or it will be on a date that somehow corresponds to the numbers (but I haven't been able to figure that one out just yet). Yeah, I know ... very rational thinking on my part, but it was the best thing I could come up with. Because you see, for all my years of not thinking or caring about numbers, there absolutely could be no way that my seeing 1-2-3-4 every day now could be random ... there simply must be some meaning in them ... there simply must be.

Last night when I woke up and rolled over, I knew what time would be displayed on the clock by my bed before I even opened my eyes. As I watched the numbers shift from 12:34 to 12:35, it struck me how much difference one minute can make. The creepiness that washes through me when I see 12:34 immediately dissipates when 4 changes to 5. The longer I watched the clock, the more I thought about something my kids used to say when we played games together. If someone took too long to make a move or shuffle the cards or give an answer, one of them would invariably say, "Time's up." Life isn't a game, even though sometimes we treat it like it is. Time passes by ... years become months and months become days and days become hours and hours become minutes until our time is up.

Chances are good that I won't be able to figure out why the 1-2-3-4 sequence of numbers continues to appear in my daily life. And I've decided that though I am certain the numbers carry some sort of significance or meaning, and though it will probably continue to creep me out when I see them, it doesn't matter if I never understand the purpose within them. If they do indeed correspond somehow to the moment my time is up, I guess I'll know it then. Hmmm ... now that I think about it ... maybe the numbers are about food. I haven't had anything to eat tonight so I think I'll go eat 1 olive, 2 spoonfuls of hummus, 3 scoops of Cool Whip and 4 pieces of cheese. Come on ... you all know that's rational thinking in its truest form, and you're wishing you were at my house for dinner.

1-2-3-4 ... hmmmmmmmmm.

Trail of Tears

2012-02-02T18:39:00.000-08:00

There are certain events in life that I can't imagine them coming to pass no matter how hard I try, and sometimes I simply have to admit that I can't anticipate or control the emotions that will accompany those events. And it seems that it's when I'm floundering in the mire of my life and at my weakest point, God always has a way of stepping in and saying, "My child, do you not remember that I heal the sick and comfort the brokenhearted ... do you forget that I am the ruler of the universe ... do you choose not to believe that I will make a way for you, that I hold you in the palm of My mighty and all-powerful hand, that I love you in laughter or tears, sickness or health, silence or speech, standing or falling, strength or weakness? I am making a way for you, Terrie ... I am holding you, Terrie ... I will always love you, Terrie. Your part, your part is to believe, to trust, to hold onto Me." And over the last two days, He has stepped in ... He's used my children, my granddaughter, and my friends to whisper in my ear, to wrap me in their arms, to remind me I am loved.

When I received a text from my son Matt early yesterday morning telling me that he and Becca were at the hospital, I was immediately overcome with emotion. Though I've been waiting for that news for months, I didn't anticipate the depth of my feelings when it was actually time for my son's baby to be born. And when he called me in the early afternoon and said, "She's here, Mom ... Coraline Queen is here," I sat at my desk and wept. And when I tried to tell the folks in my office who had been asking me all morning about the baby, I cried some more. And when a friend came by my house last night, I didn't just cry ... I sobbed. But for all the tears I shed yesterday, they paled in comparison to the liquid emotion that poured from my eyes today.

I knew I was in trouble the minute my feet hit the floor this morning as tears immediately filled my eyes when I began to think about meeting my granddaughter for the first time. I decided to just give in and let the tears flow while I was in the shower, thinking I would get the emotion all out of my system before a friend arrived at my house to travel with me. For all my trying to fight it, however, my tears fell like rain ... on the drive out, while my friend and my son Brad and I waited for Matt to come into the lobby and take us to see CJ, as I held that precious baby, on the drive home, and over and over again this evening. I didn't anticipate the emotion that would accompany the birth of my first grandchild ... I couldn't begin to imagine the feelings that would sweep through me when she was placed in my arms.

She is so beautiful, friends ... I wonder who she will become. I whispered in her tiny ear today and told her that I had waited for her. I kissed her soft little forehead and told her that her Granny loves her. I held her small hand and thanked her for letting me meet her. I gazed at her sweet face and tried to sear the look of her into my brain. And I heard Him ... I am making a way for you, Terrie, just as I will make a way for her ... I am holding you, just as you are holding her ... I will always love you, just as you will forever love her.

She's Here

2012-02-01T19:30:00.000-08:00

All 8 pounds and 4 ounces and 20 1/2 inches of her via C-section at noon today. Becca and Coraline are doing great. My sweet son Matt is proud and happy ... my sweet son Matt has a little girl of his very own ... wow. Granny has cried all day ... big surprise, I know.

Tomorrow I will meet her for the first time. I have a feeling I'll have a few words to write after I do ... if I can see the keyboard through the tears.

I'm a Granny, friends ... no choice on my name, by the way ... my kids chose it for me ... it's what they called my mom. I wonder if she's smiling in heaven ... I wonder.

Chipmunk Cheeks

2012-01-31T19:16:00.000-08:00

I'm tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Physically exhausted. Mentally drained. Emotionally spent. Tired. Tired. Tired. Short post tonight. Just talked to my daughter-in-law. Doctor's appointment for her and Baby J this evening. The baby who is fat and happy inside her mom's belly and doesn't want to be born. The baby who is a week overdue today. The baby who was sucking her thumb on the ultrasound. The baby who now weighs almost nine pounds according to the measurements the ultrasound tech made. The doctor said they will induce next Tuesday. Becca emailed me one of the ultrasound pictures. Baby J has chipmunk cheeks. Fat little chipmunk cheeks.

I'm overwhelmed with the idea of being a grandmother ... I'm anxious to see her ... I'm afraid I'll sob when I do ... there are words I want to whisper in her little ears and hope that they somehow lodge in her precious heart so that she remembers when I first held her in my arms. Geez, friends ... she's almost here ... the waiting is almost over ... she's got fat little chipmunk cheeks and she's almost here. Baby J is almost here.

Priceless

2012-01-30T19:28:00.000-08:00

When my son Bradley took his first steps, I worried that he would fall and injure himself. And until he mastered the art of walking, I often followed behind him so that I could catch him if he stumbled and hopefully keep him from getting hurt. The truth is, however, that I couldn't always prevent Brad from falling ... sometimes he simply fell. He always got back up and tried again, and eventually he learned to walk and run and skip and dance. But before he became graceful on his feet, Bradley had to take his first steps ... and he had to stumble and fall a few times along the way. Brad is now 24 years old, and he recently graduated from the University of Kansas with a degree in film. I have no doubt that my Bradley will one day be a famous filmmaker, and I've been blessed to watch him grow in the knowledge of his craft. As much as I worried when Brad began to walk as a baby, that level of motherly concern paled in comparison to the anxiousness that sweeps over me when my son hits the road to film his latest project. I know that some of you will say that I shouldn't worry about him ... but come on, friends ... this is the son who bungee jumped off of a bridge over the Grand Canyon to film a video for a client. I have every right in the world to worry about my Bradley ... every right in the world.

Brad drove to Texas last Thursday night for a Friday morning shoot near Dallas and then stayed over on Saturday to meet up with one of his friends from high school who happened to be in Dallas for the weekend as well. I knew that he would be driving home yesterday, so when my phone rang around 9:00 p.m. and I saw that it was Brad, I assumed he was calling to tell me he made it home safely. Brad's good about that ... giving me a call when he returns from a trip so that I can stop worrying because he knows I do, worry, that is. When Brad instead asked if I knew if his car insurance had rental car coverage included in the policy ... oh, yeah, my heart skipped a few beats for sure. He told me what had happened and assured me that he was fine, promised to call me back and hung up to talk with the policeman who had just arrived. I'll spare you all the details, but I will tell you this ... Brad was on a two-lane highway and was forced to drive off the road to avoid a head-on collision with another car, hitting a large pothole on the way and blowing out two tires and breaking a wheel on the rental car he was driving. The driver of the car that was following him also hit the hole on the side of the road as she tried to avoid hitting Brad's car and chewed up one of her tires as well. After several phone conversations and several hundred dollars charged to my credit card, tonight Brad is back at his house and enjoying the company of his big dog Max and his girlfriend Shelby.

All day I've thought about the MasterCard commercials ... the ones that listed several things and the amount they cost, and then ended with an emotional experience that couldn't be measured in dollars and cents. So here's my closing for this post, MasterCard style. Tow truck to haul Brad's rental car to the nearest town in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma ... $143.00. Hotel room for the night ... $65.00. Repairing the tires and the wheel of the rental car ... $323.00. Knowing that my son is back home safe and sound ... completely and totally priceless.

The Waiting Game

2012-01-29T14:57:00.000-08:00

My mom garnered a nickname when I was a teenager, and no, I wasn't the one who bestowed the moniker upon her. It was given to her by some other adults who were fellow sponsors along with Mom and Dad on a youth group trip to the amusement park Opryland. They began calling Mom "First Lady" because of her ability to work her way around people as they waited in line for the rides. We could never figure out how Mom accomplished the feat of getting ahead of everyone else ... she managed to negotiate her way around the metal rails that separated the waiting streams of people. Mom rode almost every ride on that trip with total strangers ... you see, she didn't really care whom she rode with, but she cared a whole lot that she cut down on her waiting time. To this day, I can see her grinning from ear to ear as she waved to the rest of us from the front of the line, happy to be riding the rides and thrilled that she didn't have to wait as long as we did.

I've been thinking a lot about waiting recently, and even more so over the last week. Baby Johnson was due last Tuesday, but she has decided to delay her grand entrance into our lives. Our whole family is on pins and needles waiting for the little girl to be born, and each time I see Matt's name pop up on my phone, my heart starts pounding and I break out in a cold sweat. I'm pretty sure that when it really is "the" call, I will probably pass out cold when I hear the news that my granddaughter has finally entered the world. In the grand scheme of life, nine months really isn't that long, but when you're waiting on a baby's birth, it seems like an eternity. And as Matt and very pregnant and tired Becca have learned, there's nothing you can really do to speed things along ... that baby will be born when God says it's time for her to be born. And so ... we wait ... and wait ... and wait.

While my family waits for a new life to begin, my dear friend Donna spent last week holding the hand of her 90-year-old mother, waiting for her to leave this life and enter eternity. When I received a text message from Donna yesterday evening saying that her mom was gone, my mind instantly flew back to the morning my sister and I held Daddy's hands as he, too, ended his journey here on earth. Waves of emotion swept through me as I recalled the night Brad and I entered Mom's apartment to find that she had slipped away while she slept in her favorite chair. Last night and all day today, I've been struck over and over again with the significance of the two different avenues of waiting that Donna and I have walked in recent days ... one of us waiting for a beginning, and one of us waiting for an ending.

The more I think about waiting, the more I recognize that it's a difficult thing to do. It really doesn't matter if I'm waiting on something wonderful or if I'm waiting on something I know will be painful, it's never easy to wait. I guess I don't much like playing the waiting game ... I guess I just don't like it much at all. The more I wrap my arms around the difficulty of waiting, the more I acknowledge how much of my life is now spent doing just that ... waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting ... waiting for beginnings and waiting for endings. And even as I type those words, I'm aware of another truth. With beginnings also come endings ... the beginning of my granddaughter's life will mark the ending of Becca's pregnancy ... the ending of the earthly life of Donna's mother will mark the beginning of her eternal one. Waiting for life and waiting for death ... waiting and waiting and waiting.

"Yet those who wait for the Lord will gain new strength; They will mount up with wings like eagles, They will run and not get tired, They will walk and not become weary." Isaiah 40:31

Psychotherapy by Hair

2012-01-28T17:32:00.000-08:00

Before I get into the subject of this post ... many of you have sent me messages asking about the new medications I began last weekend. The side effects from one of them were so bad that I had to discontinue it ... I couldn't keep any food down, and for a gal with diabetes, that's not a good thing. The other drug I am tolerating fairly well, except that it causes my heart to race from time to time and has affected my appetite to the point that I've had to set an alarm on my phone to remind me to eat. I saw my doctor again on Wednesday, and I started on another different med today in place of the one that made me so violently ill. I've been queasy and dizzy all day, but so far, no puking. Thanks to all of you who've prayed for me over the last week ... your prayers mean more to me than you will ever know.

For the last 15 years or longer, I've paid a monthly visit to a gal who is, in my opinion, the greatest psychotherapist on the planet. She doesn't have a bunch of diplomas hanging on the wall of her office; in fact, her office is far from what you would picture a normal therapist's office to look like. She does all of her counseling while she stands and I sit in a chair, and most of the time, she stands behind me. I can see her face in the mirror on the wall in front of me as she speaks. She is always anxious to hear about my life, and often I wonder if she has a list of questions to ask me that are swirling in her mind when I walk in the door. She's an awesome listener, and she doesn't hesitate to chastise me when I'm either doing something I shouldn't be doing or not doing something I should be doing. She is wise far beyond her years, and she has amazing gifts of discernment and honesty. Oh, and in addition to all of her counseling skills, she's also been cutting or perming or coloring my hair for all those years as well ... and not once has she ever messed up my hair, not one single time.

I've written before about how I haven't been leaving my house much on the weekends ... OK, not at all unless I absolutely have to. But since I'm currently sporting my porcupine hair style, I have to get my hair cut every three weeks or so and today was haircut day. I started dreading going out in public from the minute my feet hit the floor this morning and even contemplated calling and cancelling my appointment. I knew, however, that next Saturday I probably wouldn't want to get out either, and by then my hair would resemble a porcupine who had stuck his paw in an electrical socket. So I forced myself to take a shower, put on my Tennessee Valley Railroad cap and headed to the salon. And as she has for over 15 years, Lola greeted me with a smile and walked me back to her chair and for the next half-hour or so, she dispensed her form of psychotherapy ... her sweet and tender psychotherapy by hair.

Weekends are extra rough for me ... they intensify the isolation I now feel, they quadruple the loneliness that pervades my heart, they remind me of how drastically I have changed over the last year and a half, they scream to me of relationships lost. Weekends are the times when the silence is most often overwhelming ... the silence in my home and the silence in my heart. Weekends are the days when I spend more time in bed than out, because if I'm asleep, I don't have to think or feel. But this morning ... this morning, I got dressed and I went to get my hair cut. This morning, I smiled as Lola talked. This morning, even if only for a few minutes ... this morning, my spirits were lifted by my hair-cutting psychotherapist ... my spirits were lifted by my friend.

My Answer

2012-01-26T16:27:00.000-08:00

Last night I posed a question to you that someone had posted as their Facebook status yesterday. The question is hypothetical in nature ... meaning that it is asking for an answer to a situation that is imaginary or not real. As far as I can determine, unless one plans to implement his or her own exit from this world, no one knows when the last day of his or her life will arrive. I completely agree with the words of my dear friend Cindy when she wrote, "We should live every day in hope of tomorrow." I also would postulate, however, that many of us would approach our final 24 hours in a different manner if we knew they were our last 24 hours. I requested that you comment on my blog with your answers, but as I suspected and anticipated, I got emails and private FB messages more than public comments. And some of the answers about your plans for your final day of life were ... well ... some of them were hilarious, some were tender and sweet, some were sorrowful and alluded to a life filled with regrets, some were secular, some were religious ... but all of them were ... well ... yours. So now ... here's my own answer to the hypothetical question ... if I knew that tomorrow was my last day of life, how would I live it out?

I'd get up early, really early, and I'd get on my knees by the side of my bed and pray that God would fill every nook and cranny of my being with His presence for the day ahead. I would pray that He would open my eyes and my heart ... that I would see and feel the miracles within each moment. I would eat six eggs for breakfast instead of two, and I would cook some for Julie and Ollie as well. I would tell those two furry friends of mine how much I loved them and how grateful I was for their unconditional loyalty and devotion. I would have a Starbucks venti cafe vanilla frappucino with extra, extra, extra whipped cream and thick, gooey caramel sauce. I would spend time with the people I love most in this world ... my kids. I would hug them and love them and laugh with them and wonder if the imprints of their beautiful smiles and their dancing eyes would go with me into eternity. I would call my brother and sister and my nieces and nephews and tell them I love them and that I wouldn't have chosen any other people to be my family even if I could have. I would look into the eyes of my dear friends and thank them for their faithfulness and love, and I would encourage them to treasure every second that God bestows upon them. I would have another Starbucks venti cafe vanilla frappucino with extra, extra, extra whipped cream and thick, gooey caramel sauce ... or five or 10. I would go for a long walk and soak in the beauty of God's creation. I would take Julie and Ollie for a swim in the creek, and I would wade in the water with my hounds. I would sing at the top of my lungs and not care who heard me. I would hug a stranger or two and feed someone who had no food. I would linger in God's Word and rest in His promises. As the sun dipped low in the sky, I would dance and dance and dance.

And just before the stroke of midnight, I would post my final entry to this blog and I would pen the following words ... the most important words ever written: "For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16

Just Wondering

2012-01-25T19:37:00.000-08:00

Tonight I think I'll change the way I normally post ... I read a status update on Facebook that made me wonder how my readers would answer the question that was posed there. So instead of me writing something, I'm simply going to ask the question of you. I'd love it if you would post your answers as comments to my blog, but I also know from past experience that most of you will choose to email or private message me. It would be cool, though, if you would share your answers with everyone instead of just with me. I know for a fact that many of you are much better writers than I am, and I'm sure that your answers would touch all of the folks who read this blog. And then maybe tomorrow night, I'll share my own answer with all of you.

So here's the question: If you knew that tomorrow was the last day of your life, how would you live it out?

Answer away, dudes and dudettes ... answer away.

Finding Wilson

2012-01-24T18:18:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite books of all time is the novel, Robinson Crusoe, the story of a man who is shipwrecked on an island where he lives for 28 years until he is finally rescued. There's a whole lot more to the story ... if you haven't read it, you should. I think perhaps my love of the tale of Robinson Crusoe explains in part why I fell in love with a movie that came out several years ago titled Cast Away starring Tom Hanks. I remember the Christmas Day when the kids and I first saw the movie in a theater with our friends Greg and Nancy. I also remember the emotion that swept over me when I saw the film, and I still tear up every time I watch it. It's been on TV a lot over the last week or so, and since I've spent a great deal of time on my couch for the last few days, I've watched the movie several times. And each time I do, I am struck by Wilson ... you know, the volleyball that Tom Hanks paints a face on ... a face painted in Tom's own blood ... an accidental injury that led to the creation of Wilson ... the volleyball turned friend that helps to keep Tom going during his lonely days on the island.

You see, while some would say that the character portrayed by Mr. Hanks descended into a state of madness in the way he communicated with Wilson, I would argue that the personification of the volleyball in fact kept him alive, gave him hope and helped him to find a way to escape the island. I sobbed right along with Mr. Hanks as I watched the movie last night ... the scene when Wilson falls into the sea and floats too far away to be rescued, man, it gets me every single time. There are so many life lessons in that film ... I could probably pen a hundred posts and not scratch the surface of all the underlying meanings. But last night, one in particular kept pounding in my brain as I lay stretched out on my couch. People need relationships. And if a person finds himself on a deserted island with no human contact, that person will create someone to love, someone to care for, someone to communicate with. As I watched last night, I wondered what course the movie would have taken had Mr. Hanks not found Wilson, had he been forced to endure his time on the island completely and totally alone.

When I turned off the television and headed toward my room to get ready for bed, I heard myself conversing with Julie and Ollie in much the same manner that Tom Hanks had conversed with Wilson. I heard myself asking them questions and pausing as if I were listening for their answers. As I asked them if they wanted a piece of cheese before we turned in and they both went flying into the kitchen, a thought crashed into my mind much like the waves had crashed into the shore in the movie I had just watched. These two dogs are my Wilsons ... they are my Wilsons on this deserted island that is my current dwelling place. They are my constant companions, my listening ears, my loyal and faithful Wilsons. I remember when the trailers for Cast Away first appeared on television, I thought the filmmakers had misspelled the title. I thought it should have been a noun, the person on the island, a castaway. I didn't understand until I watched the movie that using two words rather than one carried with it a wealth of meaning and purpose.

Yes, Mr. Hanks was a castaway ... a man who survived a crash and was living alone on a deserted island. But he was also cast away ... torn away from his normal existence and thrown into a place he had never been before. And here's the thing ... when he left the island, he left a changed man, a different man, a better man than he was before that fateful night that seemed in every way to be the end of his world. You see, when he returned to the life he had known before, he understood how it felt to be alone ... he understood how it felt to be hungry and thirsty ... he understood how it felt to be sick and injured ... he understood the need for relationships ... he understood the meaning and the brevity of life in a whole new way. The island ... the deserted, harsh, lonely, isolated island ... changed him in ways he could never imagine possible while he was stranded.

So here's to enduring the island ... here's to finding Wilsons ... here's to seeking rescue ... for all who are castaways ... for all who are cast away. God is still God when the waters rage and the winds howl. God is still God when life comes crashing down around us. God is still God when the darkness is deep. God is still God on every island in every sea. God. Is. Still. God.

Calf Licking

2012-01-21T05:31:00.000-08:00

Though it was my mom who is most remembered in our family for some of her unusual sayings, there were also some that my dad was well-known for speaking as well. And one of those I remember most distinctly is when he would say to me, "Sam, you've got to lick that calf over again." I have no idea why Daddy called me Sam, but he did just that throughout my whole life. Nothing in my name even remotely resembles the name Sam, but that's what Daddy called me ... even when he was afflicted with Alzheimer's, Daddy called me Sam. It didn't take me long to understand, however, what Daddy meant when he told me to lick my calf over again. The phrase meant that the task I had just performed wasn't done correctly or didn't meet his expectations, and I had to do it all over again. And yes, you can rest assured that I heard those words from my dad many, many times because getting things right the first time has never been one of my strongest abilities.

I still have a bit of curiosity left in my tired and weary brain, so at 3:00 a.m. this morning, I was reading about the origin of Daddy's phrase and what it meant. I discovered that it's very much a Southern expression, and more specifically (though not surprisingly), one that is often used among dairy farmers. The expression is derived from watching mother cows lick their newborn calves in order to remove the membrane that covers them when they are born. More often than not, it takes several "lickings" for the mama cow to get her baby cow clean and ready to experience the world. Sounds pretty gross to me, and definitely something I never want to witness in person. But more than one of the explanations I read on the meaning of the phrase said something like this ... "This expression is often used in reference to completing a task that is disagreeable in nature or execution, but one that is required to be performed because of honor or duty." Hmmm ... there's depth and meaning and teaching in that definition, which means that all those times my dad instructed me to "lick that calf over again," he was teaching me a lesson and imparting a deep truth to me. A lesson and a truth that has revealed itself to me all these years later ... in a big, huge, gigantic way.

Those of you who read this blog know that I've been sinking further into the darkness that's surrounded me for the last year or so. I've tried to be open and honest in my posts about the battles that accompany both diabetes and depression, sometimes receiving strong and loving encouragement from my readers and sometimes being blasted with hateful words and harsh judgments. I've attempted to share my journey because it may help someone else who's in the same place, because it seems to help to put the thoughts that torture my mind into words, because there are days when it's what keeps me real, when it's what keeps me breathing. So in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent ... I'm going to attempt to lick my calf over again, one more time. I went back to the doctor last week for the first time in a long time, accompanied by a friend who for some reason hasn't given up on me even though I've been nothing but a thorn in her heart since the moment we became friends.

My doctor has added two new medications to the plethora of pills I'm already taking, and I've struggled for the last couple of days with finding the strength and the courage to take them. I decided to wait until today to start the new meds because they can have some pretty intense side effects, including some that are very frightening, and I wanted to be home rather than at work in case they wreak havoc on my already worn out body and mind. I know how tired I am, physically, mentally and emotionally, and I know that these drugs need to work ... these drugs have to work. So ... I'm signing off to eat some breakfast and take the pills. I'm signing off to try one more time to lick my calf over again. I'm signing off to try to complete a task that is disagreeable in nature or execution, but one that is required to be performed because of honor or duty.

I know that many of you already do, and I know how hard the following words are for me to pen ... I could use some prayers from you, friends ... prayers for me physically as I take the new medications, prayers for my state of mind, prayers for my aching heart. I have a granddaughter who is due to enter the world any day now, and I would really like to have the chance to meet her, to hold her, to love her. Thank you to each one of you ... may God's peace cover your hearts and minds today, may you soak your souls in His love, may you treasure His grace and mercy with every fiber of your being.

"Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage; yes, wait for the Lord." Psalm 27: 14.

Help me to wait upon You, Lord ... please, oh, please give my body strength and fill my heart with courage ... I'm tired and I'm weak, God ... help me to wait upon You.

Choice Words

2012-01-18T20:07:00.000-08:00

Today my oldest son Matt presented and defended his dissertation for his Ph.D. And after his presentation and the questioning session by a panel of professors, Matt was told that it is now official ... he is a doctor of marriage and family therapy. He still has some counseling hours to finish up, and then he will attend the graduation ceremony in May and receive his diploma. Oh, and by the way, the illustrious Ph.D.s on the panel told Matt today that his dissertation, his presentation of it, and his defense of his research was among the best they had ever read and heard. And one more bit of motherly bragging ... my Mattie had a perfect 4.0 all the way through both his master's and Ph.D. programs ... that's impressive by anyone's standards.

I had thought about Matt all morning and prayed for him to be calm and hold himself together under the pressure and not faint ... oh wait, that's when he sees blood, not when he's nervous. It was just before noon when I received a text message from him that said, "I'm a Dr." Tears rolled down my cheeks when I read his words ... his three simple yet packed with emotion and meaning words. I've always said that Matt was a man of few words, but when he speaks, his words more often than not resound with depth and meaning. He's a deep thinker, my Matt ... a very deep thinker. I'm sure that when he sent me the text today, he knew that I would immediately know and understand the unwritten meaning behind his words. And I'm sure that he chose those three small words after thinking for a while before he tapped them into his phone. You see, Matt and I know that life was tough for him growing up ... Matt and I know the road he traveled to reach today's big event ... Matt and I know ... my son and I know.

Matt could have chosen from a plethora of words to tell me his news today, but he chose his words carefully and he chose to use only three. Three choice words that spoke volumes and volumes to me, three choice words that let me know that everything that led up to today in my son's life was worth it all. He called me later in the afternoon to tell me all the details, and I sat at my desk at work and sobbed as I tried to tell him how proud I am of him, as I tried to tell him that I know more than anyone what he overcame to reach today's milestone, as I tried to tell him how much I love him. When I told Matt how smart I think he is, he said something that has pounded in my mind all afternoon and evening. He said, "I'm not any smarter than anyone else, it's all about hard work and determination and not giving up. You taught me that, Mom ... you taught me to work hard and never give up because that's what you always did, you worked hard and never gave up."

I don't know why it still surprises me when God chooses to speak to me so directly through the words of others, but my tears fell like rain as my son's words pierced to the very core of my being. So very many days now, I am ready to give up, to throw in the towel and give up the fight ... so very many days. Two friends sent me emails today about not giving up, about taking one day at a time, about not being alone in the fight. I think God wants me to listen, friends ... I think maybe He's sending me a message ... "I'm a Dr."

Pressure Cooker

2012-01-16T19:08:00.000-08:00

My mom inherited my grandmother's old-fashioned pressure cooker, and if I close my eyes, I can still picture that big old silver pot with the little cylinder on top perched on the stove in Mom's kitchen. I can't remember what Mom cooked in the pressure cooker, but I do remember the noise that crazy pot would make as it heated up. The little cylinder thingy on the top would shake and rattle and whistle, and I always thought the whole thing was going to explode. And being the weirdo that I am, I remember wondering what was going on with the food inside the pressure cooker. I remember thinking that it must have been quite uncomfortable for the items inside the pot being exposed to all that heat and pressure. Yes, I know ... the things I think frighten me sometimes, too.

Some days, I feel like I'm inside one of those old-fashioned pressure cookers, just waiting for the heat to get so intense that the lid blows off and I explode into a million little pieces. Today was one of those days ... two big projects on my desk when I sat down this morning, an enormous project with a tight deadline that took six hours to complete that I received right before lunch, 20 or so smaller projects that had to be done in the midst of the giant project, cranky and demanding people who thought their work should take precedence over anything else on my desk, three huge projects that I left on my desk tonight when I simply couldn't edit one more word and finally called it a day. A pressure cooker kind of day in the truest sense, and tomorrow promises to be another one as well.

So tonight, I've got no stories to tell, no lessons to share, no feelings to convey. I'm just tired, tired, tired ... physically and mentally. I've been asleep on the couch for the last two hours, and now I'm going to take a hot bath and go to bed. At least I think I am ... it's stinking thundering and lightning outside, and you all know how much I detest storms. Fitting, I suppose, considering the kind of day it's been. And tomorrow, I get to do it all over again.

Good night ... sleep tight, and try to keep your lids on.

Warming the Bench

2012-01-15T18:02:00.000-08:00

My favorite part of the week used to be the weekend ... I would look forward to Friday all week in anticipation of Saturday and Sunday. I had a routine for most of those weekends, a routine that much of the time involved shopping and cleaning and playing and walking and worshiping and serving. The only time I really varied from that routine was when I was traveling or speaking. My speaking schedule is always light from mid-December through February, partly because I try not to schedule many things during those months to give myself a break and partly because women's groups tend to plan their bigger events from March through mid-November. The last couple of months, though, there's been a big shift in my weekend routine ... I've been stopping at the grocery store on Friday evening as I head home from work and then I stay in as much as I can for the duration of the weekend. I get up on Saturday and feed the dogs and eat breakfast, do my laundry, try to make myself stay up until lunchtime, eat lunch, go to bed for the afternoon, get up and feed the dogs, eat dinner, stay up for a couple of hours to write a post for this blog, take a hot bath, and then go back to bed. I don't talk to anyone, I only leave the house if I absolutely have to, and I haven't even been taking Ollie the wiener dog for walks on the trail ... I think maybe I'm getting old, friends.

The winter in Kansas City this year has been very mild, and today was another clear blue sky, sunny, warm day with the temperature climbing to almost 60. I think Julie and Ollie got together this morning and collaborated on their plan of attack to get me outside, because while I was trying to eat lunch, they took turns climbing in my lap, pawing and licking me, and then running to the back door wagging their tails and barking. When I tried to get them to climb into bed with me and take a nap, they would have no part of it whatsoever. They continued their barking and combined their noise with racing back and forth through the house and jumping on and off my bed (and on top of me every time they would pounce on the bed). I finally gave in to their demands and got dressed and took them out into the yard to toss the Frisbee for Julie for a while. When she got tired and was ready to go inside, Ollie was just getting started and ran from me each time I tried to head him toward the door ... until I asked if he wanted to go for a walk. Then he came flying, wiener dog ears flapping in the wind, turning circles in the garage when I reached for his harness and leash.

Ollie was beyond thrilled to be out on the trail, and I didn't have much choice but to let him set our pace ... fast ... he was ready to rock and roll as soon as we left the garage. I haven't been walking as much as I used to, so by the time Ollie and I made our way toward home, I was tired and winded from trying to keep up with the wild wiener dog who was dragging me behind him. As we came upon the bench that sits along the trail next to the creek, I bent over and scooped Ollie into my arms telling him that we were going to sit and rest for a bit. He must have sensed that I needed to take a break because he sat patiently in my lap, occasionally turning around to lick my chin. Since it was such a nice day, there were a lot of people on the trail, and Ollie and I watched as several people rode, jogged or walked by. When a gal that I met on the trail back when J.R. and I would walk together said something to me, I was forced to acknowledge that God still lives on my trail ... even when I'm not on it, He still lives there.

"What are you doing sitting on the bench, girl? I don't know that I've ever seen you sitting ... you are always walking, not sitting on the sidelines. Your blood sugar OK?" I waved and assured her that I was fine, just tired and taking a break. As I sat there rubbing Ollie's back, I thought about what the woman had said to me about sitting on the sidelines ... I began to think about warming the bench. Remember a couple of posts ago when I wrote about all the sports I used to play? Well, here's the thing ... I was a good athlete, very good, in fact, and I rarely had to sit on the bench. When I did have to sit out of a game, it was usually because of my attitude and not my ability. The gal was correct in her assessment ... I've never been one to sit on the sidelines, to sit on a bench and watch other people play. And yet, here I am, on a bench, not playing in the game ... heck, I don't even know where the game is anymore.

Standing up to walk home, a prayer filled my heart and spilled from my lips as quickly as the tears poured from my eyes. I'm stuck on the bench, God ... no matter what I do or how hard I try, I can't find my way off the bench and back into the game. I'm tired of warming the bench, Lord, so very tired of warming the bench. As Ollie and I crossed the street to head to our house, I could feel God's arms of love around my aching heart ... I could hear His words of compassion in my soul ... I could sense His protection over my wounded mind.

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name. Great is our Lord and mighty in power; His understanding has no limit." Psalm 147: 4-5.

Come What May

2012-01-14T19:46:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe that it has been nine years since my oldest son Matt moved out of my house to a small town two hours away to attend college. I well remember that day, and the drive home after unloading his things from my car and kissing him goodbye. That two-hour drive felt like a cross-country road trip, and I sobbed like a baby with every passing mile. The tears flowed when Brad and Meghann moved out as well, but the pain when my first child left was different somehow, perhaps because he was the first ... the first to be born, the first to say, "I love you, Mommie," the first to go to school, the first to date, the first to graduate (and also the last as it turns out), the first to get married ... he was the first, and it was hard to let him go. But ... I am so very proud of the man my son has become and all that he has accomplished over the last nine years.

Matt is on the final leg of his quest for his Ph.D. in marriage and family therapy ... he will defend his dissertation next week, and he will graduate in May. He has focused a good part of his work on the research side of therapy, and he hopes to become a professor. He has spent the last couple of months sending resumes and attending meet and greet conferences in various parts of the country. He has been fortunate that the school he is attending has paid to send him to the conferences to present some of the work he has done, so he's been able to network without having to pay a penny for those opportunities. Last week my daughter-in-law sent me a text that read, "Matt has an interview at a university in San Diego in March." As much as I want my son to find the job of his dreams in a place where he can use that smart brain of his to the fullest, as soon as I read Becca's words, tears filled my eyes and before I knew it, I was sobbing my heart out. And when I received a text from Matt a couple of days later saying that he had just finished an interview via Skype with a university in Utah, the tears returned and once again, I cried and cried and cried.

Though my son has been telling me for a couple of years that he would need to move in order to get the type of teaching position he desired, I think I've been in denial about the day when he would actually move far away. But now that he is almost finished with his degree and the interviews are beginning, it's becoming more real to me every day ... Matt and his little family are leaving ... his little family ... now it's not just my son who's moving, it's my son and daughter-in-law and soon to arrive granddaughter. As I thought today about how fast May will come, I couldn't help but think that for over 27 years, all three of my children have lived either with me or within a two-hour drive away. And I've taken that for granted, the close proximity of my kids. Just like so many other things in my life, I haven't fully appreciated their geographical nearness until I am now faced with one of them moving far away.

I left Tennessee over 23 years ago, and I never really thought much about how my move must have impacted my mom. She was in her late 60s when my ex-husband's job caused us to move to south Florida, and my dad had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson's and Alzheimer's diseases. If ever my mom needed me to live nearby, it was then. And yet, not one time do I remember Mom begging me to stay or making me feel guilty for leaving or ever letting me see her sadness over my departure. She knew that I had to go, and she supported me even though I know it must have broken her sweet old heart to watch me leave. Mom never once told me she was afraid or lonely, but not long ago, I found a poem tucked inside of her well-worn Bible ... a poem titled, "A Prayer for Those Who Live Alone." A poem that caused my tears to fall like rain ... a poem that spoke volumes to me about my mom ... a mom who stood behind me even when I was far away, even when she was frightened and alone. Come what may, Mom wanted what was best for me ... always what was best for me.

The more I think about Mom and how she must have felt when I moved away from her and the more I think about Matt moving away soon, the more I've begun to think about how God must feel when I move away from Him, when the distance between us becomes so great, when the choices I make take me so far away from my heavenly Father. Though He may be frightened for my outcome, though He longs for me to return, He stands behind me ... loving me, calling me, missing me, waiting for me. You see, come what may, He loves me and He wants what is best for me ... always what is best for me.

May is coming soon, Dr. Mattie ... go get 'em, son, go get all those dreams in your heart ... go get 'em and always know that I love you ... always know how very much I love you.

Game Over

2012-01-12T19:47:00.000-08:00

I've never cared much for watching sports on television, except for tennis ... I could watch tennis for hours. And I suppose I did watch a lot of Atlanta Braves baseball with my dad when I was young, but that was because Daddy loved the Braves and I loved Daddy. I have, however, always enjoyed playing sports, especially tennis. But I also played basketball and softball, and even my fair share of neighborhood football, too. And there was one thing I could always count on when I played sports ... eventually the game would end and invariably someone would shout, "Game over!" We might have played extra innings or tie-breakers or overtime, but the games never lasted past a certain amount of time. Sooner or later, there were winners and losers, and the game was over.

For those of you who've been following my blog recently, you've read about the anonymous person who was leaving numbers comments each time I posted an entry. And you've read about some of the irrational thoughts that were running through my mind regarding what those numbers could possibly mean. Yesterday, I figured it out ... the numbers corresponded to the number of ellipses in my posts. So today, I've wondered all day about the reason the anonymous commenter began counting how many times I used my three little dot dot dots. Perhaps he or she hates ellipses or he or she is bored and needed a diversion or he or she simply wanted to witness my irrational thinking in full bloom. Whatever the reason, now that I've guessed the significance of the numbers, it's game over.

I think life is a lot like a sporting event ... sometimes I win, sometimes I lose, and one day, the game most certainly will be over. The older I get, the more thankful I am that I don't have to worry about my stats or my batting average or my point percentage with God. He doesn't keep score of how many times I win or lose ... He cares about what's inside my heart while I play.

You've proven yourself to be a worthy player, Anonymous ... a worthy player, indeed.

Zombie Land

2012-01-11T17:19:00.000-08:00

There was a time when Matt and Brad and Meghann were teenagers when evil took up residence in my house. I'm not talking about their teenage behavior, though I'm sure there are many parents who would readily agree that evil is indeed a fitting term for the things teenagers do and say from time to time. Rather, the evil I'm referring to was a game, a video game to be precise, aptly named Resident Evil. I have no idea why, but my sons went crazy over that game, totally and completely crazy. They would invite their friends over, turn off all the lights to "make it scarier," and play the game for hours and hours. And when everyone would leave for the night, Matt and Brad would sleep in the same room together because they were afraid that zombies would come and try to kill them in the night. Now that I think about it, perhaps my sons inherited more than just a touch of my penchant for irrational thinking. Each time a new iteration of the game hit the shelves, Meghann and I would shake our heads in wonder as the boys would rush to the store to buy the newest version in hopes that it would be scarier than the previous one.

I never quite understood my sons' fascination with all things zombie, but it doesn't surprise me at all that they are now both smitten with the television series The Walking Dead. The show tells the story of a small group of survivors living in the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse. Most of the story takes place in the Atlanta metropolitan area as the main characters search for a new home away from the shuffling hoards of the undead, or "walkers" as they are called by the survivors. The plot is focused primarily on the human element of a post-apocalyptic world and the way the struggling humans manage to survive. As their situation grows more hazardous, the desperation of the group of survivors pushes them to the brink of insanity. The show has been a tremendous hit with television audiences, and the network recently announced that it would be returning for yet another season.

When Matt first told me I should watch the zombie-filled show, I laughed and asked him if he was crazy. My son knows me well enough to know that horror movies, blood and guts flicks, and certainly gross-looking zombies on a television show have never been my cup of tea. But when I was home for 10 days over the holidays and barely left my house, I decided to get online and watch the show that my sons declared to be "one of the best ever." And I will admit that I was hooked after the first couple of episodes. Yes, I will say it publicly ... my name is Terrie, and I like to watch The Walking Dead. Perhaps because I know my sons love the show is part of the reason I enjoy it, or perhaps because it's set in Atlanta which is just a few hours south of where I grew up, or perhaps because it's a story of human survival against pretty harsh odds. And perhaps, just perhaps, it is because it's based on some completely irrational thinking (and you all know that I can easily identify with completely irrational thinking). I mean, really, dead people who walk around and take over big cities like Atlanta?

As I snuggled in my bed watching hours and hours of The Walking Dead, I couldn't help but feel for the poor zombie guys and gals. They shuffle through their days as if they are alive, but in reality, they are just dead bodies. They appear to be living, minus the gaping holes in their faces of course, but they aren't ... they're zombies. All they do is wander from place to place scaring everyone they come in contact with, or worse yet, doing some serious harm to anyone who is unlucky enough to cross their path. The longer I watched the show, the more I thought about how many days I wander through life now, how often I reside in zombie land, appearing on the outside to be alive while the inside of me is a zombie. A zombie that frightens others, a zombie that hurts those around me. And the more I thought about life in zombie land, the more one fear swept through me. You see, on the show, there is no cure for being a zombie ... once a zombie, always a zombie. And the more I thought about there being no hope for all the zombies of the world, the more God brought a lesson from His Word pounding into my mind. There's a verse in the recounting of the story of the prodigal son, a verse about being rescued from zombie land.

"For this son of mine was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found." Luke 15: 24

4 ... I win.

Rationally Speaking

2012-01-10T17:26:00.000-08:00

When I was a kid, I had migraine headaches ... really bad migraine headaches. I vividly remember writhing in my bed while Mom would alternate between placing ice packs around my head and pressing encyclopedias against my throbbing skull. And no, she wasn't hoping I would absorb some knowledge from the books ... the weight of them helped to equalize the pressure inside of my head ... I know it sounds weird, but it helped to ease the pain ... no, really, it did. Those headaches coupled with my ... um ... my ... um ... less than stellar behavior when I was in elementary school eventually led to all kinds of appointments with several types of doctors. Translated ... first, they thought I had a brain tumor and then they thought I was crazy. It turned out that neither of those supposed culprits were the cause of my headaches or my mischievous actions ... food allergies were triggering the headaches, and my acting out was caused by boredom because I wasn't being challenged enough in school. Once the offending foods were removed from my diet and I was given extra reading and special projects at school, I stopped getting headaches, stopped getting into trouble all the time, and started growing and learning. Well, at least until I hit high school anyway and then I managed to find my fair share of trouble once again.

I hadn't thought about the "headache" years of my life for a while, for a really long while in fact. And then in 2010, one of the doctors I was seeing when I was struggling to get enough liquid into my body asked me if I had ever taken an IQ test. My mind immediately raced back to those troubled days of my childhood as I thought about the psychologist my parents had taken me to see ... I could remember the smell of his office, the room I took the tests in, my smart-alecky answers to his questions. When my new doctor asked me if I would be willing to take the tests again as an adult, I felt very much like I did as a child ... tense, apprehensive, fearful of failure. I finally agreed, and was pleasantly surprised to find out that I scored a bit higher on the tests the second time around. Hopefully, that means that I've learned a thing or two on my journey over the last 50 plus years.

Since I now have paperwork that says I'm smarter than the average bear, it puzzles me greatly as to how my thinking can slip so quickly from a rational cognitive state into one of paranoia and irrationality. Case in point ... my basement adventure of a couple of weeks ago, remember? Yep, the one that had me convinced that the house was going to cave in or explode and kill my dogs while I was at work because of a leaky wall and cracks in the concrete floor. Which, I've been assured by three different contractors by the way, will not happen. And said leak is hopefully going to be taken care of by the regrading of a small section of my front yard and some new guttering. But back to my puzzlement over how rapidly I made the descent into irrationality concerning my house issues ... I've lived in this house for over 10 years, and my basement has leaked for a while. Never before did I cross from being a sane woman to an insane one ... in fact, I have always tended to fall on the other side of home and auto repair ... if you ignore a problem long enough, it will go away on its own. And yet, I'm willing to admit that I became totally irrational a couple of weeks ago concerning my house ... I mean, come on, friends ... I was out in my garage in the middle of the night looking at cracks and wondering if I should park my car on the driveway. In anyone's book, that's not what's called rational behavior.

So in the wee hours of this morning when I woke up thinking about the number comments that have been left on my last six blog posts, my thoughts once again quickly descended into the realm of irrationality. From thinking that the numbers are some sort of coded message to me to wondering if they are the winning lottery numbers to contemplating if they are Bible references to being certain that they signify the day and time that I'm going to die ... well, you get it ... my thinking about the numbers has covered a huge gamut of completely irrational thinking. I even managed to lure one of my co-workers into my whole conspiracy theorizing today and she was Googling the numbers to try to find out what they mean. And even after the Web guru in our office told me that it was probably a bot-generated commenting process, I remain convinced tonight that I need to hire a private detective to discover the meaning behind the random numbers. Or ... or ... or ... Monk from TV ... he could surely get to the bottom of the mystery and put my mind at ease.

I read something this morning about being irrational, and I've been thinking about it all day. "The person indulging in the irrational thinking does not have a clue as to why he or she is behaving or thinking in this way. In fact, they do not think of their thinking as irrational at all even though they cannot explain the logical rationale for their behavior." I've said recently to friends that I can't explain or understand some of the illogical and irrational thinking or behavior that washes over me from time to time now ... like when I break out in a cold sweat and my heart almost beats out of my chest when I even think about going to the doctor and I tell myself that the fear I have is perfectly normal. Or when I creep around my basement in the middle of the night touching the walls to see if they are bowing or crumbling. Or when I actually consider calling in a super sleuth to tell me what a bunch of random numbers mean. But ... but ... but ... in my own defense, the second part of that quote doesn't apply to me at all ... I know and willingly recognize that my thinking is irrational. Therefore, I think that means that I'm not as irrational as I think I am. Rationally speaking, of course, friends ... rationally speaking.

I Give Up ... What?

2012-01-09T17:25:00.000-08:00

Those of you who are parents of grown children will fully understand this statement ... there are things your kiddos did when they were young that you simply never forget. Even when my dad was deep in the throes of Alzheimer's and didn't know my name, he would sometimes look at me and say, "You're the little girl who dropped the roast beef in the bed of my truck and it slid under the lawn mower. You scooped it up and let the men at church eat it anyway." Long story worthy of its own post one day, but that was indeed me and Daddy never forgot my roast beef/truck/lawn mower escapade. Lately, I've had times when I feel like my own mind is evaporating right before my eyes, but I, too, have things about my children I believe I will always remember. Like Meghann and her "night-night" blanket that she carried until it was in pieces. I can still see her when she was a little girl, dragging that blanket everywhere she went ... I can still hear her screaming for her "night-night" when she misplaced it somewhere. Or like Matt and his total infatuation with the television series Dawson's Creek. I will never forget the week before we moved from the house we lived in when I was married ... Brad and Meghann were at church camp and Matt and I would pack each evening when I got home from work and then sit in the dark in the family room eating little containers of ice cream with plastic spoons while we watched Dawson's Creek. And then there's a memory I have of Brad asking me over and over and over ... "Hey, Mom, guess what?" For years, almost daily, and always randomly, Brad would utter those words and I would wonder how or why I was expected to be able to read my son's mind and determine just what it was I was supposed to guess. Sometimes I would quip back a nonsensical response to my beloved middle child, but more often than not, I would respond by saying, "I give up, Bradley ... what?"

In thinking about all the times Brad asked me the "guess what" question, I've come to realize that I usually gave up too soon in trying to guess what my son was thinking. I was a single mom raising three children on my own, and quite honestly, a lot of the time I was plain old tired and worn out. In the first few years following my divorce, there were times when I worked three jobs to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. I was physically exhausted and emotionally and mentally drained from the stress of trying to make ends meet, take care of all the kids' needs, and deal with a not-so-nice ex-husband. But if I could turn back time, I would have stopped what I was doing and sat down and played the "guess what" game with Brad ... I wouldn't have been so quick to say, "I give up" ... I would have taken more time to try and figure out what was going on in his clever young brain. In fact, if I could turn back time, I would have spent more time with each of my three children ... more time playing, more time listening, more time loving. Oh, I know that I probably did the best I could do at the time, but there are some things I wish I wouldn't have given up on quite so easily, some things I wish I would have fought harder not to let go of ... things like playing and listening and loving.

I've had the whole "I give up" thing on my mind for a while for several reasons, and this morning as I drove to work, I noticed a personalized license plate on a car in front of me that read, "IGIVUP." Talk about God getting my attention ... good grief! My curiosity as to what type of person would put that phrase on their car tag got the best of me, and I swung into the lane next to the car and sped up to get a look at who was driving. In my mind, I thought I would see a grumpy-looking, hunched-over, wrinkled, old woman ... maybe like the Maxine character from Hallmark. Instead, as I glanced over to take a peek at the driver, I was surprised to see a well-dressed businessman who looked to be in his late 30s ... a nice-looking, sharply attired, young man ... not at all whom I expected. All day I've wondered about the young man and the words on his license plate ... all day I've wondered about him and if indeed he had given up, and if so, just what he had given up on.

The more I've thought about the young man today, the more I've wondered just how many people are ready to give up ... people who are tired, who are lonely, who are sad, who are homeless, who are sick. And the more I've thought about those folks, the more I've realized how many times I don't take the time to not just try and guess what is going on in their hearts and minds and lives, but to slow down and truly connect with them ... to slow down and offer them hope ... to slow down and listen to them ... to slow down and encourage them to hang in there for one more day. Just like I drove past the young man in his car today, so often I offer only a passing glance to those whom I know must be ready to utter the words, "I give up." And the more all of those thoughts have coursed through my mind, the more I've thought about how easy it is to do ... to give up and not even attempt to answer the "guess what" questions of life any longer.

So to the young man in the car this morning ... though you will never know it, God used you to make this old gray-haired gal think about some tough things, and I prayed for you today. Though I don't know the details of your life, I understand about giving up. To my Bradley ... if I could do it over, son, I would offer up a guess every single time you asked. And to the anonymous person who is leaving random number comments on my posts ... sorry, but I give up ... what?

A Sling and a Stone

2012-01-08T17:24:00.000-08:00

When my sons were young, my sister gave each of them a slingshot ... you know the kind, the Y-shaped piece of wood with a strong rubber band and a little pouch to hold the rock. She also gave them a target to pin onto a tree so they could play with their slingshots without breaking out a window or aiming for each other ... in theory that was her idea anyway. But boys will be boys, and without fail, each time Matt and Brad would head out into the back yard for slingshot target practice, it wouldn't take long until they would begin stretching the rubber bands on those pieces of wood and popping each other with stones. And without fail, I would take the slingshots away from them and tell them they couldn't have them back until they learned and understood that they absolutely could not shoot at each other. And also without fail, the boys would beg to be given another chance and every single time I gave the slingshots back to them, they would inevitably end up firing away at each other and lose their slingshot privileges once again. I suppose that's the nature of all of us in some way ... to repeat our mistakes over and over and over and fail to learn a lesson that should be so easy to comprehend.

One of my favorite Bible stories is that of David and Goliath, perhaps because it's a story where the underdog wins. The account of the battle between the two men is found in 1 Samuel 17. Saul and his army of Israelites are facing the Philistines at the Valley of Elah. Twice a day for 40 days, Goliath, the champion of the Philistine army, comes out of his tent, walks between the lines of the two armies and challenges the Israelites to send forth a champion of their own to fight him and allow the battle to be decided based on the outcome of the fight between the two. Saul and all of his men were afraid of Goliath ... enter David, the young shepherd boy who has brought food for his older brothers who are soldiers. David accepts the challenge issued by Goliath, but he turns down Saul's offer to wear the king's armor and approaches Goliath with a sling and five smooth stones he chooses from a brook. The rest of the story is ... well ... it's history. David hurls one of the stones from his sling, smacks Goliath in the head and kills him.

There are so many lessons in the story of David and Goliath, too many to list them all in this post. But as I read the story aloud to Ollie as we sat on a bench on the side of the trail yesterday afternoon, a couple that I've never thought about before came to my mind. Unlike my sons all those years ago, David didn't turn his sling against his brothers ... not against his biological brothers or against his fellow Israelites. He threw the stone against the enemy, against the giant who had terrified even the king. He didn't laugh at the soldiers for their fear or belittle their inability to win the battle or scorn them for the length of time they had been stuck in the war zone. He stepped up and helped ... he volunteered to fight the giant ... he threw the stone against the enemy ... against the giant who had terrified even the king. And here's the other thing ... David wasn't afraid of Goliath's size or swagger or stinging insults ... this little shepherd kid wasn't afraid of the giant champion of war because he knew that the battle belonged to God and his job was to help his brothers, to do what they could not, to sling the stone toward the giant.

As Ollie and I walked home, I couldn't help but think once again about my boys and their slingshots, and about the way they would always shoot at each other. I also thought about how upset I would get with them about it, about how much it scared me that one of them would seriously wound the other, about how frustrated it would make me that they didn't obey me. As those thoughts washed through my mind, I began to think about how God must feel when we hurl stones against our brothers and sisters in the Lord ... stones of discouragement, stones of judgment, stones of gossip, stones of despair, stones of fear, stones of criticism. I wondered how it must hurt His heart when we don't step up to help one another, when we aren't willing to fight the giants that threaten to overtake our fellow soldiers, when we fail to recognize that the battle belongs to God and our job ... our job is to sling the stone.

"Then David said to the Philistine, 'You come to me with a sword, a spear, and a javelin, but I come to you in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have taunted. This day the Lord will deliver you up into my hands, and I will strike you down and remove your head from you. And I will give the dead bodies of the army of the Philistines this day to the birds of the sky and the wild beasts of the earth, that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel, and that all this assembly may know that the Lord does not deliver by sword or spear; for the battle is the Lord's and He will give you into our hands.'" 1 Samuel 17: 45-47.

Out of Season

2012-01-07T20:12:00.000-08:00

When my son Brad was in high school, he had a friend who loved to hunt and did so quite often with his father. It wasn't long into their friendship that Rick convinced Brad to go hunting with him and his dad one weekend. Brad has always been my outdoorsy kiddo, so he readily accepted the invitation and left the house at 3:00 a.m. to meet up with Rick and his father. When he returned home late in the afternoon, Brad announced that he was going to learn to hunt ... rather surprising to me since Brad has always been a huge animal lover, but he assured me that any hunting he did would be for food and not for sport. Over the next few months, he began to accumulate all the gear he needed to become a hunter, including purchasing a shotgun, which, I might add, did not make me extremely happy.

I'm not sure how many times Brad has gone hunting, but I am sure that he has never killed any creature ... not one ... not a single one. I've often wondered when Brad would tell me story after story about another one that got away if the real truth was that he simply did not want to shoot an animal ... he just wanted the camaraderie of being with the guys in the great outdoors. One thing I distinctly remember from Brad's hunting days is that there were different times of the year when it was legal to hunt certain animals. There was quail season, deer season, turkey season, and so on. Though I didn't understand all the particulars of the rules and regulations involved, I knew that Brad would purchase certain licenses to hunt certain animals at certain times of the year.

As is true for much of the United States, it has been unseasonably warm in Kansas City this winter ... a few days ago, the temps were in the upper 60s. It's not uncommon for us to be buried in snow at this time of the year, and yet, I saw folks outside last week in shorts and t-shirts. Each evening when I leave work, I drive under a large concrete overpass that in the spring and fall is a perch for literally hundreds of birds. As I drive out on the other side of the overpass, there is a series of power lines that criss-cross the street I'm driving on and the one that intersects it, and again, in the spring and fall those lines are filled with chirping, fluttering birds. Last week, however, each night when I drove home, I noticed that both the overpass and the power lines were covered with birds ... in January. On Friday evening as I waited for the traffic light to change from red to green, I couldn't help but focus my attention on all the birds that were perched on the power lines ... there were so many I could barely see the lines that were holding them. Those crazy birds are confused by this warm weather, I thought ... they don't know where they are supposed to be because it's so warm ... they should have flown south by now ... it's the wrong season for birds on a wire ... birds on a wire are out of season in Kansas in January.

I haven't been able to get those birds out of my mind, and those of you who read this blog regularly know why that is ... God has a lesson He wants me to learn. The more I've thought about the birds, the more I've thought about the season of life I have found myself in for the last year. Just as the birds are confused by the unusually warm temperatures, just as they haven't been able to fly south as they should have by this time of year, just as their internal compasses are askew ... I'm just like those birds. I'm confused by the failure of this season to change ... my inability to fly where I know I should be flying is frustrating and maddening to me ... and many days I feel as though my internal compass is broken beyond repair. Even as I type those words, I also know to the core of my being that I have a Father who is watching over me, a Father who loves me no matter what season of life I am in, a Father who is faithful ... always faithful ... to complete the work He began in me. The prayer of my heart is that I will hold on to His promises and cling to the truth of His Word ... that I will be faithful to Him as He is faithful to me.

"Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." Philippians 1:6

The End of the Line

2011-12-30T19:45:00.000-08:00

For all the years I lived in Tennessee and for all the years my dad worked for Southern Railway, I had never visited the Tennessee Valley Railroad Museum. Oh, I had plenty of train exposure, including going to work at the railyard with Daddy more times than I can count, riding the train to visit my Granny in Kentucky, and having my own model trains that I would set up in the den of Mom and Dad's house. My dad used to say that a love for trains gets in a person's blood and never leaves ... and after my trip to Chattanooga in September, I wish Daddy would have been able to meet his great grandson Ahmed ... the little guy loves trains more than any kid I've ever known. So when my sister told him she was going to take me and him to the train museum, he was bouncing off the walls with excitement to show me his beloved train place.

I knew as we pulled into the parking lot that the adventure would be one to remember ... train cars filled the space in front of the museum, red cabooses, yellow engines, silver passenger cars. Little Ahmed's eyes lit up as he told me what each car was as we walked through the train lot, his small hand tucked securely inside of mine. My sister purchased our tickets for us to ride the old-fashioned, refurbished passenger train while Ahmed and I looked at all the train items in the gift shop. We then made our way outside to wait for the train to return from its previous run so that we could board it and begin our own journey. As the train rounded the curve and the engineer blew the whistle, my 4-year-old great nephew squealed with anticipation and asked me ... "Aunt, Terrie, Aunt Terrie ... can you not wait to ride the train??? It will be so fun!!!" Memories of my own rides on trains in years gone by washed through my mind as the conductor, dressed in historical conductor attire complete with white gloves, shouted "All aboard!" and took our tickets.

The entire ride lasted a little over an hour and a half and just as Ahmed had promised, it was great fun. But it was what occurred at the mid-point of the trip that stuck with me ... it was that part of the adventure that God has brought back to my mind in a big way this week. After riding for about 25 minutes, the train slowed to a stop and the conductor invited us to disembark stating that we were at the end of the line. I was more than a bit curious as to how we were going to return to the station if we were at the end of the line, thinking perhaps we had to switch trains. The conductor led us to an open, giant round area that had one single track with a small shack-like structure at the end. He stepped up on the ledge of concrete that surrounded the area and told us that it was called a roundhouse and that the track in the center was the turntable. I was completely fascinated as he spoke about the history of the roundhouse, saying that the one in Chattanooga was one of the few remaining operational ones in the country. We then watched as the engineer carefully positioned the engine on the turntable and the conductor entered the small shack and operated the controls that turned the engine around to face the opposite direction so that it could then push the train rather than pull it ... the engine was specially equipped for that specific purpose ... both pulling and pushing the train.

As I climbed back on the train that warm September afternoon, I knew there was a lesson in what I had just witnessed and I've wondered more than once over the last months just what that lesson was. I think God sometimes allows His lessons, His truths, His teachings to rest in my mind and heart for a while until such time that He deems them necessary for me to understand. So here's the thing ... so here's the thing ... I wonder how many times I've written those four words in my posts, and I wonder how many "so here's the thing" moments God has sent my way. I wonder how many I've understood and how many I've missed. So here's the thing about the train and the roundhouse and the turntable ... for as much as I could see, when the train reached the end of the line, our trip was over. I didn't know that the engineer and the conductor intended to turn the engine around ... to change the direction of the power source for the train. I didn't know that the two men intended to work together to turn the end of the line into a new beginning for the train. I didn't know that there was already a plan in place to keep the train moving along the rails so that we could complete our journey. All I could see was that we were at the end of the line ... I could only see the end of the line because I couldn't see beyond that moment.

Tomorrow marks the end of the line for this year, and it's been a less than stellar year for me ... a year in which I have often felt that I took one step forward and then a dozen steps back. A year that has caused me to ponder the meaning of my very existence, to search in a way I never have before for God's purpose and plan for me, to teeter on the edge of the deepest canyon I've ever encountered. No matter how hard I try, I can't seem to find my center any longer. While everyone around me is excited and anticipating what the new year may bring, I find it difficult to think of what lies ahead. Each day is the same, with one day blending into the next, and I'm having great difficulty seeing beyond the moment, seeing beyond the end of the line. And yet ... and yet I also find myself contemplating the possibility that there could be a roundhouse ... a roundhouse with a turntable waiting for me to arrive so that the engineer and the conductor can turn my engine around and send me back in the right direction.

My prayer for each of you is that God will bless you in the coming year ... that you will know Him in a way you never have before ... that you will rest in His grace and flourish in His mercy ... that you will look for Him in all the big and little things of life ... that you will love Him and one another deeply and fully and completely and unconditionally ... that you will laugh freely and often ... that you will treasure the moments, both good and bad, for when it's all said and done, it truly is the moments that matter the most.

A happy new year to each of you, friends ... a happy new year.

Learning Curve

2011-12-29T10:09:00.000-08:00

I'm not a scientist. I'm not a veterinarian. So when the advertising agency I worked for won a large animal health account a couple of years ago, I faced a gigantic learning curve when it came to editing their work that was filled with a plethora of complicated, technical terminology. I spent countless hours at home reading veterinary journals and researching methods to learn how best to approach my editing tasks in what was an all-new field for me. There were many days when I would drive home in tears, worrying that I would never be able to "get it," that I was too old to remember all the terms and the correct spelling of them, that I wasn't smart enough to understand the appropriate context for all the different usages, that I would lose my job if I continued to make mistakes on the mountain of materials that came across my desk each day for our very important client. Eventually, though, I began to recognize that I had to look up fewer terms each day and that I was beginning to be able to spot incorrect referencing or product names. My learning curve took a long time, but thankfully my employer thought I was worth waiting for ... that I was worth taking a chance on giving me the extra time I needed.

When a year draws to a close, I think many of us reflect back on the days and months within it and evaluate ... our jobs, our emotions, our relationships, our health. We look back and think about what we've learned, where we've been, how much we've accomplished ... we look back and think about what we should have learned, where we should have gone, how much we should have accomplished. I think I can say with complete honesty that 2011 has been one of the toughest years, if not the toughest, I've yet to journey through in my 52 years of life. A year that has left me with a significant amount of fear and trepidation concerning the new year soon to arrive. Last night as I lay in my bed waiting for the meds to kick in and make me sleep, I found myself making lists in my head, and amazingly, I remember some of the items on those lists this morning ... some of which I'd like to share with you in this post.

I've learned a few things over the years, some big things and some not so much. I've learned that you can never catch a fish if you don't put bait on the hook. I've learned that it's important to take lots of pictures of your family and friends. I've learned that prayer really can change things. I've learned that nothing tastes quite as wonderful as a piece of warm cherry pie with vanilla ice cream on top. I've learned that a smile and a hug can work miracles for someone's wounded heart. I've learned that a piece of potato can remove a broken light bulb from a socket. I've learned that all dogs love cheese. I've learned that a warm blanket on a cold night is like a gift from heaven. I've learned that sometimes holding someone's hand is the most important thing I could ever do for them. I've learned that it's important to brush your teeth and floss. I've learned that the Bible really is the Word of God. I've learned that driving a Jeep Wrangler with the top down on a warm summer evening is one of the purest pleasures in life. I've learned that little kids are the most honest and loving beings God ever created. I've learned that dishwashers and microwaves are wonderful inventions. I've learned that what matters most of all in this life is love ... the love of my God for me and my love for Him ... the love I have for others and the love they give to me.

The more I thought about what I've learned in my life, the more I began to think about the things I haven't learned ... things I haven't learned, but certainly should have. I haven't learned to say I'm sorry quickly and sincerely when I've wronged or hurt another. I haven't learned to not be afraid to fly. I haven't learned to hire a professional to do home repair. I haven't learned how to change a flat tire. I haven't learned not to worry so much about what others think of me or expect from me or say about me. I haven't learned to fly fish. I haven't learned the true depth of God's sacrifice for me. I haven't learned how to make cookies from scratch. I haven't learned to say "I love you" as often as I should. I haven't learned to admit when I'm weak or sick or afraid or lonely. I haven't learned to trust God in all circumstances at all times. I haven't learned not to get sick on an airplane. I haven't learned that paint always freezes if I leave it in my garage in the winter. I haven't learned to ask for help when I can't do it on my own.

Now that I think about it, I'm sure there are a lot of things I could add to both of those lists ... my learned vs. unlearned ramblings. And perhaps that is the truest lesson of the year drawing to a close ... some days I learn, and some days I don't. Some years are filled with all the good things that life has to offer, and some years bring days that are long and nights that are frighteningly dark. But through it all ... light or darkness, good or bad, easy or hard ... through it all, God is watching ... He's watching and waiting and forgiving and loving and understanding ... through all the time it takes me to learn ... God is always there.

Candle in the Wind

2011-12-28T06:56:00.000-08:00

In my high school and college years, I had three favorite singers ... John Denver, Barbra Streisand and Elton John. Sometimes I wonder how many hours I spent listening to those artists' tunes, switching from one to another depending on my state of mind or mood at the time. I knew every word to each of their songs, and I would sing along as I lay in my bed in my room (listening to a record on a turntable record player), as I drove to and from work or school in my car (listening to a tape on an 8-track player), as I soaked up the sun by the side of the pool (listening to a tape on a portable cassette player) ... for my younger readers, iPods had not even been thought of back then. It was on a trip to Colorado with my children one year that I came to understand that some things in life are timeless and span many generations. You see, my son Matt developed a huge affinity for the music of Elton ... the entire drive out to Colorado, the whole week we spent in the condo, and the drive back home, Matt insisted that we listen to Elton ... over and over and over again. And I must admit, my kiddos were quite surprised that I remembered all the words to Elton John's songs ... every single word to every single song. A few years later, both Brad and Meghann became enamored with Elton's music as well, and it always brought a sentimental feeling to me when I would hear his tunes wafting through the house.

I'm not sure why, but I've felt drawn to Elton's music again over the last couple of weeks, perhaps because so many of the songs are soulful in their sound and have such depth in their lyrics ... or perhaps it's because listening to his music reminds me of years gone by ... the years of my own youth and those of my children as well. Perhaps it's as simple as connection ... I sent my son Matt a text a few days ago and said, "I'm walking and listening to Elton," and his reply was, "I love Elton." I don't know that I could choose a favorite Elton song ... there are so many that I like, so many that have spoken to me at different times for different reasons. But there was one that not only touched me, it moved millions of people around the world when Elton changed the lyrics a bit and sang it at Princess Diana's funeral ... Candle in the Wind. And over the last week, the song has spoken to me again ... about light ... about life ... about time.

Last night, I sat on my deck and lit a candle. I watched the flame flicker and twist as the wind whipped through the slats of my deck, threatening to snuff out the burning yellow fire. I watched the flame dim and almost go out and then miraculously sputter back to life. I felt the cold of the wind around my neck as I shivered in the chair. I felt the warmth of the flame as I passed my hand near the small source of heat. I'm not sure how long I sat there gazing at the candle, wondering when it would be overcome by the cold winter wind. I am sure, however, that when it finally did succumb to the force that surrounded it, emotion swept through me and tears filled my eyes as I watched the flame expire. I lit the candle several more times, and as long as I kept my hands cupped around it, it would burn. When I would remove my hands, the tiny flame would struggle to survive the wind, only to eventually give up and be overtaken by its strength. As I sat there relighting the candle, it struck me how often there are times in life when we are like candles in the wind ... needing help to keep our flames burning, struggling to survive the winds that whip through our hearts and souls, longing for a shield to keep us from giving up. Flames, wind, candles ... light ... life ... time.

"And it seems to me you lived your life
Like a candle in the wind
Never knowing who to cling to
When the rain set in
And I would have liked to have known you
But I was just a kid
Your candle burned out long before
Your legend ever did."

The Last Christmas

2011-12-24T05:50:00.000-08:00

My son Matt had a special nickname for our dear friend Ann Nutt ... he always called her Ima. Get it? Ima Nutt. And every time Matt would call her Ima, Ann would laugh and laugh and say, "Yes, I am a Nutt and proud of it!" All three of my children adored Annie, and she treated my kids as if they were her own grandchildren. Ann was kind of like a combination sister, best friend and mom to me ... she was without question one of the most honest, generous, sincere, loving persons I've ever known. We lost Annie several years ago, and to this day, I miss her. And every year when Christmas comes, I remember the last one we shared with Ann ... eating dinner, opening gifts and playing games ... the memories of that time together always make me smile. I remember that night in vivid detail, and each evening when I turn on my moose lamp she gave me that year, I think of Annie. That was a good Christmas ... one filled with laughter and love.

When we went to Ann's house that Christmas, none of us knew that it would be our final one together. I've thought a lot about that over the last couple of weeks ... about the last Christmases I've had with those I loved down through the years ... Jerry, Daddy, Mom, Charlotte, Annie, Granny. One thing holds true in all of those Christmases ... I didn't know that they would be the last ones I would get to share with those folks who were so dear to me. And I can't help but wonder ... would I have done things differently had I known? Would I have spoken different words? Would I have listened more intently? Would I have looked deeper into their precious eyes? Would I have held the hugs a little longer? Would I have savored every moment instead of rushing through them? Would I have tried harder to make sure they knew how much I loved them? Would I? Would I? I can only hope that I would have done all of those things and so much more.

Here's the thing, friends ... there's not one of us walking on this earth together who has the promise of tomorrow, not one of us. So as you gather together with your family and friends to honor Christmas this year, honor each other as well. Celebrate as if there will be no tomorrow. May words of encouragement and understanding flow from your lips ... may you give your undivided attention to the words that are spoken to you ... may you look into eyes but see into souls ... may you wrap your arms around those you love and hold them tightly ... may you slow down and rest in the moments ... may you love and love and love and love and love. May you have many more Christmases together, but treat this one gently and deliberately ... celebrate it as if it were the last Christmas you will share.

Now that I think about it ... we really should live every single day as if it is our last. I wonder how much different we all would be if we did ... I wonder. My prayer for each of you is that your Christmas be blessed ... that it overflows with laughter and love. May you have a nothing taken for granted, treasure every moment, wonder-filled Christmas, friends.

Love Story

2011-12-23T16:13:00.000-08:00

I'd be willing to bet that many, if not most, of you who hail from my generation remember the 1970 movie Love Story starring Ryan O'Neal and Ali MacGraw. The film tells the story of Oliver Barrett IV, who comes from a wealthy family of Harvard graduates, and Jennifer Cavalleri, the working-class, quick-witted Radcliffe College student whom he falls in love with. Upon graduation, the two decide to get married against the wishes of Oliver's father who thinks Jenny isn't good enough for his son; in fact, he severs ties with Oliver. Jenny and Oliver eventually decide to try and have a child, and when she doesn't become pregnant, she undergoes a series of medical tests which reveal that she is gravely ill and doesn't have much time left. Following the advice of the doctor, Oliver tries to lead a normal life and not tell Jenny that she is sick, but she eventually confronts the doctor herself and learns the truth. Oliver goes to his father to borrow money for Jenny's treatment ... his father gives him the money but assumes that Oliver needs it for an indiscretion of some sort. Jenny passes away in Oliver's arms, and his father, having learned the truth approaches the grieving Oliver as he leaves the hospital and attempts to apologize. Oliver tells his father what Jenny always told him ... "Love means never having to say you're sorry" ... and walks away. I'd also be willing to bet that those of you who've seen the movie have tears in your eyes right now ... one of the saddest romantic dramas of all time.

While the idea of never having to say you're sorry to someone you love sounds wonderful in theory, I think the real truth is that loving someone means just the opposite ... saying a heartfelt "I'm sorry" when you're wrong defines a sincere heart and a selfless spirit. I also think that those two little words ... "I'm sorry" ... may be among the two hardest ones for most of us to utter. Admitting that your words or actions have wounded the heart of someone dear to you is tough, tough, tough. I had to say those words last night to someone ... even though I didn't intend to hurt her, I have, and my "I'm sorry" seemed so very inadequate and small.

The more I've thought about it today, the more I've thought about how the next few days are the celebration of the greatest love story of all. God loved each of us so much that He sent His only son to be born of a virgin in a stable ... such a humble beginning for a King. I've thought about the day that I fell on my face in a tiny room at church and cried out "I'm sorry" over and over and over again. I've thought about the sermon that began my journey to the cross ... a sermon about authenticity and realness. I've thought a lot today about forgiveness and grace ... a whole, whole lot. I think love ... open, honest, real and transparent love ... most definitely means saying "I'm sorry."

Little Drummer Boy

2011-12-21T17:24:00.000-08:00

Of my three children, Matt is the one who always loved Christmas the most. He loved Christmas music. He loved Christmas lights. He loved Christmas trees. He loved ... well, for a couple of years, he dressed like Santa almost every day, even when we lived in hot and sunny south Florida. My mom used to enjoy telling the story of Matt and her electric Christmas candles that she put in the windows each year. Throughout the year, Matt would find those candles in the closet and he would play with them for hours ... taking the bulbs in and out, plugging the candles in without the bulbs and saying, "Poor candles," then plugging them in with the bulbs in place and exclaiming, "Happy, happy candles!" And he would perform this festive ritual over and over again while the song Little Drummer Boy (his favorite at the time) played loudly on his Fisher-Price cassette player. Don't worry ... I've told him what a weird little kid he was when it came to Christmas so he can be prepared should his future daughter inherit his Christmas genes.

In my previous post, I spoke about how I haven't slept well for several nights because of my over-the-top worry and fear about my basement. So last night, I decided that I absolutely HAD to get some sleep. I took a couple of "sleepy" pills and climbed into bed with my dogs around 9:30, snuggled in under the covers because it was a cold and blustery night, and closed my eyes praying that sleep would come to me quickly. I had taken Julie and Ollie out to potty before I went to bed and discovered that it was raining/sleeting ... which meant liquid on the already soaked ground ... which meant my basement ... well, you know. For the last few days, every little sound in my house has made me panic thinking that the walls in the basement were disintegrating right before my ears. I had no more than closed my eyes until I heard a steady, rhythmic "thump, thump, thump." Well, that doesn't sound good, I thought. That doesn't sound good at all. I climbed out of bed, grabbed my flashlight and headed to the basement.

I was beginning to feel a bit groggy from the medication I had taken, so as I stood in the basement swaying like a tree in the wind, I inched around the walls placing my hand on them to see if I felt any vibration ... yes, yes, I did. By the time I had worked my way all around the room, I was getting sleepy ... really sleepy. After I stumbled on the first step leading back upstairs, I decided that I should crawl the rest of the way up, crawl into my room, and crawl into bed. I remember quite vividly the prayer that ran through my mind as I drifted off to sleep ... So, God, if the house caves in or explodes while I'm asleep, please don't let Julie and Ollie get hurt. Seriously, that was my prayer as I finally faded into the land of slumber ... a prayer for the safety of my beloved hounds.

Now I need to back up here a little and tell you that the house to the left of mine is a rental house, and the family that currently resides there is Native American, Cherokee I believe the father told me. During the summer months, they often build a fire in the back yard, play drums, chant and dance (in full Native American dress, I might add ... it's actually very cool to watch them). In my rational mind ... not the irrational one I seem to possess these days ... I know that I often hear the sound of drums coming from the inside of their house when I am in my bedroom. Yep ... drums ... as in a steady, rhythmic "thump, thump, thump." So this morning when I was outside with the dogs before I left for work, my neighbor was outside as well. The minute I saw him, I thought about the sounds I had heard last night, and I asked him if they had been drumming the night before. As he apologetically said yes and that he was sorry they disturbed me, I assured him that it didn't bother me. I then went on to explain to him why I asked, and he, like all the other folks I've talked to about my super freakdom over my basement, got a hearty laugh out of my description of me creeping around touching all the walls in my basement last night.

Those of you who read along with me in this blog know that I try to look for God's teaching or lesson or truth in the events and situations that come into my life. So here's the thing about my basement predicament ... I just don't see it, the teaching or lesson or truth that probably lies within it. Oh, I'm sure there is at least one that will eventually present itself to me, but for now all I can picture is caving walls and exploding furnaces and costly repairs. I'm sure that the hidden "God thing" will probably involve a lesson or two in trust and faith and resting in Him. I'm sure that when it's all said and done, He will speak to me in ways that I simply cannot see while I'm drowning in the middle of the super freak ocean I find myself in.

I did sleep a little last night, and for those of you keeping score ... I was only in the basement and the garage with my flashlight twice during the night, which is a definite improvement. I must admit that I did get the heebie-jeebies in the shower this morning, though ... the whole tub falling through the floor thing is definitely a legitimate fear ... whether you'll admit it or not, you've thought about it happening to you ... you know you have. Drum on little drummer boy ... thump, thump, thump.

Super Freak

2011-12-20T19:44:00.000-08:00

As I typed the words for the title of this post, I instantly thought about the movie Little Miss Sunshine, a quirky film that became a pretty big hit while teaching some valuable lessons on the importance of acceptance, of the ties of family, of the brevity of life. For those of you who have seen the movie, you know why my title made me think of the movie ... that's the song that Olive (and her family) dance to for her talent part in the Little Miss Sunshine beauty pageant. And, they dance to the song after the head of the pageant (a mean, snippy old gal) tries to have Olive removed from the stage because she's different ... not playing by the Little Miss Sunshine "rules" ... oh, my ... I definitely feel an entire post about the lessons from this film swirling around in my brain. But for now, I have a few things to say about my descent into the land of "super freakdom" for the last few days.

Let me preface my comments by saying that I've never been one to freak out over house stuff, at least not like I have this week. I might have gotten worked up over the money it cost to fix something, but I don't think I've ever had an over-the-top fear consume me like it has since Sunday night. I've mentioned before that I have a leaky basement; actually, it's been more of a seepy basement from a spot on the wall. Saturday when I was downstairs doing laundry, I noticed a crack on the basement floor. When I started looking at that crack, I saw another crack and then another and another. Then I started looking at the walls and saw several cracks on them. It concerned me and I thought to myself, I probably should get someone out here to check this out. I didn't think about it a lot more until ... oh ... 4:00 a.m. Monday morning when I woke up completely freaking out about the cracks in my basement. And that's when I went to super freakdom land, and I've been stuck there ever since.

As I lay in my bed, I quickly became convinced that one of two things was going to happen ... my house was going to cave in or the cracks in the floor would shift my gas furnace and cause it to explode. And the more those thoughts ran through my mind, the more logical and rational they became. And the more logical and rational they became, the more freaked out I got. And the more freaked out I got over those two possibilities, the more freaked out I got over whether my basement could be fixed and how much it might cost and where I would get the money and my house caving in or exploding and ... well, you get the idea. I've been stuck in an infinite loop of super freakdom. To the point that last night, I woke up thinking that I had seen cracks in my garage so I went out to check and stood there for quite a while pondering whether or not I should back my car out to the driveway ... since of course my car was going to fall through the garage floor into the basement (even though I knew that my garage isn't even over the basement). I'm quite certain that my irrational thinking is fueled in part by the fact that I haven't slept much since Sunday.

So ... after talking with several people at work yesterday and today, the general consensus is that I'm crazy and that I should go to bed and get some sleep. And that my house isn't going to crumble or explode while I'm at work and send Julie and Ollie to doggie heaven. And that it may not require huge machinery lifting my house off the foundation to install piers all around it and cost a million dollars. I listened to what they had to say, told myself they were correct, and then immediately went to the basement when I got home to make sure nothing else had happened while I was gone today ... OK, I'm willing to admit they may be right and I may be crazy. But when the foundation repair guys come out here next week to check my basement and tell me that my house is going to cave in or explode and that I need to park my car on the driveway so it doesn't fall through the garage or that my tub is going to fall through the floor while I'm taking a shower ... oh, wait, forget that last one ... when the pros tell me all those things, who will be crazy then?

Go ahead, sing it with me ... She's a super freak, super freak.

Hitching a Ride

2011-12-18T15:30:00.000-08:00

There are certain rules in life that seem to span multiple generations, rules that all parents seem to teach their children. Rules like "Look both ways before you cross the street," "Always wear clean underwear in case you're in an accident," "Don't touch the hot stove," "Never take candy from a stranger; in fact, don't even talk to strangers," "Wash your hands after you use the restroom," and many, many more. I remember one in particular that Mom often told me that I passed along to my own children ... "Don't ever pick up a hitchhiker. Never ever." So when I picked up a gal walking along the road in Winter Park one year while the kids and I were on vacation, it gave me the opportunity to impart another old adage to my kids ... "Do as I say and not as I do." They've called me on that one many times over the years, as well they should have. And for the record, I don't make a habit of picking up hitchhikers ... I think I may have picked up two in my entire life.

I've always thought I'd like to try my hand, or my thumb as the case may be, at hitchhiking across the country ... just think of the people I could meet and the places I could see. I know it's not a practical or particularly rational thought, but sometimes I think about just packing a backpack, putting doggie saddlebags on Julie and Ollie, and hitting the pavement. When I look back over my life, I've never really had a grand adventure, and hitching a ride from total strangers out on the open road would certainly qualify as one I would think. Riding along with people I've never met, going from town to town, experiencing things I never have before, hearing and writing stories that have yet to be told ... sounds like a heck of a fun time to me.

When I think about it, perhaps what is most appealing to me about hitchhiking is the risk involved, the unknown that would accompany each transport, the anonymity on both sides ... I wouldn't know the driver and the driver wouldn't know me. Whomever stopped to pick me up wouldn't be doing so out of a sense of duty or obligation ... they wouldn't know me so they wouldn't feel those emotions. There would, however, inherently be an enormous amount of trust involved, again on both sides. The driver would have to trust that I wasn't going to steal their car and their money or hurt them in some way, and I would have to trust that the driver wouldn't take me somewhere and bash me in the head and steal my dogs and my backpack. There would be no concerns about relationship or friendship or love or disgust or disdain or disappointment because we would be strangers ... strangers together on the road for a bit of time. Now lest you worry that I'm planning to head outside and stick out my thumb tonight, don't ... it's too cold and the wiener dog would freeze to death. Maybe tomorrow, but not tonight.

The more I think about hitching a ride, the more it causes me to think how many times in my life I've been a hitchhiker. Anonymous. Shallow. A stranger. I trust for a short amount of time in order to get from one place to another. I don't invest in the long term. I ride along for a few miles and then I hop out and move on. I hitch a ride in the car of love or compassion or faith, but I don't do the driving. I guess in reality I've stuck out my thumb and hitched way more rides than I want to count. And I know that God has a lesson in this post for me, a lesson about being more than a hitchhiker ... a lesson about the time I spend with those around me, a lesson about the journey of life.

Under the Ice

2011-12-17T17:25:00.000-08:00

I've only been ice skating a few times in my life, and none of those adventures onto the frozen water ended well. Most of them culminated with me flat on my rear or my back, gazing up at whichever person I was with as they extended their hand to pull me up so that I could fall again. Perhaps it's because I was never good at roller skating or snow skiing or surfing or snowboarding that I could never get the hang of ice skating ... truth is I'm just not very coordinated at things that involve me maintaining my balance while my feet are perched atop a moving object. I always wished I could ice skate, though, and for a long time I held onto my dream of gliding across the ice with perfect form and grace.

We've had a cold snap here in Kansas City for the last couple of weeks and even a dusting of snow a week or so ago. It's rather deceiving here on the plains when the sun is shining brightly in the winter ... I always think it's warmer outside than it truly is. I watched the weather last night before I went to bed and was pleased to hear that it was supposed to be warmer today. So when the sun began shining brightly this morning, I got dressed and put Ollie in his sweater and headed out for a walk. We hadn't walked far when I realized that it was much colder than I thought it would be ... Those warmer temps must be coming later in the day, I thought as I pulled the hood on my coat up around my freezing neck.

I've decided that Ollie may well be the weirdest wiener dog ever when it comes to being outside in the cold. He prances all around my legs when I get his sweater out to put on him to go for a walk in the chilly air, but he plants his feet and refuses to go outside in the yard to potty when the temperatures drop below freezing ... I have to pick him up and carry him out to the middle of the yard before he will do his business, but the cold doesn't seem to bother him at all when there's a walk involved. Crazy, crazy dog. But back to this morning ... the battery on my iPod was dead, so my walk with Ollie was a quiet one except for the sounds of nature around us, and even nature seemed unusually silent today. We were almost to the first bridge on our way home (yes, the wooden bridges that Ollie loves to play our game on) when I looked to my right and saw that part of the creek was frozen ... a smaller part of the creek that descends over some rocks and joins itself with the larger creek below. Ollie noticed it, too, and as soon as we did our running and barking on the bridge, he tugged on his leash to go over to the frozen water. And when we got close to the glistening ice, he sat down and looked up at me as if to say, "Sit, old woman ... sit and look at this for a while."

I sat down on the cold ground, and Ollie climbed into my lap and licked my chin. I'm not sure how long we sat there, Ollie snuggled into my arms and me gazing at the ice in front of us. I couldn't help but wonder about the water that was gurgling beneath the ice and how it is that fish survive under a surface that appears to be so lifeless. While we were sitting there, me and my dog, God began to speak to me ... I know, how many times has He done that out on the trail, right? I'll say it again (and probably again and again) ... God lives on my beloved trail. "Don't only see the ice, Terrie ... see the water that runs beneath it. Don't only see the cold, hard surface ... see the life that exists below it. Look, Terrie ... not with your eyes but with your soul ... look for Me beneath your sorrow ... look for Me beneath your pain ... look for Me, my child ... look for Me. I haven't gone anywhere ... I'm still here ... I'm still here beneath it all ... look for Me." At a time in my life when my heart and soul and mind seem to be frozen solid, God sits me down beside an ice-covered creek and causes me to see the Living Water.

"But from there you will seek the LORD your God, and you will find Him if you search for Him with all your heart and all your soul." Deuteronomy 4:29

No Words

2011-12-15T19:05:00.000-08:00

I knew when I began volunteering at the nursing home that the time would come when some of those dear folks would pass away. Though I'm sure that some have gone since I've been helping out, none of the folks I've gotten to know have been among them. Until tonight. One of the dear ladies that I've helped a couple of times at Bingo and bowling passed away a little while before I arrived for Bingo. She was a sweet lady ... a lady who reminded me a lot of my mom. My friend who works there was crying when I left tonight ... you see, her job is so much more than a job to her, and the sweet residents there mean a lot to her. I had no words for her ... and I've got no words for my readers tonight. Though death is a part of life that will come to each of us, it hurts the heart in a big way.

Rest in peace, sweet lady ... rest in peace.

Loose Ends

2011-12-14T17:40:00.000-08:00

Several years ago, I had the tremendous blessing of working with an incredibly gifted artist to create a line of poetry/art prints that we marketed to gift shops across the country. It was a ton of fun working with Becky, and each time we developed a new print, I was always in awe of her amazing talent. She would take my words and paint the perfect picture to accompany them ... I've often said that her paintings could tell the story by themselves with no need for words from me. Early on in our venture together, I discovered that Becky had a particular personal touch that she included in each of her paintings. Sometimes I would have to search to find her trademark, but it was always there ... a loose string, a frayed edge, an untied shoelace. When I questioned her about her reason for placing one in each painting, Becky said they were reminders to her to always make sure she tied up the loose ends in her life ... to not leave things hanging should something happen to her. Becky lost her only sister to a brain tumor when she was younger, and I've often thought that event is what sparked her desire to always keep her life as tidy as she could.

People say that creative types ... artists, writers, musicians, dancers ... people say those types of people are often somewhat lackadaisical when it comes to being organized or detailed about the day-to-day, humdrum tasks of life. They tend to be more focused on creating than cleaning, on dreaming than designating, on imagining than indexing. I see those tendencies every day in the creative folks I work with, and I know that I possess them as well ... I think the brains of artsy, creative people are just wired that way. I've never worried or thought much about making sure everything in my life was all pulled together or that I had my loose ends all tied up. I suppose I've always been a dreamer of sorts ... always in search of the perfect story, the most well put together words, the best way to turn a phrase.

There's been a shift in my perspective, however, over the last months concerning the whole loose ends thing. I find myself thinking more about them, the loose ends in my life, and I find that I now have a strong desire to tie up as many of them as I can. Perhaps part of that newfound urgency to cross all my t's, dot all my i's, and tie all my shoes is because I've got a birthday coming after Christmas ... a birthday that for some reason has me rattled and feeling old. And perhaps I am just getting old and that's why I want to make sure I tie up all my loose ends. Whatever the reason, I've made a lot of progress in the last month in ridding myself of many of the fraying edges that were hanging around me, and I must say, there's a certain sense of calm and peace that accompanies loose end tying for sure.

Tonight at Awana, a little boy asked me to tie his shoe. As I knelt down to tie his laces, a thought struck me in a big way ... I don't need to be concerned with the loose ends of my physical life ... those aren't the ones that matter ... the loose ends that matter are the ones in my heart ... I need to be sure that I have no loose ends with my Lord ... all the other loose ends pale in comparison. So tonight ... tonight as I sit on my couch typing this post, I'm also searching my heart for the loose strings, the frayed edges, the untied shoelaces that remain there ... hidden away, tucked deep within. And I'm praying ... Lord, please help me find them, those loose ends ... help me to find them and allow You in Your grace and mercy to tie them up for me ... to tie them up forever and ever ... no more loose ends, Father, no more loose ends.

Bubble Blowing 101

2011-12-13T18:46:00.000-08:00

Out of all the activities I remember from my childhood, bubble blowing is one of my favorite memories. Mom and Dad's house had this crazy series of porches on the back of the house, almost like tiers of concrete and railing that descended from the back kitchen door down to the back yard. Let's see if I can recall ... there were six or seven porches altogether I think. And the little porch that led out from the kitchen was almost level with the roof of the garage ... I know it sounds weird, but that's really the way it was. Kids will always be kids, so my friends and I figured out in a hurry that we could climb over the rail and get on the garage roof.

In the summer, we would lie on our backs, gaze at the stars and talk for hours. In the fall when the leaves fell from the trees, we would snuggle in blankets and watch movies on the big screen of the Red Bank Drive-In at the bottom of the hill ... it never seemed to bother us that we couldn't hear the words; in fact, we often made up our own stories to go with the films. And no matter what season it was, we would sit on the edge of the roof, hang our feet over the side and blow bubbles ... you know ... the little bottles of bubbles with the tiny plastic wands. We would have contests to see who could blow the biggest bubble or the most bubbles in one breath. We would have bubble races to see whose bubbles reached the ground below us the fastest. We would watch in wonder as the bubbles floated on the breeze and glistened in the sun's rays. I know it probably sounds boring to many of you, but it was fun ... pure and simple fun.

A few weeks ago, I decided that it was time to get rid of some of the stuff I've accumulated over the years, so I've been spending time each evening and on the weekends sorting through things and giving them away. Last night, I decided to tackle one of the cabinets next to the stove in my kitchen, and guess ... just guess what I found? Yep, four bottles of bubbles. I have no idea how long those bubbles have been in the cabinet, but I'm sure they've been hiding away in there for more than a few years since I'm certain they once belonged to my children. My first thought as I pulled them out and placed them on the floor next to where I was sitting was that I would pitch them in the trash, assuming they wouldn't work any longer. But when I finished with the cabinet and stood up from the floor, something came over me and I opened the lid to one of the bottles and fished the little wand from inside. I walked into the living room where Julie and Ollie were wrestling, and I puffed on the wand. I was amazed to see a stream of little bubbles quickly fly from the wand ... I guess bubbles don't have an expiration date, huh?

For those of you who don't have dogs, you should, but that's another blog for another time. If you've never witnessed dogs playing with bubbles, you are totally missing out on some good, wholesome fun. I won't tell you how long I stood in my living room blowing bubbles for my dogs to chase and pounce on and try to eat and pop with their paws, but suffice it to say that I used up almost two bottles of the antique bubbles I had found in the cabinet. Ollie has only lived with me and Julie since March, and I don't know much about his life before he came to our house other than the fact that he was abused and almost starved to death. When I first began blowing the bubbles last night, Ollie went crazy ... running around in circles, barking at the tiny spheres, wagging his tail as hard as it would wag, even shaking because he was so excited by our new game. I would say his crash course in bubbles was a raging success.

It struck me as I watched my dogs play ... they live a very simple life. They sleep and eat and play. I suppose the hardest thing they do all day is wait for me to come home after work. And here's the thing ... they love to sleep and eat and play. They love me and they love each other. They don't have to think about or decide on those things ... those things are just part of their nature, of who they are, of what they were born to do. I've said it before ... I think we as humans would do well to behave as our dogs do ... to live simply ... to find the joy in small things ... to love completely and unconditionally.

So here's to bubble blowing and playing pups ... I think maybe I should buy another bottle or two of those bubbles. For the dogs, of course ... for the dogs.

Back to the Manger

2011-12-12T17:22:00.000-08:00

I know I've said it many times, but little kids really are the best things God ever created ... they so totally are. The things they say, the way they walk, their bubbly giggles, their sensitive little tears, the pure innocence in the way they love unconditionally ... little kids are just the best. And little kids on stage in front of a bunch of people are classic, simply classic. I will never forget a kids' church program when we lived in Florida ... a program where my Matt stole the show. Not in a good way, mind you, he did everything mischievous you can possibly imagine, including tying the shoelaces together of the little boy standing next to him. When I think back on how mortified I was that it was my child who was acting like a little monkey on stage ... no really, he even did his best monkey imitation during the program ... when I think back on that night, I have to smile ... because soon Matt will have his own little monkey who will embarrass him one day when she's on stage.

Last night when I got home from Brad's college graduation, I gulped down my dinner, fed the dogs and headed to church to watch the little kids' musical, Back to the Manger. Someone from church had invited me to go, and some of the kids asked me Wednesday night at Awana if I was coming to watch them. The storyline was about a group of carolers participating in a church outreach event that involved delivering baskets to those in need. A side group of kiddos gets into a time machine that transports them to the church event down through the years, including sending them back to the night Jesus was born. It was cute to see the kiddos imitating dances and music from the past, made even better by quick changes into crazy hair and funky sunglasses. And it was touching to watch them act out the nativity scene. All of them did a great job, but I was especially captivated by the motions they had learned to accompany all the songs they sang ... lots of songs and lots of different motions. And the kids were amazing ... they remembered the steps and the motions, and the words to the songs.

As I sat in the back of the church watching the kids, I couldn't help but think about the work that must have been involved in teaching all those kids all that stuff for the program. I thought about how the gals in charge must have great patience and a true love for kids to put forth the effort to lead the musical. I wondered how repetitive their practices must have been in order for the kids to learn all the words, all the steps, and all the motions. All the motions, I thought as I sat watching the children perform ... all the motions. As I walked alone in the dark to my car to go home, I was struck with a pretty overwhelming thought. I'm going through the motions of life ... I'm just going through the motions. Sliding my key into the ignition, I acknowledged that God probably had a reason for me being at the kids' program. But I also acknowledged aloud to Him that I was tired ... physically tired from a long day, but so much more mentally and emotionally tired than I ever remember being. I'm just going through the motions, Lord, trying to make it from one day to the next.

Driving into work this morning, the thought continued to pound in my head, and my mind swirled around the realization of how much the thought is true. I really do go through the motions of living each day ... the only time I swerve from the road of doing just what I have to do in life now is if someone else tells me to. If someone asks me to help with something, I generally will ... but I can't find the place in me that used to just jump in and lend a hand. If someone invites me to attend an event, I will generally go ... but I can't find the me that used to look forward to going and being a part of things. It's as if I no longer possess the power or the will or the drive to do anything outside of going through the motions. As I drove home tonight, though, I had another thought. Maybe going through the motions isn't all bad ... maybe in a lot of ways, going through the motions is what's keeping me going at all.

Back to the manger ... little kids ... going through the motions ... lots to think about tonight, Lord, lots to think about.

Final Exam

2011-12-11T17:26:00.000-08:00

Perhaps one of the most universal dreams for those who have attended college is the one where you're about to graduate only to discover that you forgot to take a final exam in a class and therefore can't receive your diploma. And for some of us, that dream-state revelation comes when our name is called and we're ready to walk across the stage and a stern-looking professor stops us and says, "You shall not pass." Oh man ... just typing those four words brought visions of Gandalf in The Lord of the Rings ... come on, you know you thought it, too ... Gandalf on the ledge with the fire monster thingy as he tries to protect the Hobbits and the other guys, sword in one hand and staff in the other as he shouts, "You shall not pass!" A minor digression there ... back to the college dream. I'm almost 52 years old, and I still have that dream from time to time. I'm sure it signifies something deep within my psyche, some fear of failure, of not being able to finish what I start, of reaching the end of a long quest only to find that I am unable to complete it.

This afternoon, I sat in a large room filled with people and watched as my middle child walked across a stage and received his college diploma. And as I watched my young adult son participate in the ceremony that signified he had crossed another major threshold in his life, I had tears in my eyes as I thought of his journey of the last 24 years. I thought of how he exploded into my life, being born a mere 10 minutes after I arrived at the hospital. I thought of the nights I would sit in the recliner and rock him when he was sick. I thought of the time in elementary school when he got into a fist fight with some boys who were pulling the legs off of crickets (which in turn made me think of his little bug box that he carried around for years ... collecting the bugs in the morning and then releasing them later in the day). I thought of when he was in choir and theater classes in junior high and high school, and when he played a pirate in Peter Pan. I thought of the night he sat at my kitchen table and wept as he told me he had gotten into some trouble. I thought of the cards and letters he has written to me over the years. I thought of the way he has called me almost every day just to say hi (and to offer up a more than occasional Brad rant). I thought of his strong hugs and his lack of embarrassment in showing affection to his old gray-haired mama. I thought of how he has supported himself all the way through college, never asking me for financial help. I thought of how I've always worried most about him for some reason ... perhaps because he's my middle child. I thought of how much I love him and how very proud I am of him. I thought of how often I have said recently that I think my Bradley will miss me the most when I'm gone. I thought of Brad ... of the little boy he was and the young man he has become.

As I drove the 30 minutes or so back home following the ceremony, I couldn't help but think about exams that we all take in our lives. I couldn't help but wonder about the tests that will come to Brad in life ... some will be easy to pass, and some will require every ounce of strength he possesses to get through them. I couldn't help but think about the ultimate final exam we all must pass in order to spend eternity in heaven. I couldn't help but consider how blessed I have been to share the last 24 years with my son, Brad ... the last 22 years with my daughter, Meg ... the last 27 years with my son, Matt. There is a certain finality that has come with the big events in my children's lives this year ... Meghann's wedding, Matt's first child soon to arrive, Brad's graduation from college ... a certain finality in knowing that my children are all self-sufficient and successful adults. And as that motherly finality registers in my mind, another thought registers as well ... my children's lives are just beginning, their futures are bright and full of promise and hope and dreams.

So today, Bradley ... today, I hope you know how proud I am of you ... I hope you know how much respect I have for you and the man you have become ... but most of all, son ... most of all, I hope you know how very, very, very much I love you.

The Crook of the Stairs

2011-12-10T06:41:00.000-08:00

Yesterday at work, some of us were talking about Christmas ... well, me and a couple of the younger gals were talking about it. I asked them what their favorite toy was that they got when they were little kids and neither of them could remember. I found that so interesting since they are both significantly younger than me, and yet I can remember exactly what my favorite toy was as well as the Christmas I received it. And even more interesting is that I can remember that event so vividly in light of the post I wrote yesterday about how many things I forget now. But back to my favorite toy ... it was a Snoopy snow cone maker, and it was awesome. It was black and white ... duh, like Snoopy ... you put ice in it and cranked the handle on the back, and it spit out crushed ice which you then covered with sugary colored syrup. It ... was ... awesome. Funny, I also received a portable black and white television that year (which, for all my younger readers, was a really big deal back then), but it was the snow cone maker that I loved ... the snow cone maker that probably cost less than $10 while the television cost way more.

We always opened our gifts on Christmas Eve, after we would gather for a big meal together. I remember how Mom and Dad would cook and clean all day, and now that I have children of my own, I know that day was one of much anticipation and great joy for them ... to have all four of their children and grandchildren (six at the time) all together under their roof. My sister and brothers, as I've mentioned before in this blog, were a great deal older than me, so by the time I was 10 years old (the year of the Snoopy snow cone maker), they were all married and each of them had two children of their own. We would eat dinner upstairs in the kitchen and living room, and then we would all move downstairs to the finished basement when it was time to open gifts. With all the little kids in the mix, it was always loud and chaotic and fun. Daddy would read the Christmas story and pray, and then my sister would distribute the gifts. There was no opening one gift at a time and everyone oohing and ahhing over what someone got ... it was utter chaos of paper ripping, kids squealing and adults laughing. It ... was ... fun.

Just like my dad had "his" chair ... a worn, black leather recliner ... my oldest brother Jerry had a spot where he sat during the gift-opening madness. Jerry always sat in the crook of the stairs that led from the top of the house to the finished basement ... he sat there every year on the red carpeted stairs, his vantage point for observing all of the Christmas madness. And every year, after all the gifts were opened, I would hear him say, "Little Bit ... come show me what you got." I would gather up my loot and climb up into Jerry's lap, and he would smile and laugh as I chattered away about my gifts. I adored my oldest brother ... adored him ... and I can close my eyes even now and see him throw his head back and laugh as I said, "Let's go make snow cones, Jerry, please, please, please ... let's go make snow cones." You see, Jerry and his wife Charlotte gave me that awesome Snoopy snow cone maker, and it tickled Jerry to see how excited I was about their gift to me. Later in the evening, Jerry lifted me up to sit on the kitchen counter and we made snow cones for all the little kids. I remember that night as if it were yesterday, the twinkle in Jerry's eyes, the joy in his heart, the patience of his spirit ... a night filled with love and fun and laughter and snow cones.

Perhaps part of the reason I remember that particular Christmas Eve and my Snoopy snow cone maker so well is because a little over two weeks later, my brother Jerry was involved in a car accident and died later that evening. I will never forget that night either ... the night that my brother died. I will never forget his last words to me on the phone that day ... "Get dressed, Little Bit, and I'll be there to get you at 6 to go to the game. Love you, Little Bit ... love you a great big old bunch." That phone conversation was at four o'clock, and by 10 o'clock that evening, my big brother was gone. Maybe it's because Christmas is coming, maybe it's because of my melancholy soul, but I've had Jerry on my mind a lot recently. On December 14th, he would have been 72 years old ... he would have been 72. I've missed him over the years, but this year is different somehow. This year, I find myself wishing that I could have one more Christmas with Jerry ... with Mom and Dad ... in the old basement with the red carpet ... with Jerry sitting in the crook of the stairs, calling me Little Bit, wiping away my tears, letting me tell him what's on my mind and in my heart, loving me in spite of all my faults and fears. I miss him ... I miss my brother and who he was and how he loved me ... how he loved me a great big old bunch.

I wonder ... I wonder if they still make Snoopy snow cone makers ...

With Age Comes ... What???

2011-12-08T19:31:00.000-08:00

My daughter Meghann has a beautiful voice, and from the time she was just a little girl, she's always loved to sing. She was in choir at school and church, and now she often sings on Sunday mornings in the church where her husband Barrett is the pastor. When Meg was a teenager, not only did she sing all the time around the house, she also created her own tunes ... and some of them were quite catchy. The most famous of Meghann's homemade songs will forever live on in our family ... Matt, Brad and I will always remember the words and the melody to this one song in particular. For months and months, Meghann would sing, "When old people drop something, they pick it up, pick it up, pick it up ... when old people drop something, they pick it up, all day long." I didn't say her songs made sense, I said they were catchy. While I have no clue as to what made Meghann choose those words to her song, I do know that there are certain things that come to those of us who are ... well ... who are aging. I do drop things more now than I used to, and most of the time, when I drop them, I pick them up. I have indeed become Meg's song.

I'm sure most of you have heard the expression, "With age comes wisdom." I would agree that there are areas of life that I feel I've become wiser in over the years. I've learned that status ... where I live or what I drive or how I dress ... isn't nearly as important as what I believe in or whom I help or how I listen to others. I've learned that spending time with the people I love should be treasured and absorbed and remembered because any of us could be gone tomorrow. I've learned that my dad was correct when he said that cars last much longer when you do the basic maintenance on them. In fact, I've learned that my dad was right about most of the things he taught me. I've learned that it's perfectly OK to go to Walmart in the grubbiest clothes I own ... the world hasn't stopped once when I did. I've learned that a pair of comfortable shoes can change my entire outlook on life. I've learned that it is way better to give to someone in need that it is to receive a gift myself. I've learned that it is rewarding to put in a good day's work for the wages I am paid. I've learned that love and relationships are the most important things in life ... for and with one another, and for and with my God. I've learned that you're never too old to find yourself and be the person God created you to be.

I would also have to say, however, that with age comes some things that do not involve such wondrous avenues of enlightenment and wisdom. With age also comes aching bones and sleepless nights, not hearing or seeing as well as I used to, being more set in my way of doing things, having much less of a filter between my brain and my mouth, and ladies, two words ... hot flashes. But perhaps the most challenging arrival for me over the last couple of years since my 50th birthday has been the difference I've seen in my ability to remember things. I'm not just talking about the kind of forgetfulness where you walk into a room and can't remember why you went in there or when you can't remember where you parked your car ... I'm talking the kind where you don't remember that you even have a room to walk into or a car to lose in the parking lot ... I have days when I can't remember anything. I have to make lists for everything I need to do, everywhere I need to be, every item I need to purchase ... I have sticky notes on my desk at work and on my cabinets at home. I have to put the notes in places where I have no choice but to see them or otherwise I forget where I put the lists or that I even made them in the first place.

Now having disclosed that lovely part of my 50-something adventure, I'm going to share an experience from yesterday morning ... one of those times that either cause me to laugh or cry, depending on my frame of mind at the moment. Every evening when I get home from work, I have a routine with Julie and Ollie. They go outside and potty, and then I fill their bowls and they eat ... Julie in the bedroom and Ollie in the bathroom so that they don't fight over the food. Julie's bowl stays in the bedroom, but I pick Ollie's bowl up when he is finished and I put it in one of two places, on the shelf in the bathroom or on top of the fridge in the kitchen. In the morning when we wake up, we repeat the same routine ... dogs out to potty, fill their bowls with food, put Ollie's bowl up. So yesterday morning after Julie and Ollie came inside, I went to get Ollie's bowl to fill it with food. But ... Ollie's bowl wasn't in the bathroom. Ollie's bowl wasn't in the kitchen. I looked everywhere and Ollie's bowl wasn't anywhere. Since I had two hyper hungry hounds bouncing all around my legs, I gave up the search and grabbed a Rubbermaid container and put Ollie's food in it. Then I jumped in the shower and went about my own morning routine in getting ready for the day. In fact, I never thought about Ollie's missing food bowl again until I opened my fridge to get some eggs to cook for breakfast. There on the shelf next to my sugar-free Cool Whip sat Ollie's bowl. Now unless Julie and Ollie managed to get up in the night and put his bowl in the fridge, I must have at some point during the evening taken Ollie's bowl and placed it there myself ... obviously, however, I don't remember doing it.

It frightens me more than a little that I have so many issues with my memory ... you see, I watched my dad for years as Alzheimer's slowly destroyed his once sharp mind and robbed him of every memory he ever had. It more than just frightens me that I forget so many things now ... it absolutely terrifies me to think my lack of memory could be the early signs of Alzheimer's. But when I opened the fridge yesterday morning and saw Ollie's bowl perched next to my Cool Whip, I couldn't help myself ... I laughed out loud. I mean, come on ... putting the dog's bowl in the fridge is funny in and of itself. But then not remembering when or why I put it there and spending 15 minutes searching the house for the bowl only to discover it when I went to gather things to fix my own breakfast ... that is just plain old hilarious.

So tonight I think I'll just give up and embrace my forgetfulness ... I'll hope I've gained a little wisdom ... and I'm off to try to find the new toothbrush I bought over my lunch hour today. Hmmm ... maybe I should check the fridge.

Money Well Spent

2011-12-06T18:08:00.000-08:00

When I first moved to Kansas City, I loved it when it snowed ... loved it. But when I first moved to Kansas City, I was a stay-at-home mom and I never had to leave the house if I didn't want to when the white stuff covered the ground. But now I have to drive downtown every day to go to my job, and I detest it when it snows. What is normally a 30-minute commute can easily turn into a 2 to 3-hour drive, and I always dread it when the weather guys say snow is on the way. I didn't watch the weather last night before I went to bed, so I was more than surprised when I let the dogs outside this morning and saw the dusting in my back yard. It was just that ... a dusting ... so I didn't think that traffic would be bad ... it was just a dusting. But my commute this morning was an hour and 45 minutes, and I was not a happy camper to say the least. And the longer I sat on the interstate watching my gas gauge dip, the more I fussed at myself for not getting gas yesterday at lunch. I finally made it to work, with my low fuel light on for the last couple of miles. So after work tonight, I pulled into QuikTrip to fill up before I headed home.

It's cold here tonight, really cold, and I was aggravated that I had to pump gas in the cold, dark air. And I was even more aggravated when I had to wait for what seemed like forever for an open pump. As I slid my debit card into the reader and started pumping the gas, something caught my eye. An old, beat-up car was being pushed into the space at the pump in front of my car ... pushed by a man and a woman. When the car was positioned in front of the pump, the man waved to the woman and left. I watched as the woman climbed back into her car, and I noticed that she was dressed in a skirt with no hose on and that she had on a thin, worn, lightweight jacket. She's just trying to get warm before she pumps gas, I thought, as the lever clicked off indicating that my tank was full. I put the lid on my tank and jumped back in my car, more than ready to be out of the cold and on my way. But I couldn't help but look at the woman in the car directly in front of me ... and I saw that she was crying. Just drive, I said aloud in my car ... just turn on the heater and drive away. And then I saw the kids, two of them, in the back seat of her car. Well, crud, I said to the air in my car ... well, crud.

I pulled my car into a parking place at the front of the store and walked over to the woman's car and tapped on her window. She looked startled as she rolled down her window, surprised I'm sure to see me standing there. "Are you OK?" I asked, "Do you need some help?"

"I ran out of gas," she said through her tears. "I was out trying to get a job and I thought I had enough gas to make it home but I didn't. And I don't have any money and I don't know what to do."

I stood there for a moment thinking, and then I said, "I'll buy you a tank of gas."

As she got out of the car to remove the lid to the tank, she was practically sobbing. "If you'll tell me where, I'll send you the money when I get a job, I promise I will."

"No," I said, "You don't owe me anything."

When I pulled out my debit card, one of the children got out of the car ... a little boy, maybe seven or eight years old. "I will pump the gas, lady," he said, "I'm the man and I'll pump the gas."

I smiled at him and said, "OK, little man, you can pump the gas. And you can get back in the car and warm up," I said to the boy's mom who was shivering in the cold. "We've got this."

"I really am the man," the little boy said, "My daddy died and now I'm the man."

"What's your name?" I asked as my eyes filled with tears.

"Mark," he replied with a lopsided grin on his face. "What's yours?"

"Terrie," I answered, noticing that his pants were too short and his coat was too small.

"It smells like hamburgers out here," he said. "I like hamburgers."

"Have you had dinner tonight, Mark?"

"No, we don't eat dinner. We eat a piece of bread for the morning and then lunch. We don't have a lot of money until Mommie gets a job. My daddy died. I miss him a lot."

"I'm sure you do," I said as I struggled not to let the tears overtake me. The gas clicked off, and I helped Mark put the nozzle back on the hook and took my receipt. As I turned to say goodbye to the woman as she got out of her car to thank me, Mark wrapped his arms around my leg and said, "Thank you, Terrie, for helping us. You're a nice lady with white hair." Still a sweet kid even with the white hair comment, I thought as I watched him get back in the old, beat-up car.

"Thank you so much," the woman said as she extended her hand to shake mine. "I really will pay you back if you will let me."

"I know you would, but it's not necessary," I said, "but I will let you do one thing for me to make us even."

"Anything," she said, "I'll do anything I can to thank you."

"Get your kids and go in QuikTrip with me and let me buy you guys some sandwiches or hot dogs for dinner tonight. Let me do that for you and your kids, and we'll call it even. Deal?"

The tears rolled down her cheeks again as she nodded her head and got Mark and his sister out of the car and walked into the store with me. I bought them enough food to last them for a few days (including some candy bars for the kids ... all kids should have candy at Christmas), gave the woman the small amount of cash I had on me, hugged the three of them and got into my car to go home. The woman's last words to me echoed in my mind as I drove ... "This morning I prayed that God would give us a miracle today so that my children could eat tomorrow. I have no more money and didn't know how I would feed them. You're His miracle ... thank you, sweet lady, thank you so much."

God is amazing, just plain old amazing. What happened at QuikTrip tonight had absolutely nothing to do with me and everything ... everything to do with Him and His love for His children. I didn't plan on spending an extra 75 bucks today ... but it may have been the most important 75 bucks I've ever spent in my life. Money well spent, friends, money well spent.

Checking Out - Parte Dos

2011-12-05T16:53:00.000-08:00

Working in the advertising business has its perks, like having folks on the media side hook me up with a really cool program that tracks how many hits my blog gets each day. I can track how many views each individual post receives, what country those views come from, all the referring URLs ... lots of totally fascinating stats for sure. Now lest you worry that I'm spying on you electronically, all of the info I get is completely anonymous ... I never see any email addresses or know specific people who are reading my blog (unless of course you choose to email me or tell me you're reading). In fact, all bloggers have access to a certain amount of those same stats through their blog. I mention the tracking thing because of an email I received regarding my post last week about depression and suicide ... an email that has made me think deeply for the last couple of days about some things.

I was pretty amazed when I first started tracking page views on my blog ... I had no idea how many, if indeed any, people were reading my rambling words. With my newfound knowledge as to the size and scope of my readership came a certain sense of responsibility. It's one thing to pen words you think may be read by only your family or closest friends, but it's another thing altogether to write those words when you suddenly know that your blog is being read by way more people than you ever imagined. But as I've written before, I made a promise to be open, honest, real and transparent in this blog ... and that means sometimes I write things that not only tear at my own heart and soul but that tear at the hearts and souls of others as well. I find it quite interesting that I have only a small number of listed "followers" on my blog, though I know from the tracking tool that my readership grows each day. I also find it interesting that I receive many private emails or Facebook messages concerning my posts, but only occasionally do people post their comments publicly on the blog itself. I guess maybe there are a lot of folks who don't want the world to be able to read what they have to say, and I get that ... I totally get that.

Needless to say, my post about depression and suicide generated a ton of emails and messages, and there were four comments on the blog from people I know. But get this ... all but two of the emails and Facebook messages were from people I've never met. People I've never met telling me of their own battles with depression or of those in their lives that had been affected by suicide, that they were praying for me, that I need to keep fighting, that they need me to keep writing, that reading this blog helps them to get through another day, asking me to promise to hold on and not give up. Of course, not all of the messages were positive ones ... some criticized my lack of faith, some said it was unconfessed sin in my life that was causing both my diabetes and depression, and several went so far as to tell me that I should put myself and everyone else out of my misery (one even offered up a list entitled "The 5 Least Painful Methods for Suicide"). But it was an email from a gentleman in Spain named Guillermo that caused me to write today's entry.

I've never heard from Guillermo before, but I must say that I was quickly drawn in by his story and his gift for writing. I asked his permission to share some of the things he wrote with my readers and he readily agreed, saying that if one person is helped, it is worth it. He was born into a wealthy family, studied at Oxford and speaks five languages. He is married with two children and is so wealthy that he doesn't have to work; in fact, he spends a great deal of time traveling with his wife now that their children are in college. He has a personal relationship with Christ and has done extensive missions work in Russia. And, he has struggled with depression for the last two years ... no signs or symptoms of it before, in his words, "it came upon me as a rogue wave in the ocean, massive, relentless, threatening to swallow me up and destroy me." He has attempted suicide twice in the last six months, his latest attempt being a short four weeks ago. As to those attempts he wrote, "On my first go, I failed to obtain the correct calculation for the dosage I would need to consume and awoke the next morn, rather infirm but still alive. My most recent go was with a weapon. My hand faltered at the last moment and the bullet passed through my chin and lip and remains lodged in the wall of my library. I am a failure even in dying."

At the close of his message, Guillermo talked about my Checking Out post and he mentioned my "I understand" list from that entry. He then wrote the following words ... "While I can most abundantly agree with your recounting of the things you understand about depression, I would be most pleased for you to relate your 'I don't understand' recounting as well. Allow me to aid your beginning by saying I don't understand why people who once respected me and loved me and enjoyed my company now treat me as though I have the dreaded plague of olden days. Being the wordsmith you are and possessing the deep ability to think as you do, I beg that you would consider my request. Your wording of depression being a 'nasty beast' is an honest and real assessment, and the turning of heads by those without it only serves to give more power to the animal. I feel that your words are helping many to give one more try to sever the nasty beast's hold over them." As I said, I've thought a lot about Guillermo's words and his request for the last couple of days ... so ... Guillermo, my friend, these words are for you.

I don't understand why I am where I am. I don't understand how I could go from being a happy and upbeat person to one with such a deep and permeating sadness. I don't understand why the medicine doesn't work. I don't understand why others blame me for being depressed. I don't understand why I can't fix what's wrong with me. I don't understand why it feels as though God is punishing me. I don't understand the tears that refuse to stop or go away. I don't understand why decisions that once came so easily are now laborious and painful. I don't understand how I can feel more comfortable in a room filled with strangers than with those I've known for years. I don't understand the thoughts that come crashing into my mind and threaten to destroy me. I don't understand how my concentration can fly away like a bird on the wind. I don't understand why it is overwhelmingly impossible to ask for help. I don't understand why I can't sleep. I don't understand how others cannot see the tight, tight rope I'm walking upon. And yes, Guillermo, I, too, do not understand how those who once loved and respected me and sought after my company can now act as though I have the dreaded plague of olden days.

I want you to know, Guillermo, how very much your words mean to me ... that you took the time to write to me ... that you read my small and unimportant posts each day ... that you care enough to ask me to stay. I read a quote today that seems to me to be a proper and fitting ending for this entry. Hang in there, Guillermo, hang in there, brother ... if you didn't do one other thing last week that mattered to anyone else on this earth, you touched my weary heart. Please know that I've lifted you in prayer over and over again since I read your note, and I give you my word that I will continue to do so as long as I have breath within me.

"The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us, and the light goes out." James Baldwin

The Noise of Wings

2011-12-03T17:56:00.000-08:00

It's a cold, gray, rainy day here in Kansas City, one of those days that makes me want to snuggle under the covers with my hounds and sleep until tomorrow (and I did sleep for four hours this afternoon). Because it was so cold this week and it's so dark when I get home from work, I opted for walking on the treadmill in the evenings rather than outside. Me walking on the treadmill for the last five nights, however, means that Ollie the wiener dog hasn't gotten to go for a long walk as we normally do. Ollie not getting to go for a walk for five days means that I had a rabid, hyperactive wiener dog on my hands this morning when I woke up. So when the rain stopped for a few minutes mid-morning, I quickly threw on several layers of clothing, dressed Oliver in his sweater and down jacket, and we took off for the trail to try and squeeze in a walk before the rain started again. It was a cold and damp jaunt, intensified by the wind that sent chills through both me and my little dog as we scurried down the wet, leaf-strewn path.

So many times I marvel at all the wonders of nature I've encountered as I've walked along my beloved trail over the last couple of years, not to mention all the lessons that God has taught me through those outdoor encounters. Ducks and birds and hawks and owls and fish and turtles and beavers and foxes and deer ... and ... shiver ... even a snake or two. The trail was deserted this morning, probably because Ollie and I were the only creatures crazy enough to be out on such a dreary day. I hadn't taken my iPod because I was afraid that it might begin to rain again, and I wasn't really in the mood for an electrical shock in my ears today. It was as we were almost home that I heard it ... then I looked up and saw it ... a large flock of birds flying overhead ... and as they flew, the sound of their wings flapping filled the air all around me and Ollie in a marvelous symphony of winged noise. Wings, wings, and more wings flapped and flew in unison as the flock made its way across the sky above me. As I stood there staring skyward, I couldn't help but wonder if the wings of angels would sound like those of the birds ... the wings of angels ... the noise of heavenly wings.

I never really thought much about angels (though I do remember wearing an angel costume and reading the Christmas story in a play at church when I was a little kid) until I read the book This Present Darkness by Frank Peretti. Quite honestly, that book scared the living daylights out of me ... even though the good angels won over the bad angels, it terrified me at the time to think of warring angels with swords and stuff tussling all around me. But as I held my dad's hand in the moments before he passed away, I began to` think differently about angels. Not that when Daddy died he became an angel (humans don't become angels when they die), but there was definitely something going on in his room in the minutes before he took his last breath. Daddy opened his eyes for the first time in many months, and he smiled ... my Daddy who had not smiled in years had the most beautiful smile on his face. As my sister and I stood on each side of his bed in Daddy's final moments, all the hairs on our arms stood up ... much like when you rub a balloon across your skin to create static electricity. Within seconds of Daddy's passing, that electrical charge ... which I fully believe was the presence of angels sent to escort my dad from this life to the next ... was gone. And I have wondered countless times if Daddy's final smile was because of the beauty of the angels in his room, and today I've wondered if Daddy heard the noise of their wings ... the noise of heavenly wings.

Many people have said to me, both while he was alive and after he died, that they thought my little J.R. wasn't just a dog. In fact, many of them went so far as to say they thought he was an angel disguised in dog fur. I don't know about the theology of that, but I do believe that God can use any part of His creation in any manner that He chooses. And I also believe with all my heart that God did indeed send J.R. to rescue me ... and I know that there were countless times when he was with me that I felt J.R. was protecting me, watching over me, teaching me. Just like I never thought much about angels before, I never really contemplated whether there were animals in heaven ... but I sure think about it now. I miss my little pal every single day. I love Ollie and Julie to pieces, but there was something extra special about my little fat buddy and we had a bond that was like none other. And I hope with everything in my being that J.R. will be there when I get to heaven ... that he will be there waddling, wagging, watching and waiting for me. And if he was indeed an angel in disguise, I can't wait to see his wings ... to hear the noise of his heavenly wings.

As I was cooking today, I was listening to some Southern gospel music and a song called Lord, Send Your Angels began to play in my ear. I stood in my kitchen as the tears began to flow and I thought about the birds from this morning, my dad and little J.R. Angels ... the noise of heavenly wings ... I could use an angel or two, Lord ... I sure could.

"When I'm alone and the light slowly fades
Cold with the night closing in
I know the shadow of almighty wings
Lord won't you send them again.

Lord send your angels to watch over me
I'm so afraid of the dark
Lord send your angels to watch over me
Wrap me in sheltering arms
Shield me, keep me
Hold me safe in your arms
Lord send your angels to watch over me
Wrap me in sheltering arms.

Sometimes the child inside of me cries
With fears of the dangers unknown
And questions with answers I can't seem to find
Then You send your angels to me.

Lord send your angels to watch over me
I'm so afraid of the dark
Lord send your angels to watch over me
Wrap me in sheltering arms
Shield me, keep me
Hold me safe in your arms
Lord send your angels to watch over me
Wrap me in sheltering arms."

Checking Out

2011-12-01T17:47:00.000-08:00

My friend and fellow blogger Sunny has often told me that the posts she appreciates most from my blog are the ones that are raw, real and gut wrenchingly honest. Well, I'm putting a disclaimer at the beginning of this entry for those of you who may want to opt out of reading today's post ... it may be the rawest, most real, most gut wrenchingly honest one I've ever penned. It's been a hard one to write, one that has taken me a couple of days to gather all the thoughts that have been swirling around in my brain into a presentable and readable form, but it's also one that has been on my heart and mind for a while. Something that happened in Kansas City on Tuesday caused me to acknowledge that it's time to write these words.

I've written before about how I don't watch a lot of television anymore ... but I do watch the local news every morning while I'm getting ready for work, and more specifically, I watch the weather to see what's in store for the day outside. I have a favorite station for that information, as I'm sure many of you do, and that favorite is based in large part on the personalities of the newscasters and the weather people. My favorite station here in KC has long been Fox 4, and my favorite weather guy of all time has been Don Harman. I loved his whimsical manner of reporting, his quirky sense of humor, his involvement in various charity work ... on the air, he seemed like the happiest guy in the world, married with a 2 1/2 year old little girl and a great career. What I'm sure that most of his viewers never knew, including myself, was that Don had long struggled with depression, and on Tuesday afternoon, he took his own life at the young age of 41.

Needless to say, there has been a ton of commentary over the last couple of days concerning Don's passing ... some encouraging and compassionate about him and toward his family, some negative and insensitive from people who do not understand depression and its potentially fatal outcome in a person's life. Which leads me to the real core of what I want to say in this post ... depression is a nasty beast, and those who have never known someone or are not yourself fighting the fiery dragon should take a step back before hurling those stones of judgment. I say this because I've been the person who didn't understand ... I've been the person who said, "Just get happy," or "What does he have to be depressed about?" or "You need to pray harder and sin less," or ... "How could anyone ever commit suicide and think they could even have a remote chance of going to heaven?" Hard to admit, but very true ... I have been the one who sat in judgment over people who struggled with depression and I spoke those very words. But I'm not that person any longer, friends ... I'm the one on the other side ... now I can fully empathize with those who fight depression each day.

I understand days that require every ounce of strength and fortitude I possess to get out of bed and get dressed. I understand what it means to have no appetite at all and to have to force myself to eat. I understand how draining it is to try and put on a happy face when I'm with others. I understand the overwhelming sadness that comes when I see that people are uncomfortable being around me. I understand what it feels like to stare at my face in the mirror every morning and wonder if I can go through another day. I understand the frustration of trying medication after medication hoping that one will eventually work. I understand the disjointedness that accompanies not fitting in or belonging anywhere anymore. I understand losing all interest in the things I formerly enjoyed. I understand loneliness and isolation. I understand making the choice not to see the doctors anymore because the visits are pointless. I understand the penetrating fear that engulfs me when I wonder if the chemicals in my brain will ever be balanced again. I understand the all-consuming grief that floods my soul when people no longer call or visit or email or invite. I understand the piercing guilt that sweeps through me when someone tells me my faith isn't strong enough to make me well, or that I should be more thankful and I would be well, or that I'm not trying hard enough to get well ... trust me, I understand the whole guilt side of depression very, very well. And I understand being in the darkest of all places ... a place where a person can feel that no one cares, a place where a person can recognize and accept that whether they live or die makes no difference, a place where a person desires to no longer burden those around them, a place where a person says, "I give up." Now I understand the depth of the pain and despair that Don Harman felt on Tuesday when he made his final decision to check out of life ... now I understand because now I understand what depression feels like, what it tastes like, what it smells like. Now I understand because now I understand firsthand what depression is and what it can do to a person.

On this morning's newscast, the anchors who worked so closely with Don were open and transparent in both their grief and in the cause of Don's death. I sat on my couch eating breakfast with tears streaming down my cheeks watching the television as the anchors couldn't hold back their own tears as they spoke about their beloved friend. They ended the segment with some tear-filled words that have rolled around in my mind all day ... "If you are struggling with depression, don't give up trying to get help. And if someone you love is fighting it, don't ever give up trying to help them. Don't give up." Again I say, depression is a nasty beast ... a nasty beast indeed.

My thoughts and prayers tonight are with Don's family and friends ... I can't imagine the depth of their pain and grief. I know this is a long post, but I feel that I would be remiss if I didn't end with a list of the warning signs that indicate a person may be at risk for suicide.

Appearing depressed or sad most of the time.
Talking about death or dying.
Withdrawing from family and friends.
Feeling hopeless.
Feeling helpless.
Feeling strong anger or rage.
Feeling trapped -- like there is no way out of a situation.
Experiencing dramatic mood changes.
Abusing drugs or alcohol.
Exhibiting a change in personality.
Acting impulsively or recklessly.
Losing interest in most activities.
Experiencing a change in sleeping habits.
Experiencing a change in eating habits.
Performing poorly at work or in school.
Giving away prized possessions.
Writing a will.
Feeling excessive guilt or shame.

"If you are struggling with depression, don't give up trying to get help. And if someone you love is fighting it, don't ever give up trying to help them. Don't give up."

Testing 1, 2, 3 ... Testing

2011-11-29T20:17:00.000-08:00

One thing I learned early on when I started speaking at women's events was that not all microphones are created equal, and it didn't take me long at all to decide that I definitely like the cordless ones best. Well, I like them best when they work the way they are supposed to work, which unfortunately, they don't always do. And I must also say that one of my greatest fears when I speak has always been that I would forget to flip the switch into the off position on the cordless microphone when I go to the restroom ... don't laugh ... apparently that's a pretty common fear among public speakers. But back to microphones that don't always function the way they are built to function ... I've had them completely die in the middle of a session; I've gotten "buzzed" by one with electrical problems; I even had one of the old-fashioned corded ones that spontaneously broke into a million pieces while it was perched on a microphone stand. So now, when I travel to an event to speak, I always request that we do a microphone check before I step onto the stage. And every time we run through the check, I always say, "Testing 1, 2, 3 ... testing" until the sound people get all the levels correct and any issues worked out.

Last weekend while I was shopping in the after-Thanksgiving madness, I made a stop at a Hallmark store ... you know, Hallmark cards and really mushy TV commercials that make you cry ... that Hallmark store. I stopped there because a few days earlier, I had decided that I wanted to get a recordable storybook for my future granddaughter to have on her first Christmas next year since I won't be with her (Matt and Becca will be moving away when he completes his Ph.D. in May). And I had already decided that I would buy A Charlie Brown Christmas to record for her since Matt loves anything Charlie Brown ... in fact, the first gift he bought his future daughter was a stuffed Snoopy ... go ahead and say a collective "Oh, how sweet!" As I was looking at the Christmas books (which were on sale for half price), I decided to also purchase 'Twas the Night Before Christmas to record for little B.J. ... my mom used to read that story to my children when they were young ... I can still see her sitting on the couch with my three little ones around her as she read to them. Now get this ... I'm standing in line to pay for the books when my phone rings and I see that it's Matt. I answer and he says, "Hey, Mom, Bec and I were talking and we thought if you were going to get the baby a Christmas gift, you might want to get the recordable Charlie Brown Christmas since we may not be together next Christmas." Yep, you guessed it ... I stood in line at the Hallmark store bawling my eyes out.

So tonight was my fourth attempt to record the books for B.J. ... I can't get through them without tearing up, and the harder I try to pull myself together and read the story, the more the tears flow. Thankfully, Hallmark designed the books so that weepers like me get more than one chance to record the story. It struck me tonight as I gave up after my latest attempt to read the Charlie Brown book that there are some deep truths to be gleaned from the process of trying to record the stories for little B.J. I realized that my son recognizes that the chances are great that I will miss his daughter's first Christmas and that it is important to him that she will be able to hear her Granny read to her. I realized how important family is, how short life truly is, and how much I wish that I would have had the foresight to have recorded my mom reading 'Twas the Night Before Christmas to my kiddos. I realized that in many ways, my life is like a recordable book ... God gives me so many chances to get the story right ... no matter how many times I mess up, He erases my mistakes and allows me to try again and again and again.

My prayer tonight is that God would do a microphone check on me ... that He would test me, examine me, make me who He desires me to be. And while you do, Lord ... while you do, thank You for letting me start over ... to read the story again ... and again ... and again.

"Examine me, O Lord, and try me; test my mind and my heart." Psalm 26:2

Habitual Creatures

2011-11-28T18:37:00.000-08:00

When I first started thinking about writing this post, I decided to do what I do best ... research my subject as best I could. So I did a lot of reading about habits and how long it takes to form them and found that there's a generally accepted range of time, 21 to 66 days, much longer than I thought. And then I did a lot of reading about how long it takes to break a well-established habit and found that most folks agree that it takes around 30 days to undo an action that has become part of a person's daily routine, much less time than I thought. And the reason the whole habit thing has been on my mind is because I just spent 10 days at home with my two dogs ... my two dogs who are most definitely creatures of habit. I spent most of my time off hanging around the house with the exception of Black Friday shopping with Brad and Shelby and meeting a friend for lunch one day, and perhaps it's because I was home so much that the habits of my hounds caught my attention in a big way. I'm not going to recount all of the things they do every single day, but I am going to mention some of them for two reasons ... to support my theory concerning habitual behavior and because the dogs are just stinking cute when they do these things each day.

A while back, I started what my kids would say is a bad thing with my dogs. Each time they go out in the yard to go potty, I give them a Cheeto ... or two ... or five. And each time I touch the bag of Cheetos, both Ollie and Julie come flying to the back door to go outside. They don't come running for the bag, they come running to the back door because the sound of the Cheetos bag means "outside" to the two of them. And yes, it's adorable to watch them both when they bolt outside, and it's even more adorable to see them sit in unison when they come back inside as they wait for their Cheetos. One more food-related behavior ... each night before I go to bed, I take my nighttime medications, two pills that I keep in their original prescription bottles on the kitchen counter rather than in a pill organizer. When Julie and Ollie hear me open the bottle and start to shake a pill out, they come racing into the kitchen. Even if they are both sound asleep in my bed, they come running when they hear the pills because they know that after I take my pills, I always eat a piece of cheese before I go to bed ... and I always give each of them a piece of cheese, too. And when we turn in for the night, Julie has her spot and Ollie has his. Julie stretches out and sleeps on the side of the bed next to me, and Ollie burrows under the covers until he is down by my feet where he then flips over on his back ... and they sleep in the same spots in the same way every single night. My hounds are most definitely habitual creatures.

In watching my dogs over the last week, I couldn't help but think about my own habits and routines. There are many things that I do at the same time in the same way every single day. Take breakfast, for example. I always eat between 7:00 and 7:30, and I have three eggs over easy with cream cheese and a glass of almond milk ... every single day for the last two years, I have eaten the same breakfast at the same time. I even cook the eggs in the same skillet every morning. I never used to be such a creature of habit and routine, but I certainly have become one over the last couple of years. I have a routine that I follow each morning as I get ready to leave for work, and I have a routine that I follow when I come home each evening. The more I think about it, the more I realize that aside from things that may pop up at work, all of my days are pretty much the same ... doing the same thing the same way over and over again.

I couldn't get the whole habit thing off of my mind today, and as I was driving home tonight, God placed a thought deep within me. Habits can be good, or they can be bad. Routines can be a source of stability in life, or they can cause life to become dull and joyless. Just like He has so many times over the last year, God reminded me once again as I drove that it's about perspective ... it's about keeping myself focused on Him rather than the habits or routines of my daily existence. And as I greeted Julie and Ollie when I got home and we began our nightly routine, I whispered a prayer ... Make me habitual when it comes to You, Father ... make me a creature of habit when it comes to loving You, to serving You, to talking with You, to being in Your Word ... make those things be the things I do every single day ... make me a creature of habit, Lord.

We Come Far

2011-11-27T16:23:00.000-08:00

Just as there are books that have left a lasting impression on me, there are movies that have as well. I will forever remember going to see Gone With the Wind at the old Tivoli Theater in Chattanooga with Mom and Dad or Steel Magnolias with a group of gal friends in Florida the weekend before we moved to Kansas City. There are several movies that have touched me or that hold a special place in my heart, but there is one that I would probably rank as my all-time favorite ... Dances With Wolves. I remember the first time I saw it in the theater with my ex-husband and our next-door neighbors, and though I own the DVD, I will still stop and watch it every time I stumble upon it on television. Which was the case yesterday ... a cold, windy, rainy gray day, a day when my mood was as gloomy as the skies outside my windows ... yesterday, I spent three hours snuggled on my couch with my dogs watching Dances With Wolves.

The film begins with a scene in which the main character, Lieutenant John J. Dunbar, is wounded in the American Civil War. Not wanting to have his leg amputated, Lieutenant Dunbar takes a superior officer's horse and rides back and forth adjacent to enemy lines "to produce his own death." While the Confederate soldiers are focused on trying to shoot the lieutenant, the Union army attacks and wins the battle. Dunbar survives and is given a commendation and his choice of posts at which to serve. He chooses the western frontier, saying that he wishes to see it before it disappears. He finds the fort abandoned and in disrepair but decides to stay and man the post himself, keeping a diary of his daily life on the prairie. He meets and is accepted into the Sioux tribe, is given the name Dances With Wolves, and marries a woman who had been brought into the tribe as a child when her family was killed. When Dunbar returns to the fort to retrieve his diary before the tribe moves to its winter camp, he is captured and treated as a traitor. While transporting him back for trial, his Sioux family attacks and kills the soldiers to save him from certain hanging. The movie concludes with Dunbar and his wife Stands With a Fist leaving the tribe in order to try and protect them from retribution for the soldiers' deaths.

The opening scene in which Lieutenant Dunbar rides across the field with his arms stretched open is powerful to say the least. His whispered words of "Forgive me, Father," as he attempts to bring about his own death always bring tears to my eyes. I can completely identify with the words he writes to identify his lonely existence at the fort ... "I remain alone, however, and should troops not arrive soon, I fear that all may be lost." But it is the words that are spoken in the final scenes of the movie that continue to impact me the most. Dunbar is saying goodbye to Kicking Bird, the tribe's medicine man whom he admires and respects, and who has become his close friend. As they exchange pipes each has carved, Kicking Bird says, "We come far, you and me." And Dunbar replies, "I will not forget you." Then as Dunbar and Stands With a Fist ride out of the Sioux camp that has been their home, the young warrior, Wind in His Hair, who initially most strongly opposed Dunbar, sits on his horse at the top of a hill and shouts, "Dances With Wolves! ... Dances With Wolves! ... I am Wind In His Hair! ... Do you see that I am your friend? ... Can you see that you will always be my friend?"

While some would say that the film is violent and not very well done, I would say the movie is about love and friendship and commitment and discovering one's true identity and purpose in life, and that it offers a great glance into a way of life from days gone by. It reminds me each time I watch it that there are bonds between people that transcend the boundaries of time or social standing or race or distance. It reminds me of people in my life who have come far with me, of people I will not forget. But most of all, it reminds me of my one true Friend ... my Friend who says to me each morning ... "We come far, you and Me." I will not forget You, Lord ... I will not forget You.

Utter Madness

2011-11-25T15:52:00.000-08:00

For as far back as I can remember, I've never cared much for shopping. As I've grown older, my dislike of the process has evolved into near loathing accompanied with a significant amount of dread when I know that I must shop. It doesn't matter what I'm shopping for ... food, clothes, gifts ... I almost break out in a cold sweat when I know a shopping excursion is on the horizon. If I could, I would never leave my couch to purchase anything, I would do every bit of my shopping online. But ... I love my son, Brad ... I love him a lot, in fact, and there is one day of the year that my Bradley looks forward to all year. You see, for my son Brad, Thanksgiving means two things ... eating lots and lots of food, and preparing his plan of attack for Black Friday shopping. I'm not sure when it began, but Brad has a thing about shopping on Black Friday ... a real serious thing about it. And because I love him and because he says it's tradition for me to accompany him for at least some of the grand event, I steel myself each year for the crowds and the long lines ... yes, I, the woman who detests shopping, shops on Black Friday because I love my son.

So yesterday morning, I ventured out to purchase a newspaper to give to Brad the minute he arrived at my house in the early evening. For as technologically savvy as my son is, our entire family knows that Brad must have an old-fashioned hard copy newspaper on Thanksgiving ... a newspaper that is filled to overflowing with Black Friday shopping advertisements. Brad's reputation for spreading all the ads on the floor in front of him as he painstakingly makes a list of all the items he wishes to purchase and carefully maps out his travel route to the stores is even known among our extended family in Tennessee. One year when we were there visiting family, Matt and Brad camped out in front of Best Buy for the better part of a rather chilly night so that they would be some of the first customers in the door when the store opened at 4:00 a.m. I'm telling you ... Brad has a thing about shopping on Black Friday.

While many people have voiced disapproval that many retailers were beginning the traditional Black Friday sales on Thanksgiving this year, Brad was almost giddy last night when his girlfriend arrived at my house to join us on our shopping adventure. She had never experienced Black Friday shopping, and she had certainly never experienced it with Brad. As he checked and rechecked his list and discussed where we were going and when, Shelby patted him on the back and shook her head in wonder that the young man who has worn the same ugly orange sneakers since junior high was so excited to go shopping.

Though I have gone Black Friday shopping time and time again with Brad over the last 20 something years, I've never experienced it to the fullest until last night. Before he could drive himself, Brad and Matt would be the ones who would stand in line and rush in when the doors of the stores opened in the wee hours of the morning. I would then, like any smart mother would, join them at a much more reasonable time after the initial chaos was over. Translated ... I would give the boys money, tell them what I wanted them to buy for me, sleep in, meet them for breakfast and then shop for what I absolutely had to after the predawn crowds had thinned out a bit.

But this year, since the stores were opening earlier on Thanksgiving evening and since my vacuum cleaner died a couple of days ago, I decided to go with Brad and Shelby and, as Brad so eloquently stated, "see what I've been missing out on all these years." We began at Walmart at 9:30 ... well, we began by parking across the street from Walmart at 9:30 because the parking lot was completely full. We hiked to the store where we then split up and staked out our spots near the items we most wanted to purchase ... Brad and Shelby in front of the $1.28 bath towels and me in front of the $36.00 Bissell vacuum. And friends, in all my 52 years of life, I've never experienced anything quite like the utter madness that ensued when the clock reached 10:00 p.m. and a voice on the loudspeaker announced that the sale was on. I'll spare you the details of the behavior of the people around me whose sole mission in life seemed to be to own a $36.00 Bissell vacuum, but I will tell you that when I met up with Brad and Shelby a few minutes later, the two of them were breathless as they told me about an older woman who was ready to throw punches if she didn't get her $1.28 towels. And I will also tell you that my son Matt and very pregnant daughter-in-law were at the Walmart in their hometown a couple of hours west of here at the same time when Becca sent me a text message saying, "This is crazy and I'm scared!"

I finally got home at 3:00 a.m. after standing in line with Shelby for an hour and twenty minutes to check out at Old Navy while Brad hit Best Buy and Target. They got back to my house at 3:30 after they made a quick stop at Kohl's and then they drove another 40 minutes to go home. As I climbed into bed, it was almost 4:00 a.m., and I said to Julie and Ollie, "That was utter madness, dogs ... sheer and utter madness." But the final thought that was on my mind as I drifted off to sleep was this ... I made memories tonight with Brad, memories that he will always have. I got to chat with Shelby and discover that she's a deep thinker and a great gal who encourages and challenges Brad to follow his dreams. Memories ... tonight was about making memories for my son far more than it was about shopping.

So here's to you, Bradley, and your Black Friday shopping skills ... here's to you and your precious heart ... here's to you and your sweet smile ... here's to you and your strong hugs ... here's to you, my middle kiddo ... thanks for reminding me right in the middle of utter madness how very much I love you.

Thanks Giving

2011-11-24T12:20:00.000-08:00

This morning, I ate breakfast ... and I thanked God for eggs, cream cheese, almond milk and sugar-free chocolate syrup. This morning, I took Ollie for a walk ... and I thanked God that the loose dog we ran into didn't bite us. This morning, Ollie and I saw three ducks in the creek ... and I thanked God that I could see the sharp green coloring on their heads. This morning, I swept out my garage ... and I thanked God that I have a place to park my car. This morning, I cleaned my house ... and I thanked God for the roof over my head (and my doggies' heads, too). This morning, I cooked turkey breast and butternut squash ... and I thanked God for an oven that works. This morning, I took a shower ... and I thanked God for hot water, soap and shampoo. This morning, I lit candles ... and I thanked God that I could smell them. This morning, I wrote some letters ... and I thanked God that I can put my thoughts on paper. This morning, I thought about my family in Tennessee as they would be gathering at Country Place to eat together ... and I thanked God for my extended family. This morning, I thought about my children scattered about with various friends and family ... and I thanked God that they are well-loved. This morning, I thought about the friends I've had down through the years ... and I thanked God for the way they have blessed me.

This morning, I thanked God for the gift of His Son ... this morning, I thanked God for His forgiveness ... this morning, I thanked God for His love ... this morning, I thanked God for being God.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends ... Happy Thanksgiving.

Ain't Bigger Than a Minute

2011-11-23T17:08:00.000-08:00

It's funny to me how things my mom used to say will randomly pop into my head ... sometimes it's something I'm doing or somewhere I'm going or something I see or something I smell that will trigger me to recall what she used to say. With all the food-related activities that accompany Thanksgiving, all day I've been thinking about what Mom used to say when a person was thin ... "Lord, help! She ain't bigger than a minute!" And since Mom was deaf in one ear, she often spoke those words loudly enough for everyone around her to hear. I distinctly remember one such instance when we were shopping ... actually, I remember many times when Mom loudly announced her opinion in a public place. And while I was often embarrassed back then, I would give everything I own to be able to take Mom shopping again no matter what her commentary might be ... everything I own, friends.

My son Matt called last night to ask what I wanted for Christmas, and as we talked, he asked me what size jeans I wear. When I told him what size I now wear, he asked what size I wore two years ago. Now two years ago, I would have never told my sweet son what size jeans I wore ... never ever. And I would have also had a stern talk with him about not asking me what size my clothes were. But last night ... last night, I told him that before I was diagnosed with diabetes, I wore a size 22 in jeans and had to leave the button at the waist undone because they were too tight. The last pair of jeans I bought a few weeks ago were a size 6 ... if my math is correct, that means I've gone down eight sizes in jeans. I don't think I've ever worn a size 6 until now, even when I was young and much slimmer than I was as an adult. Matt's response was, "Wow, Mom ... wow. I bet you would have never imagined that you'd be wearing a 6 in jeans, huh? I'm proud of you, Mom ... really proud of you."

All day today, I've been thinking about my conversation with Matt last night, and I couldn't help but think about what my mom would have said about the change in my appearance over the last couple of years. I couldn't help but remember a time when she came to visit and I picked her up at the airport and she announced to everyone within earshot that she could tell I had lost a little weight. I couldn't help but think that were I picking her up at the airport today, she would have proudly announced to everyone around her ... "Lord, help! My girl ain't bigger than minute!" But here's the thing ... I also couldn't help but think about how many times I look in the mirror and still see the size 22 me rather than the size 6 me. And I couldn't help but think about how many times I look in the mirror of my heart and still see the me I was all those years ago before I met Christ.

The more I thought about Matt and Mom and Thanksgiving and food and what size I used to wear and who I used to be and how much my life has changed over the last couple of years, a verse from God's Word lodged itself in my mind. A verse that reminds me to look in the mirror with His eyes, His heart, His love.

"Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come." 2 Corinthians 5:17

The L Word

2011-11-22T07:48:00.000-08:00

My son Matt is a brilliant young man. I know that some of you will say that I have a skewed opinion because I'm his mother, but he really is brilliant. He is 27 years old and will receive his Ph.D. in marriage and family therapy next May. He completed his undergraduate degree in 3 1/2 years, and the university allowed him to begin taking classes toward his Ph.D. during his last semester of graduate school. His grade point average has been a solid 4.0 throughout both his graduate and post-graduate education. He really is a brilliant young man.

Matt has always been smart, but I didn't realize when he was young just how smart he really was. He always had a fascination with words (I can't imagine who might have encouraged that trait in him), and from time to time, he would get focused on a certain word and use that word every time he had the opportunity. Sometimes the way he would use the words would be hilarious, like when he got hung up on the word "linkage." He would attach the word to other words in quite comical ways that often made no sense to anyone else, but he loved the way the word sounded in conjunction with another. Let's have some cake-linkage for dinner, Mom. I'm going for a linkage-walk. I need a hair-linkage-cut. I don't feel very linkage-good. I know ... he's brilliant, but a little crazy, too.

When I think about Matt's youthful word infatuation, I can't help but think about the power of words ... words can hurt or heal or torment or praise or judge or make us laugh or cry or change the direction of our lives. Words can linger in our minds or hearts forever, and once a word is spoken, it can never be recalled. Words can make us feel loved, or they can make us feel that we are completely alone in life. Words are more powerful than many of us realize, and I know that I should think and pray so much more about what I say before I speak.

When I went with my friend to the inner city church that I wrote about in the post Forgiven Much, we were asked as we entered the church to choose from three different brightly colored stickers and to place one on our shirts. In his sermon, the pastor talked about the various labels that we place on one another, and about the pain or joy those labels can bring into our lives. He spoke about labels of love and labels of hate, about labels of success and labels of failure, about labels of truth and labels of lies. And as he spoke, my eyes filled with tears as I gazed at those around me who nodded in agreement or spoke words of affirmation as the minister's words struck chords within their hearts. You see, those people ... those people know what it means to be labeled. Those people know what it means to bear L words ... to walk through every moment of their lives with a label pinned to their clothing, to be judged, to be criticized, to be scorned.

Words ... L words ... I'm so thankful that when God looks at me, He sees me with only one label ... covered ... covered in the blood of Jesus Christ.

Hands and Feet

2011-11-21T07:49:00.000-08:00

A few years ago, I was asked to photograph a "prom" for a group of seniors at a retirement home ... and what an incredible experience that was. Watching those older folks dance and laugh and eat and have fun was a true blessing to me, and taking both posed prom photos and spontaneous shots was an absolute blast. I took over 2,000 photos that evening, and it was that night that I got the idea for a book filled with photos ... photos of people's hands and feet. I know that sounds a bit odd, but if you think about it, our hands and feet tell the stories of where we've been and what we've done in life. So over the last years, I've compiled quite a collection of photos of hands and feet ... pudgy little baby feet, worn and calloused older hands, mud-covered teenaged feet, tender gentle hands of a new mom. And maybe someday ... maybe someday, I'll put those photos into a book ... maybe someday.

It's cold here in Kansas, and cold weather now means a couple of things to me ... my feet hurt more than they usually do, and my hands get so dry that they crack and bleed. So yesterday as I walked with Ollie in the cold air (don't worry, he was bundled up in his sweater and down jacket), I was pretty focused on my hands and feet. And as I felt the pain in my aching feet and the roughness of the gloves on my dry hands, I began to think about how we as Christians are called to be the hands and feet of Jesus to those around us. With each labored step I took, I realized how much I have missed it over the years, how very much I have failed to understand what it means to allow Him to use my hands to minister to others or to guide my feet in the paths that He desires for me to walk.

By the time Ollie and I reached the place on the trail where we turn to head home, I realized that God had once again chosen to use our time on the path to speak to me and impart yet another lesson to me. It is always humbling to me when His voice to me is so clear, when His love for me is so intense, when His presence around me is so real. Being the hands and feet of Jesus, I thought, the hands and feet of Jesus. What does that mean ... what does that really mean? It means stepping outside of my comfort zone ... it means loving the unlovable ... it means going the extra mile to help another ... it means there should be no judgmental attitude within me ... it means hugging someone who is lonely ... it means caring for someone who is sick ... it means reading to someone who can't read ... it means including someone who has no one ... it means comforting someone who has been abandoned ... it means feeding someone who is hungry ... it means so much more than going to church on Sundays, caring only about those whom I deem worthy or acceptable, convincing myself that I shouldn't worry about the pain or hurt in the eyes of the person sitting right next to me who is struggling to get through one more day. Being the hands and feet of Jesus means so much more than I ever understood before.

When I got home and peeled off all the layers of clothing I had put on to walk outside in the cold, a thought crashed into my mind and caused tears to spring to my eyes. The hands and feet of Jesus, friends, were pierced with spikes ... pierced with spikes as He was placed upon the cross ... pierced with spikes because of His love for me. The hands and feet of Jesus ... so much more than I ever understood before.

"Surely He took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered Him punished by God, stricken by Him, and afflicted. But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed. Isaiah 53:4-5

On the Move

2011-11-20T07:24:00.000-08:00

My mom used to say, "Someday when you have children of your own, you'll understand." Funny ... Mom was right. I didn't understand fear until my children were sick or injured. I didn't understand happiness until my children said, "I love you, Mom." I didn't understand worry until my children were teenagers. I didn't understand sadness until my children were angry with me. I didn't understand joy until I saw my children smile. I didn't understand love until my children wrapped their arms around me. I didn't understand life until my children were born ... I didn't understand life at all until God blessed me with Matt, Brad and Meghann. Funny ... Mom was right.

Yesterday, I went to a baby shower for B.J. ... that's what we've been calling my future granddaughter ... Baby Johnson ... B.J. for short. There were the traditional shower events ... games, food and gifts. There were lots of gifts ... Matt and Becca are well-loved and have been blessed in receiving almost everything they need for their soon-to-arrive little girl. Perhaps the best gift of all was a baby bathtub in the shape of a large yellow duck that makes quacking sounds when you squeeze its orange bill. Matt and Becca's little dachshund Andy's favorite toys are rubber duckies, so I can only imagine what the tiny hound will think when he sees the giant duck.

Becca is blessed with wonderful parents (and Matt with wonderful in-laws), and as I sat there watching all the festivities yesterday, I breathed a prayer of thanks that little B.J. will have such awesome grandparents. They will love and spoil her and shower her with all the things a little girl deserves to have. They will pray for her every single day, and they will be shining examples of a strong and abiding faith in God. They are good people with good hearts, and I know that B.J. will be deeply loved and cherished by them. And as much as I've ever known anything in my life, I know that little girl deserves and needs wonderful grandparents who will be there for her through thick and thin.

I was completely overwhelmed when Becca placed my hand on her belly as little B.J. moved and turned ... I felt her moving ... my hand felt the miracle of life that is growing inside my precious daughter-in-law. As I drove home after the shower, tears streamed down my face ... my baby boy is having a baby of his own, and I felt her move ... I felt her move. She deserves so much love ... parents and aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents who can give her that love ... the love that she so deserves.

So here's to you, little B.J. ... keep growing and moving and getting ready to meet all those who already love you ... all those who will lead you and teach you and guide you and love you forever ... all those who will be there for you, little girl ... here's to you, little B.J. ... here's to you.

Miles to Go

2011-11-19T09:15:00.000-08:00

Since I majored in English in college, I had to take a plethora of literature classes. Some of those classes I will never forget, due in part to the writings that we studied but also due in part to the various instructors who taught those classes. I remember a class on the works of Shakespeare ... my professor would come to class dressed in period costumes reflecting whichever play we were studying at the time. I remember a class on Southern literature ... my professor would have us all close our eyes as he read to us from the works of great Southern writers such as Walker Percy or Eudora Welty or Harper Lee. But one of my favorite literature classes focused on the poetry of Robert Frost, and part of the curriculum the professor created was to have us write a paper each week on the Frost poem we had just discussed in class. And my all-time favorite Frost poem is Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.

Ollie and I left the house early this morning to go for a walk. It is ferociously windy today, and I couldn't help but smile as Ollie's wiener dog ears flapped in the wind. I think he needs some sort of little doggie headband or stocking cap for these terribly windy Kansas mornings ... perhaps I should make a trip to PetSmart to see if such a thing exists. But again, I digress. Though the wind gusts are intense today, the temperature is warm enough that I was quite comfortable in my own stocking cap, gloves and hoodie as we walked. Since I didn't have any time constraints today, Ollie and I walked for a long time ... almost two hours ... and we walked for several miles. And as we walked, the final lines of the Robert Frost poem kept pounding in my mind.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."

I couldn't help but think about the promises I've made throughout my life, some I've kept and some I haven't. I couldn't help but think about the fact that I rarely promise anything to anyone any longer and about how tentative I am when I do. I couldn't help but think about how often I wonder how many more miles I have to go before I can sleep. I couldn't help but think about how the only place I feel at peace is when I am on my beloved trail that winds through the woods ... the lovely, dark and deep woods. Promises to keep, I thought, I've got no more promises to keep. As tears sprung to my eyes, something in the sky caught my eye ... something in the sky caught my eye and made me stop in my tracks and stare heavenward.

Remember when I said it was ferociously windy here today? I hadn't noticed as Ollie and I were walking because I always look down as I walk, but the sky had filled with dark gray clouds during the time we were on the trail. And those clouds were literally racing across the sky as they were pushed along by the strong winds ... really ... racing across the sky. I stood gazing upward, tears pouring down my cheeks as I marveled at the dramatic way that God had just gotten my attention. I've always thought that one day when the trumpet sounds and Jesus returns ... the clouds will roll across the sky, the sun will split the horizon and Jesus will appear. I stood there looking at those clouds ... looking at those clouds ... looking at those clouds.

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."

Help me keep my eyes on You, Lord ... help me to remember that You alone are God of the woods, God of the skies, God of my heart, God of my miles ... help me keep my eyes on You, Lord.

Pennies From Heaven

2011-11-18T05:54:00.000-08:00

When I was a little kid, I looked forward to one certain card that would come in the mail every Christmas. It was the card my Granny always sent me ... a card with 100 shiny new pennies taped inside. Yes, I know that seems like nothing to most of you, just a dollar's worth of pennies. But that card meant the world to me when I was young. Granny always wrote a little note in the card, a note telling me how much she loved me and how important I was to her. I didn't feel very important when I was a kid; in fact, most of the time I felt like I was ugly and stupid and didn't have anything to offer to anyone. Those cards from Granny kept me going in many ways, I think ... and those pennies ... I'm convinced now that those pennies came straight from heaven and that my Granny was the vessel God chose to use to deliver those shiny new blessings to me every year.

Last night, I spent an hour or so talking with the sweet lady at the retirement home I've mentioned in previous posts ... the sweet lady who is 101 years old. We talked about a lot of things ... biscuits and gravy, riding motorcycles (she has, by the way, more than a few times and said she'd hop on one again if she had the chance!), snowy weather, being in love, jobs, churches, friends ... but it was the last two statements she made to me that were on my mind throughout the night, that kept me tossing and turning and not sleeping well, that I can't get out of my head this morning.

As I was getting ready to leave my sweet friend's room, she took my hand and asked me if I would pray with her before I left. Her hands are thin and I could feel her bones as she wrapped her precious hands around mine. And it was after I prayed that she gazed into my eyes and spoke the words that impacted me so much ... "You bless me when you come here to see me. I'm happy you are my new friend." I patted her frail hands and promised to come see her again as I hurried to get out of her room before my tears began to fall. By the time I made it to my car, I was sobbing, and I sat in the parking lot for a long time before I could finally see well enough to drive home.

So many, many days now I feel ... unnecessary, unwanted, unneeded, unloved. I feel like I am a burden to those who know me, a burden and certainly not a blessing. There are days when I struggle to just get through the day, to keep my head above the water that is raging around me. Days when I feel like I could just drift away and no one would notice or care that I was gone. And last night before I walked into the dear lady's room, those feelings were washing over me in a big way. And then ... then God sent me a card ... a card sealed with the words of a dear lady with thin, frail hands and a kind and gentle heart. God sent me a card filled with pennies from heaven, and He sent it through the lips of someone who has walked this earth for over a century.

You are the one who blesses me, sweet friend ... you are the one who blesses me.

Fish Guts

2011-11-16T19:07:00.000-08:00

Whenever the kids and I would go to Colorado in the summer, we would always go fishing. The Lions Club in the little town we stayed in had two ponds stocked with trout, one for the adults to fish in and one for the kids (the pond for the kids had more fish, go figure). We caught quite a few fish throughout the summers we were there, but the all-time record for the biggest trout caught by a member of our little family is held by my daughter Meghann. Yep, the baby girl of the family caught a huge trout one year, and she's never let her brothers forget that she is better at fishing than they are.

I've been thinking a lot about fishing for the last couple of weeks because I was asked to lead this evening's Awana lesson on Jonah. You know, the guy who tried to run away from God and what He asked him to do. The guy who ended up getting tossed overboard by the sailors on the boat he was trying to escape in. The guy who got swallowed by a big, giant fish. The guy who spent three days and nights in the slimy, gooey belly of said fish. Yuck, yuck, and triple yuck.

The more I've thought about old Jonah, the more I've thought about how much I'm like him at times. God tells me to go somewhere or do something, and instead of being obedient, I jump on a boat and try to escape. And though God doesn't send a real fish to swallow me up, He often allows me to end up in a slimy, gooey place that feels an awful lot like the belly of a big, giant fish until I wise up and do what He asked me to do or go where He asked me to go. It never ceases to amaze me that God doesn't grow so weary of my disobedience that He just decides to leave me in the fish's belly.

I realized on my way home from church tonight that the lesson for the kiddos this evening was as much for me as it was for them ... perhaps even more for me than for them. It's been a long time since I meditated on the story of Jonah ... a long time since I pondered the consequences of my own disobedience to God. I talked to the kids tonight about how God gave Jonah a second chance, about how when the fish spit Jonah out on the sand, God asked Jonah again to go preach in Nineveh. And the Bible says that old Jonah packed his bags in a hurry that time and hightailed it to Nineveh to do what God asked Him to do. So here's the thing ... God has given me so many second chances over the years that I've lost count, and yet I still manage to try my best to run away from Him ... and I end up right back in the belly of that big fish. And you know what? He keeps right on telling that fish to spit me out on the sand ... He keeps right on calling me to serve Him ... He keeps right on giving me chance after chance after chance to obey Him ... and He keeps right on forgiving me when I don't.

Thank You, Lord, for little kids and the way You use them to teach me Your lessons ... thank You, Lord, for not giving up on me ... thank You, Lord, for all those second chances ... thank You, Lord, for loving me even when I'm covered in slimy, gooey fish guts.

Forgiven Much

2011-11-15T16:24:00.000-08:00

I'm sure that most of you could agree with me that there are certain events from your childhood or youth that you never forget. Events that shape and mold the person you eventually become, events that are often painful when they occur, events that forever change the way you view life. I've had several of those events, but one in particular has been on my mind a lot lately. I'm not going to share all the details, but suffice it to say that I was a total jerk to a dear friend over a boy when we were teenagers ... I wanted to be his girlfriend, he dated her instead, and I was ticked off in a big way. We didn't speak for lots and lots and lots of years, and when we finally did, I uttered the apology that I should have spoken many years sooner. I was sure that she wouldn't want to talk to me, and honestly, that would have been exactly what I deserved because of the way I behaved so long ago. But instead, she was gracious and free in her forgiveness, even though my sins from years gone by were monumental in size and scope.

Perhaps the reason that event from my past has been on my mind ... actually, it's the forgiveness part of that event that's been on my mind so much ... is because I've recently had several conversations with a woman who accepted Christ not too long ago, a woman who has lived a pretty rough life for the last 50 years, a woman who thought for many years that God could never forgive her, a woman who has wrestled and wrestled with accepting who she is and who God created her to be. She said some things to me last week that have been on my mind ever since, some things that have made me think deeply about my own attitude toward others. And as she spoke the following words, she wept ... she wept and so did I.

"I wonder about people who've always lived a pretty clean life ... I wonder how they can really get it when it comes to how great God's forgiveness is. It's those of us who have lived at the bottom of the barrel that when we are forgiven, we know ... we really know what forgiveness is. I think it's hard for people who think they are pretty good and holy not to look down on or judge somebody like me. But the truth is, Terrie, it's us who have been forgiven much that know how to forgive much in return. It's us people who've seen the bottom of the pit that understand forgiveness and how important it is to hold out your hand to them that's still in the pit. I've been to churches where I wasn't welcome because of who I am or who I used to be. I'm telling you ... it's us who've been forgiven much ... it's us who've been beat up and thrown away ... it's us who've been forgiven much who get it about forgiveness and loving each other."

When she finished talking, all I could do was sit at the table in the restaurant and sob. I had no recourse, no words of defense, nothing wise or holy to say. I sat at the table knowing that I, too, have been forgiven much, and yet I still sit in judgment over others at times. I sat at the table knowing that I, too, have experienced rejection, and yet I still turn my back on others I deem unworthy of my time or my attention. I sat at the table knowing that I, too, have seen the ugly bottom of the pit, and yet I still don't reach out my hand to others who are struggling to get out. I sat at the table humbled as the woman invited me to visit her church ... an inner city church far removed from my comfort zone, a church populated by those whom other churches have rejected or shunned.

I went to her church last Sunday morning, and I was overwhelmed by the people's obvious passion for the Lord. I went to her church last Sunday morning, and I was deeply moved by the people's obvious love for one another. I went to her church last Sunday morning, and I recognized the deep truth in her words ... "It's us who've been forgiven much ... it's us who've been beat up and thrown away ... it's us who've been forgiven much who get it about forgiveness and loving each other."

"Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven - as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little." Luke 7:47

In Memory

2011-11-14T05:05:00.000-08:00

This morning, I kiss Julie and Ollie and hold them close ... as I remember. This morning, I gaze at my pawprint tattoo ... as I remember. This morning, I step on the scale ... as I remember. This morning, I cry many tears ... as I remember. This morning, I miss my little J.R. ... as I remember. This morning, I know that it is World Diabetes Day ... as I remember. This morning, it seems the only words to share are the ones from a year ago ... as I remember. This morning, this one is for you, fat buddy ... as I forever and always remember.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

To Everything a Season

Recently, someone told me that my blog posts are ranked by her and her friends as to how many tissues they need when they read them. If that's the case for others of you, then I'm telling you up front on this post ... you may want to grab the whole box. And I'm also warning you ... this one is going to be longer than most of my blogs because it's more than a blog post ... it's a tribute to an amazing little guy.

Fifteen months ago, a fat little wiener dog came trotting ... actually, it was more like waddling than trotting ... into my life. He was a foster dog that had been placed with my son and daughter-in-law on a Monday, and on the following Friday, they brought him to me to keep along with their dog while they went out of town for the weekend. His name was J.R., and he had a rough life before that fateful Friday evening when he landed in a little house in Kansas. He was afraid of everything and everyone, and rightfully so since he had been born into a puppy mill and then adopted by someone who abused him and then placed in four different shelters and with three foster families before he came to me. Did you take note of all those places and all he had lived through? Remember that path, because I'll come back to it in a bit.

That first night at my house, J.R. wouldn't come out of his kennel for a couple of hours, and he was shaking so badly that I thought the kennel would come apart. I kept going in and laying down on the floor in front of his open door and talking to him, offering him bites of food and extending my hand for him to check me out. My big dog, Julie, kept running in and laying in front of him, too, wagging her tail and begging him to come out and play. Just when I was ready to give up and call my son and tell him I didn't want to keep J.R. for the weekend, he came out ... very tentatively at first, and then, before I knew it, fat little J.R. was waddling along beside me with every step I took and even licking my legs when I would stop walking. When it was time to turn in for the night, I decided to see if he might sleep in bed with Andy, Julie and me, and the minute my head hit my pillow, J.R. snuggled in right next to me, with his head tucked up close to my neck.

When I woke up the next morning, there was a fat little wiener dog nose right up against mine, and the minute my eyes were open, J.R. promptly planted a wet dog kiss on my face. And that was the moment I knew that he was going to be mine, that I would never let him go back into the system and risk him being hurt again. I called Matt and Becca and informed them that J.R. would be staying with me and Julie ... that my little fat buddy had most definitely found his "furever" home. I knew that morning that there was something special about J.R. ... I felt a connection with him that was different than anything I'd felt for any other dog, a connection that was deep and strong, a connection that spoke to the very core of my soul. And thus began a journey that I never expected, a journey that has forever changed who I am, a journey of love and lessons and loss.

Those of you who are long-time readers of this blog know the story of how J.R. quite literally saved my life ... he had a recurring back issue from being abused and was carrying some serious extra pounds, so the vet said I needed to take him for a walk every day. About a month or so into those walks, I began having some intense recurring pain in my left leg which became so bad that I went to the doctor. I was eventually diagnosed with diabetes, and my doctor sat across from me more somber than I had ever seen her and said, "It's only by God's grace that you are sitting in that chair. You should be dead several times over. You think you rescued that little dog, but I'm telling you as strongly as I can, God sent that pup to save your life." I went home from the doctor that day and held J.R. close and kissed him right on his little wiener dog mouth, and I thanked him ... over and over and over, I thanked him. I suddenly fully understood the heart and soul connection I felt with J.R. ... he was sent to me on a life-saving mission according to God's plan and purpose.

Over the last 15 months, J.R. and I have walked more miles than I can count on our beloved trail. We've seen a beaver, a fox, ducks, a turtle and lots and lots of birds. We've made new friends, old and young, human and canine, as we've marched along together. We've made a road trip to Tennessee and one to Colorado. We've lost a lot of weight, me a few more pounds than J.R. We've eaten cheese and peanut butter in the middle of the night. We've waded in the creek on a hot summer day. We've snuggled under a fleece blanket and watched a midnight snowfall. We've played tug of war with Julie and never admitted that she let us win. We've stayed in bed late on a Saturday morning and read a book out loud. We've rocked in the recliner when the thunder rolled and the lightening flashed. We've run around the back yard chasing butterflies and bunny rabbits. We've lounged in the hammock and basked in the warmth of the sun. We've ventured off the path and listened to the sound of the autumn leaves crunching under our feet. We've lived life together ... we've shared an extra special stretch of time as best friends ... we've loved with a pure and loyal love that neither of us had ever known before.

Early last week, I could tell that J.R.'s back was beginning to hurt a bit, and I took him to the vet for a cortisone shot and started him on the normal routine we followed when his back problem flared up. This time, however, nothing seemed to help him, and we went back to the vet for another injection. As the week wore on, J.R. grew progressively worse, and by late Friday night, he lost the use of his hind legs. On Saturday morning, our vet sent us to the emergency animal clinic, and after running some tests, a grim doctor told me that the previous injuries to J.R.'s back had worn out his spine. He said that surgery was his only option, but that his chances for even a partial recovery were very low. Since he wasn't in any pain, I took J.R. home and spent the rest of the day and most of the night cradling him in my arms. By Sunday morning, his breathing had become labored and there was a definite shift in his comfort level, and I knew that J.R.'s time was drawing to a close. A friend drove us to the clinic, and from the time we left my house until he passed away, J.R. never left my arms. He drew his final breath on Sunday morning around 10:00 ... snuggled against my chest ... licking my hand as long as he could. He went quietly and quickly, his pain gone and his little life complete.

J.R. has taught me so many things over the last 15 months, so very many things. The lessons I've learned from him about trust and loyalty and freedom and happiness and gratitude and love will stay with me until the day that I, too, draw my final breath. Our time together was far too short, but our time together was also way beyond precious. Remember earlier when I mentioned the path that J.R. had traveled before he came to me? When I think of where he had been ... of all he had endured ... it is nothing short of a miracle that he came to me on that hot and humid day in August. God sent that fat little wiener dog to me, of that I have not even a tiny shred of doubt.

Around my neck, I wear a medical ID dog tag. Though I originally thought I would take J.R.'s tag and bury it by the trail where he so loved to walk, I changed my mind on Sunday afternoon and placed his tag on my medical tag for two reasons ... he's why I discovered my diabetes, and the medical tag rests near my heart. He saved my life, little J.R., and he will forever be near my heart. When my friend Dee Dee arrived at my house on Sunday morning to find me stretched out on my couch sobbing with J.R. laying on my chest, she said that a verse from God's Word had been in her heart since I had spoken with her on Saturday and told her of his condition ... "To everything there is a season ... a time and a purpose under heaven." I don't know that I will ever understand why my season and my time with J.R. was so short, but I do understand that he came to me to fulfill a specific purpose ... to give me the gift of life. As I sat at the clinic and held him and rocked him in my arms, I made a promise to J.R. ... I promised him that I would keep on walking, that I would take care of myself and do my best to honor his gift.

J.R. left me with many special memories ... many precious and priceless and sweet memories ... and he left me with a final reminder of what he did for me. Last Sunday, November 14, 2010, was World Diabetes Day. Rest peacefully, little fat buddy, you truly were a good and faithful friend. And don't worry, I will never forget ... I will never ever forget.

Tickled Pink

2011-11-12T17:41:00.000-08:00

When my son Matt was a little boy, he loved the colors pink and purple. His favorite "toy" was a pink Minnie Mouse that he called Baby Sister, and he carried that pink mouse with him everywhere for a long time. And it was probably one of the most devastating events of his childhood when he left Baby Sister at an event we had attended and we couldn't find her when we returned. My son wept and wept over that little pink stuffed Minnie Mouse like his heart was breaking. He eventually became pretty attached to a Cabbage Patch doll named Jake, but old Jake never fully took the place of his Baby Sister. And you can rest assured that his brother Bradley has teased Matt endlessly about his love of pink and his infatuation with a female stuffed mouse. You can also rest assured that Matt teases Bradley as well about his Mickey and Minnie blanket that he carried around for years.

Last night after work, I drove out to the little town about two hours away where Matt and Becca live after dropping Julie off to have an overnight play date with her buddy, Brad's big dog Max. Matt and Becca and I sat up and chatted for a couple of hours, watching Ollie and their two wiener dogs run around their little apartment like wild things. Becca was quite excited to show me the nursery she and Matt have set up for their baby girl who will arrive at the end of January. The room is adorable with a white crib, shelves for all the baby paraphernalia and a well-stocked closet of clothes thanks to some gals whom Becca works with. She showed me the little outfit they are planning to have her 1-month photos taken in and the blanket her great grandma cross-stitched for the baby. Andy, their little dapple dachshund, cracked me up when he sat at the foot of the shelves crying and begging for the baby's rubber ducky that Becca had placed there. Matt pretty much just stood beaming from ear to ear, except for when he showed me the stuffed Snoopy he had purchased for his little girl ... Matt loves Charlie Brown and Peanuts, hence the significance of the Snoopy. His little girl ... those words still seem so surreal to me ... my son's little girl.

We spent the day shopping for baby things, first at a giant consignment sale where there were more baby items under one roof than I have ever seen. Then we went to Target on a quest for hot pink tights or leggings to accompany the little dress for BJ's (Baby Johnson) 1-month photos. I looked at more baby stuff today than I have in years and years and years. And ... I've never seen Matt so excited, so happy, so giddy about anything in his life the way he is about this baby. The closest he's come to this level of excitement was on his wedding day ... I can only imagine how he will feel when he holds his baby girl in his arms for the first time. Or how his heart will completely melt the first time she calls him Daddy. Or how he will ache when he puts her on the bus to go to school. Or how he will worry when she goes on her first date. Or how he will burst with pride as he walks her down the aisle on her wedding day.

Pink ... my son has always loved pink, and now ... now he is tickled pink ... pink ... he's tickled pink.

Integrity at Any Price

2011-11-11T15:57:00.000-08:00

There is something about a flag waving in the wind that always kind of gets to me. Whether it is the red, white and blue fabric sauntering in the gentle breeze of autumn or being flung about in the ferocious gusts of winter, whenever I see the stars and stripes, it causes me to pause and give thanks, even if only for a moment, for the freedom the flag represents and for those who have fought to win that precious freedom. If one flag waving in the wind can bring me such emotion, you can only imagine what it does to my heart when I saw more than 750 flags on a grassy hill next to the interstate as I drove into work yesterday morning. You see, each year, a group of Boy Scouts places the flags on the hill to commemorate Veterans Day, and it's a truly moving display ... a display of freedom, a display of respect, a display of honor, and a display of integrity.

A few years ago, my daughter and I drove from Kansas City to Nashville to attend a send-off ceremony for my nephew who was being deployed to Iraq. I had never been to a military commissioning event, so I had no idea what to expect. As the dignitaries who were the scheduled speakers gathered at the front of the large room, I realized that this was a pretty huge deal ... there were some big names there, including the governor of Tennessee. But it wasn't until the soldiers came marching in that the lump formed in my throat and the tears filled my eyes. I can't begin to tell you how powerful it was to watch those men and women file in, stand at attention, salute, remove their hats and sit in perfect unison. In fact, the entire ceremony was powerful, and there were plenty of tears when the service ended and we had to say our goodbyes to my nephew. On my drive back to KC, I remember praying for Charlie's safety while he was away, and thanking God for soldiers like him who live their lives defending the freedom that I so very often take for granted.

Charlie spent over a year in Iraq, and we were all very grateful when he returned home safe and sound. He is my sister's only son, and I've written about him before. He truly is a man of honor and courage and integrity, and I have a great deal of respect for him on many levels. I don't know if he remembers it or not, but once when I was visiting Chattanooga, he and I had a lengthy conversation one night about what is really important in life. I will forever remember one statement he made that evening concerning his granddad, my daddy. "Granddad taught me about integrity, Terrie ... he taught me what it means to be willing to sacrifice all you have to be a man of character and integrity." Trust me, Charlie ... you learned Daddy's lesson well, young man ... you learned it well.

I don't think it was coincidence that the song that was playing on my iPod this morning as I drove past the flags on the side of the highway talks about honor and integrity and living by example. I know that not all soldiers live by that code of conduct, but I know at least one who does. Thank you, Charlie, for being the man you are ... and thank you to all the men and women who love this country enough to keep it free. God bless you, and God bless America.

"You see, life cannot be measured by
The place you live, the car you drive
The thing that counts the day you die
Is who you are, and what's inside
So tell the truth, don't ever lie
Integrity at any price
Your word's your bond, your highest prize
So guard it close, and live your life
So many things, I learned from you
'Bout life and love and play,
But I learned more by how you lived
Than what I heard you say."

Porcupine Hair

2011-11-10T18:49:00.000-08:00

For as long as I can remember, there have been things I didn't like about my body. I'm sure many of my readers who are female can totally relate ... I think maybe it's a woman thing. I've always wished I was taller or thinner or had bigger eyes or less wrinkles or prettier feet or whiter teeth ... or ... or ... or ... I know that you girls get what I'm saying ... you totally get it. And no matter how much other people told me that I was perfect the way I was, there were always things I didn't like about myself. For all the things about my physical appearance I didn't like, however, there was one thing I always prided (key word, prided) myself on ... my hair. I have always had good hair, no matter the cut or the style or even the color, I've always had good hair. Yep, I've always liked my hair.

I've written a great deal in this blog about the ups and downs of having diabetes, and about some of the not-so-fun side effects of the various medications that I must take on a daily basis. Most of them have been manageable, albeit not fun, and usually subside after a few days or weeks. One of those side effects, though, is one that began a year or so ago, isn't going away, and involves my hair ... yep, the one thing I prided (key word, prided) myself on my whole life. The gal who has done my hair for over 15 years was the one who noticed it first, and I think I may always remember her words ... words that knocked the wind out of me. "Your hair is getting really thin in some spots, Terrie, probably because of your medication." And over the last year, my hair has gotten thinner and thinner and thinner in some spots, so thin that my hairdresser finally cut it really short, telling me that was the only way to make me look like I have more hair.

At first it bothered me a bit ... OK ... it bothered me a lot that my hair was thinning and for a while I had nightmares of bald spots and wigs and people staring and pointing at me and my lessening hair. But eventually, I've grown to really like my short, spiky do ... it's super easy to take care of, all I have to do is put this gel stuff in it, run my fingers through it and I'm done. I still worry about going bald, but the short do makes the thinning less noticeable, at least for now anyway. I get a lot of compliments on my hair, both on the cut and the color ... guess it's not every day that people see an older gray-haired gal with such a hip haircut.

Yesterday morning when I got ready to leave for work, I looked in the mirror and said out loud ... "Julie and Ollie, I'm having a really, really good hair day. Yep, my hair is looking fine today!" And remember how I said I always prided myself on my hair? Well, last night was crazy hair night at Awana, and most of the kids had ... well ... they had crazy hair. Some had their hair all spiked up; some had crazy bows and headbands on; some had weird colors sprayed in their hair. A lot of the leaders had their hair crazy, too, including some really funky looking wigs. So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by the comments of a couple of little boys when I was helping them with their Bible verses. One of them said, "Cool! You have porcupine hair for crazy hair night!" And before I could say a word, the other little boy said, "No, she doesn't. She always has porcupine hair." So much for priding myself on my hair, huh?

I've thought all day about those two little boys and their matter-of-fact commentary about my spiky hair. And I've thought all day about how open and honest little kids are ... they generally say exactly what they think, without reservation and without filters. And I've thought all day about pride and how even when I think I have completely dealt with the issue of pride in my life, God allows two little boys telling me I have porcupine hair to teach me again that pride can lurk in places within me where I never imagined it could. My dad used to say that when a person thinks they've learned all they can learn about God and how humble He really wants us to be, He finds a way to teach us all over again. Porcupine hair and pride ... I sure didn't see that one coming ... wow, God, wow.

"When pride comes, then comes dishonor, but with the humble is wisdom." Proverbs 11:2

Where You Found Me

2011-11-09T17:45:00.000-08:00

As a parent, there are no words to begin to describe the terror that grips your soul when you can't find your child. And as a parent of three kiddos who are close in age, I experienced that feeling more than once during the years when they were young. I don't know if the kids remember those times, but I sure do ... I sure do. One of those instances involved Bradley, and for some reason, that particular time has been on my mind a lot lately. In fact, I've thought about it so much that I could even tell you the clothes that Brad had on the afternoon that it happened. Obviously, the event left a huge imprint on my brain at the time it occurred, and obviously, the fact that God keeps bringing it back to the forefront of my conscious thinking must mean that there's still a lesson for me in it. That's just like God, you know, to bring something back to our hearts and minds that happened a long time ago so that He can teach us another truth or lesson ... that's just like Him.

Brad was the one of my kids who could sleep anywhere when he was little, as long as he had his yellow blanket and his pacie. He could sleep on the floor, in the car, outside in the grass ... you name a spot, and my Bradley could sleep there. So I suppose that what happened that afternoon so many years ago shouldn't have surprised me ... or frightened me to death either. Matt, Brad and Meghann had been playing downstairs in our finished basement, the basement that was the ultimate playroom for little kids. Their dad built them this giant wooden thing that was half little boy-sized fort and half little-girl sized dollhouse. They had one of those big plastic jungle gyms with a slide, and a plastic workshop and plastic kitchen. One whole wall of the basement was lined with shelves to hold all their toys, and they had a little cubby under the stairs that they turned into the Lego room. It really was an awesome place for the kiddos to play, and they spent countless hours in that basement when they were young. It was late afternoon when I went downstairs to take them some snacks and discovered that Brad wasn't in the basement with Matt and Meghann. When I asked them where he was, Matt said that Brad got mad and went upstairs a while ago.

I went upstairs to check in his room ... no Brad. I went from bedroom to bedroom ... no Brad. I went through the family room, office, dining room, laundry room, kitchen, closets and the bathrooms ... no Brad. I went to the garage and out in the yard ... no Brad. By then, the terror and panic began to engulf me as I again went from room to room calling Brad's name ... no Brad. Now the thing about Brad when he was little? He would get mad and pout for a really long time. It would have been so like him to have been hiding somewhere, waiting to jump out and scare me when I walked by. I'm not sure how long it was until I found Brad, but by the time I did, I was frantic ... and actually, it was Matt who discovered him curled up with his blanket in a tiny little space between the wall and the china cabinet in the dining room. My little middle kiddo had simply crawled into what he considered to be a good spot and taken a nap, completely oblivious to my search or my overwhelming fear that some harm had befallen him.

So here's the thing ... in Brad's mind, he was just sleeping ... he wasn't lost at all, he was just mad and tired and sleepy. In this mother's mind, however, my son was missing ... perhaps wounded or frightened, but he was definitely lost. A song on a CD this morning caused me to think once again about the scene with Brad ... when I found him, I scooped him into my arms and carried him into the family room, sat in the recliner, and rocked my little boy found. And as I did, you can be assured that I shed many a tear of gratitude that he was safe within my arms. Now later, I had a stern chat with Brad about telling me before he decided to curl up and snooze somewhere, but at that moment, I was beyond thankful that my lost son had been found.

I think that's the way it is with me and God sometimes ... I don't realize how lost I am. I think I'm simply tired of the trials of life, or I work myself into a tight spot and want to close my eyes, not even attempt to get out and just go to sleep. I wrap myself in my blanket and feel all safe and cozy, and then, before I know it, I'm asleep and have no clue that God has been searching for me and calling out my name. God knows I need to be found, and I don't even recognize that I'm lost because I'm asleep in my little tight spot ... whoa ... there's a powerful lesson there for me ... friends, and maybe for some of you as well.

"Lost is where You found me
Shattered and frail
But You love me still
Trouble may surround me
My heart may fail
But You never will
You never will.

You lifted me out
You lifted me out
And set me dancing, dancing
Free, now I am free
Your love rescued me
Now it's the anthem I'm singing."

One of Us

2011-11-08T14:31:00.000-08:00

When I began writing this blog back in 2008, I did so because the guy who created the website for my speaking ministry told me I needed to write a blog. I was really half-hearted about it, though, and only posted 36 entries for the entire first two years. Then one of my doctors last year asked me to blog twice a week and he asked me to be extremely real and transparent in my posts, saying that it would be "good therapy" for me in my struggle with depression. So in 2010, I penned 100 posts. I never anticipated that this blog would resonate with so many people, or that God had such a purpose and plan for the words He places on my heart to share ... seems I so very often underestimate Him. Today's post is number 221 for 2011 to date, and God graciously continues to provide ideas and words for several posts each week. Even more, however, God uses this blog to cause me to be open, honest, real and transparent ... I quite often share things that I've kept hidden for years, locked away behind the walls of fear or pride or shame. I've felt God's prodding and urging on many occasions to speak out on certain issues or to reveal my own personal battles.

I know this may surprise many of you, but when I was young, I was an introvert in the truest sense of the word. I was never one of the popular kids ... never. In fact, I was one of those kids the other kids made fun of and teased because I had a speech problem. It wasn't until the early years of junior high school that I was able to speak clearly, but by then the wounds that were inflicted by my peers caused me to be withdrawn and afraid to trust anyone. It was several years before I ventured out of my protective shell and began to be included in groups and activities, and I can remember like it was yesterday lying in my bed wishing so badly to belong. Perhaps I remember those feelings like they were yesterday because, as I've previously written, I am acutely aware that I don't fit or belong anywhere anymore. A woman who attended the retreat last weekend asked me to pray for her ... she told me of some physical issues she has, saying, "No one wants to be around me anymore. I understand why, but it hurts all the same to be so alone." If you're reading this blog, dear one, please know that I am praying for you and that I truly do understand how you feel.

It's not a coincidence that God called a gal who had a hard time speaking in front of anyone to eventually become a speaker ... nothing He does is ever a coincidence but part of His much greater plan for my life. Nor was it a coincidence that when the women gathered around me last Sunday morning to pray as I knelt sobbing before them that one of the ladies uttered some words that have had a huge impact on me this week. A young woman led the prayer time, asking God to strengthen and bless me, and I heard the other women agreeing with her requests on my behalf. And then ... then I heard one of the ladies say, "She is one of us, Lord, she is one of us." Once again, I heard the other women speaking in agreement, "Yes, Lord, she is one of us."

I haven't been able to get those words out of my mind or my heart, and every time I think of them, tears spring to my eyes. I am certain the dear woman who uttered those words had no idea that God was using her to touch the depths of my soul in such a mighty and powerful way or how much I appreciated what she said. I am sure that she didn't know how often I feel so alone now, how much I miss the relationships I once had, how much I don't belong. The more I've thought about the words of this sister in the Lord, the more I realize how important they really are. "She is one of us" ... shouldn't that be the cry of all who are believers? Shouldn't we all be included and loved and accepted and welcomed and treasured and cared for and encouraged and lifted up? Shouldn't we obey the command in God's Word to love one another as He loves us? Seriously ... shouldn't we?

"Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: if either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken." Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12

All Abuzz

2011-11-07T17:11:00.000-08:00

Most of the time, I don't have the opportunity to meet any of the ladies involved in planning an event where I am asked to speak, mainly because of logistics ... we live too far apart to pop into a coffee shop for a meet and greet. Many of the women contact me through one of the speakers' websites that I am a member of or through the recommendation of another group for which I've spoken. But occasionally, I have the opportunity to sit down and chat with one or more of the women in charge of organizing the retreat or brunch or luncheon. Such was the case a few weeks ago when I had the true blessing of meeting the gals who planned the retreat that took place in Branson last weekend. We met at a restaurant not far from my house after work one evening for dinner ... well, they ate dinner and I watched and talked.

I had just returned from the weekend I spent in Edna, Kansas ... those of you who are faithful readers will remember that on my drive home from Edna, a gigantic, enormous, monster-sized black and yellow bee flew into my car and stung me on the forehead. For those of you who missed that post, it's titled Crossing the Line and it recounts my traumatic experience with said bee. Perhaps because the encounter was still so vivid in my mind (and on my forehead) the night I met the gals for dinner, I shared with the ladies what had happened to me. And ... I made sure to tell them how gigantically enormously monster-sized the bee was, complete with "the bee was this big!" measurements with my hands. We had a good laugh together about the bee incident, and they teased me about how the bee would grow in size each time I told the story.

When I arrived at the lodge on Friday afternoon, I went inside to make sure I was at the right place. The ladies from the planning team greeted me with smiles and hugs, and then they unloaded my car ... yep, I didn't have to lift a finger because they carried everything in for me. One of the gals gave me a tour of the top floor while another told me I couldn't see my room just yet. Eventually, they took me to my room and as I stepped in the door, a camera flashed and caught my expression as I saw a gigantic, enormous, monster-sized bee attached to the light above my bed ... what an incredibly fun way to begin my weekend with this group of ladies! I was told that when they left the restaurant the night I met them for dinner, they all decided that there must be a bee waiting for me when I came to the retreat. One of the gals found a dog's bee Halloween costume, stuffed it and stitched it together and added a head with eyes, antennae and a scary mouth ... creative and absolutely hilarious. "Bumbles the Giagantic, Enormous, Monster-sized Bee" rode back to Kansas City with me tucked securely into Ollie's doggie car seat, and I've decided that Bumbles will be accompanying me to many of my speaking events in the future.

In my last post, I wrote about how God moved last weekend, not only in the hearts of the women attending, but in my own heart as well. Needless to say, I've had the events of the retreat on my mind all day today, and it was as I was driving home this evening in the rain (and the darkness since the time changed last weekend) that another truth presented itself to me. Those ladies listened to me that night at dinner, but they did more than just listen ... they heard my heart, and they understood my earnest desire for their retreat to be richly blessed by God. They felt my longing to serve our Lord together, and they embraced my passion for women's ministry. They even appreciated my unusual sense of humor ... come on ... they made and hung a giant bee from the ceiling for me. And to prove that God has a sense of humor as well, right after I shared the bee story at the beginning of Saturday evening's session with the ladies who were attending the retreat, a moth flew by the side of my head and scared the daylights out of me ... a gigantic, enormous, monster-sized moth.

Here's the thing ... those sweet ladies got it that night at dinner ... they listened and heard and got it. As I pulled into the garage this evening, I thought ... I would do well to learn from those gals, Lord, I would do well indeed. So here's to gigantic, enormous, monster-sized bees ... here's to smiles and laughter and fun ... here's to new friends ... here's to serving an awesome God Who brings the right people to the right place at the right time. Perfection, Lord ... You are true perfection.

Let Faith Arise

2011-11-06T16:15:00.000-08:00

I have no idea how many women's events I've spoken at over the last 12 years, but I do know that some of those events hold a very special place in my heart. I've met so many women through the years, so many precious and unique women. I've listened to their stories ... some that caused me to smile and laugh, and some that caused me to cry like a baby. I often say that I'm the one who comes away from the events with the greatest blessing ... those ladies don't know how much God uses them to touch me, they just don't know. The event that I spoke at this weekend in Branson was one of the most special retreats I've ever attended. I've got some funny stories to share in upcoming posts, not the least of which involves another giant bee. But this post, this post is about the amazing things I saw God do this weekend.

The purpose of the retreat was to help kick off a women's ministry in a church that hasn't really had any organized women's activities for several years. I was contacted by the gal who heads up the new women's planning team ... a group of seven ladies who most definitely are of one accord when it comes to having a heart for the needs of the women in their church. They worked tirelessly to pull the retreat together, and their efforts were obvious in every little detail ... candles on our pillows, ceramic coffee mugs with each woman's name written on them, beautifully decorated boxes filled with all kinds of things from bandaids to shampoo to tissues to candy and snacks, an outdoor scavenger hunt, lovingly prepared meals, fresh cut flowers in each bedroom, journals for taking notes ... they thought of everything, and they did an incredible job of making each woman feel welcome and special.

From the moment I stepped across the threshold of the lodge on Friday evening, I felt God's presence ... as I unpacked my things, I wondered just what God had in store for the weekend. After a sweet time of prayer with the planning team, I went ahead and ate dinner before most of the women arrived so that I could take my meds and keep my blood sugar level. As the women ate dinner, I wandered from table to table introducing myself and chatting with them. By the time the main session began, I was anxious to see where God would lead the evening. The worship time was such a blessing ... it always moves me to listen as women lift their voices in praise to the Lord, and when that praise is accompanied by the lifting of hands and the sounds of prayer, it's a powerful experience. Our first session was about friendship, and the ladies listened attentively as I spoke. As happens so often to me now, tears filled my eyes more than once and the women passed boxes of Kleenex around the room as their own tears fell as well. When the session was over, the women scattered throughout the lodge ... some eating snacks, some playing games, some talking, some praying. As I turned in for the night, I thanked God for the relationships He was already beginning to build among the women.

Saturday morning began with a long walk for me and a time of prayer and preparation for the day's sessions. Our first session was about service, and my tears returned as I told the story of Russell ... the homeless war veteran I wrote about in the post I Met a Man. After lunch was the scavenger hunt outdoors in the beautiful fall sunshine that filled the woods around the lodge, and then several of the women headed into Branson for some shopping. I spent most of the afternoon sitting outside on the deck chatting with some women from the planning team. It did my heart good to see the passion in their hearts as they talked about their desire for creating a ministry that would touch the lives of the women in their church. The evening session's topic concerned what the women would do when they returned home and how they would follow God's call on their lives to minister to one another and to others. I stayed up way too late playing a really fun game that one of the women had created, laughing and eating peanuts ... really good peanuts.

I've written a great deal over the last year about how God has humbled me, about how much He has broken me and how I've come to understand His desire that I surrender all of me to His will, that there be nothing that comes before Him in my life. The ladies of the planning team had asked that I give a short devotion this morning before we shared in communion and the retreat concluded. As I stood listening to the ladies lift their voices in song, waves of emotion washed over me and tears began streaming down my cheeks. I was completely overwhelmed with the presence of God in the room ... I could feel His spirit ... I could hear Him speaking to me ... I could see Him working in the hearts of other women. The sweet gal standing next to me placed her hand on my back and began to pray for me, and as she did, God's voice sounded loudly in my heart. "Remember you are mine, Terrie, remember my sacrifice for you. Remember that I'm holding you in the palm of my hand, my child, remember. I called you for this purpose, and that call remains. Speak to them of My love ... speak to them of My redeeming grace ... speak to them of Me. I am your strength ... I am your voice ... I am your Savior and your Lord. Trust me, Terrie ... have faith ... humble yourself and have faith in Me ... humble yourself before Me ... humble yourself."

When it was time for me to speak, I struggled to regain my composure but my efforts were in vain as I turned my back toward the women and my tears continued to fall. And then one of the women asked if they could pray for me and asked me to step into the middle of the group. As I walked toward them, I heard Him ... "Kneel before Me. Kneel in My presence." I dropped down on my knee as the women placed their hands on my shoulders, back and head and lifted me before God's throne. When they finished praying, I stood before them, humbled and weeping still, and spoke the devotion that God had placed upon my heart. As I moved from woman to woman serving communion, I understood at least in part the purpose of God's humbling ... my heart needed to be humbled and broken in order for me to serve the bread and the wine that symbolizes the death of my Lord. To further cement His lesson of humility to me, one of the ladies took a tissue and wiped my dripping nose as I served communion.

Thank you, ladies, for including me this weekend ... thank you for allowing God to use you to bless me. And thank You, Lord, for Your grace extended to me, a sinner so unworthy ... let my faith arise, Father, let my faith arise.

Branson Bound

2011-11-04T11:12:00.000-07:00

Even though I live within a few hours of Branson, Missouri, I've been there one time in all the 21 years I've lived in Kansas City. And it's probably been 10 or more years since I made that trip along with my artist friend and her son Tommy and my son Matt. We traveled to Silver Dollar City to spend the day signing the poetry/art prints that Becky and I created together. The boys spent the day eating and riding the rides in the park, checking in with us every hour or so. It was a very fun trip ... it was in late October, and the weather was incredible that day. We met a ton of people as we signed prints, and the manager of the park treated us like rock stars ... we had a blast.

I'm heading back to Branson today to speak at a women's retreat for the weekend. The group of gals rented a lodge that resides on a 500-acre ranch ... sounds like my kind of place for sure. I'm looking forward to getting away for a couple of days ... to hanging out in the country, to listening to what God has to say, to jumping off the grind of daily life for a bit.

So ... have a good weekend, friends ... I'm quite sure that if I decide to come back to the real world, I'll return with some stories to share. You know me ... I hear stories on every corner, and I'm thinking there's a good chance I'll hear some in the woods over the next couple of days.

Playing With Fire

2011-11-03T19:06:00.000-07:00

Over the nine years that I've worked at my current job, occasionally I've needed to help out with tasks other than copy editing. Some of them I didn't enjoy at all, others I learned to develop a certain level of appreciation for, and a few I completely loved doing ... like building a fire in the wood-burning fireplace on cold wintry days. I'm good at building fires, too, which may be why I've been dubbed "Master Firebuilder" by some folks in my office. There's an art to creating a raging fire ... laying the wood the correct way, using enough kindling, placing the newspaper in the most strategic areas ... everything has to be just right in order for the wood to ignite and create a roaring blaze.

This morning, I was freezing when I walked into my office from the parking lot, so after dropping off my things at my desk I immediately headed downstairs to build a fire. And after building the fire, I sat on the hearth in front of it trying to get warm. That's another side effect of my diabetes ... I've lost so much weight that I'm cold to the bone when the temps drop outside, and I have a really hard time getting warm. It wasn't long until the fire was blazing, and as I used the fireplace utensils to stoke it up even more and throw on a couple more logs, one of the owners of my company walked up and said, "You certainly love playing with that fire, don't you?" I smiled and replied, "You bet I do!" And every hour or so throughout the day, I would head back downstairs and add more wood to the fire.

I've been thinking all day about the owner's words this morning ... about how much I love playing with the fire at the office. And, of course, in pondering the literal fireplace, I started thinking about how many times in life I've had the following words spoken to me ... "You're playing with fire, Terrie," concerning certain situations I've gotten involved in or people I've associated with throughout the course of my life. Sometimes, the warning was given in love and was appropriate and needed to keep me from getting burned by the flames of sin. But at other times, the warning was spoken with a critical spirit and from a place of judgment and only served to wound me or produce an unwarranted sense of guilt or despair.

As I drove home this evening, I couldn't help but think that for all the times I've played with the fire at work, not once have I ever gotten burned. I haven't gotten burned because I don't ever stick my hand in the fire ... I don't ever sit too close to the fire ... I don't ever get near the fire without the protection of the heavy woven curtain securely in place. And yet in life, there are times when I jump right into the fire ... forget sticking my hand in or sitting too close or having a strong covering in front of the fire ... I jump right into the middle of the flames. Just like the roaring fire in the fireplace at my office beckons me on a cold day, there are times when the fires of sin and disobedience try their best to draw me in. It's an interesting beast ... temptation ... I can rationalize and justify and make excuses all day long when I get too close to that fire, but when it's all said and done, if I give in and get into the fire, I still get burned.

"No temptation has overtaken you but such as is common to man; and God is faithful, who will not allow you to be tempted beyond what you are able, but with the temptation will provide the way of escape also, so that you will be able to endure it." 1 Corinthians 10:13

Take Off My Shoes

2011-11-02T19:24:00.000-07:00

My mom loved shoes. When my brother and sister cleaned out her house when it sold, they discovered that Mom had hundreds of pairs of shoes tucked away in every closet in the house. She had every kind of shoe you can imagine ... from old, pointed-toe dress shoes to athletic shoes in every style known to mankind to house slippers in a wide array of colors to work shoes to sandals ... literally every kind and color of shoe you can think of, Mom had them. I didn't inherit Mom's love for shoes ... I've never cared much about shoes at all. As long as they fit and didn't have holes in them, that was all that mattered to me. Well, until a couple of years ago.

One of the side effects I have from years of having undiagnosed diabetes is that my feet hurt and tingle from neuropathy ... a lot ... so now I pay a great deal more attention to the shoes that I place on my feet. I probably bought 10 different pairs of athletic shoes before a shoe salesman told me I needed to purchase trail shoes to wear for my nightly walks. I have several pairs of dress shoes ... only because sometimes I am forced to wear them for certain occasions. That was a quest in and of itself ... finding dress shoes that didn't cause my feet to ache and throb to the point that I could barely stand to walk. I don't like that I have to think so much about shoes now, and I miss the days when I could just wear any old pair and be just fine. But every once in a while, I see a glimmer of Mom in me as I discover a pair of shoes that brings pure delight to my soul. Such was the case a week or so ago when I decided that I needed a pair of old-fashioned Converse tennis shoes.

I had a 30% coupon combined with some Kohl's cash (translated, that means I spent a significant amount of money at Kohl's the weekend before on clothes and received Kohl's cash for every $50 I spent), so I opted to go shoe shopping. I was a bit overwhelmed when I quickly discovered upon my arrival to the shoe department that Converse tennis shoes now come in a vast array of colors and styles. I spent over an hour trying on shoes ... an hour, friends, which is a long time for me to shop for anything. I finally narrowed my choice down to two pair of Converse ... one the traditional black and white, and one a light gray with frayed edges and pastel colors as accents. I ultimately decided it was an impossible choice between the two, so I bought them both. And I absolutely love, love, love, love, love those shoes ... they are unbelievably comfortable, and they are quite stylish as well. The problem now is that I don't want to wear any other kind of shoes ... I want to wear my Converse tennies all the time.

This morning as I drove to work, I was tapping my foot (in my Converse shoes, of course) to a song that came on during my iPod shuffle, when the words gave me pause to think about my strong connection to my newly purchased shoes. It's by Philips Craig & Dean, and it's titled "Spirit of God." The following lines struck me, completely struck me, as I headed down the highway.

"Take off your shoes and stand in awe
Bow our hearts to the mighty God
He is near, the spirit of God is here."

So here's the thing ... I really, really, really love my Converse shoes, and I don't want to take them off. But there are times when I have to remove them, when it's not appropriate for me to have them on. As I walked into my office, my brain was pulsing with the lesson, with the truth that God wanted me to absorb today. It was almost as if I could hear Him speaking the words from Exodus 3 directly to me, cautioning me to pay attention to where I am standing. And all day, I've been wondering if I don't pay attention to Him ... if I don't see Him ... if I don't hear Him ... if I don't honor Him ... if I don't trust Him because I'm standing in a place where I don't want to take off my shoes, a place where I don't want to stand on holy ground, a place where I don't want to bow my heart, a place where I don't want to feel His spirit. My prayer tonight? That God would lead me to holy ground and that I would take off my shoes and stand in His presence.

“'Do not come any closer,' God said. 'Take off your sandals, for the place where you are standing is holy ground.' Then He said, 'I am the God of your father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Jacob.'" Exodus 3:5-6

Reach Out Ranch

2011-11-01T18:15:00.000-07:00

When I was in junior high, I had a major crush on a boy named Matt ... obviously I loved the name as much as the boy, because Matt is my oldest son's name. I was completely infatuated with the Matt from my youth ... he had eyes so brown they were almost black, and long hair that he always pushed away from his face. He was what my mom would have called "lanky" ... tall and thin, and he kind of sauntered along when he walked. Yep, I had a thing for that boy for sure that lasted into my high school years. It was only natural that when someone invited me to go to a Bible study that Matt attended on a regular basis, I jumped at the chance ... not because I cared even a little bit about studying the Bible, but because I saw it as an opportunity to be near the young man who was the object of my desire.

The place where the Bible study was held was called Reach Out Ranch, and we met in an old barn that the owners of the ranch had cleaned out and fixed up for the specific purpose of having Bible studies there. The study was on Tuesday nights, and several of us took turns driving since the ranch was on the other side of town from where we all lived. There were a couple of different people who alternated teaching the lesson each week, and I couldn't even begin to tell you what we studied. I do remember, though, that the lady who most often led the study had a different approach to studying the Bible than any I had experienced before. She talked about how God's Word needed to be studied word by word and precept upon precept. I remember being fascinated with the way she would tie the stories in the Bible together and show how they all built upon one another ... it was amazing to me the way the whole Bible came alive when she taught, and how it all seemed to fit together ... word by word, precept upon precept.

Sometimes I don't see the forest for the trees ... and that part of my personality was present when I was young as well. Each week I went to that Bible study and had no clue of the powerful teaching I was being exposed to ... you see, Reach Out Ranch went on to become Precept Ministries International, and the lady who taught those Bible studies was Kay Arthur. For those of you who don't know about Precept or who Kay Arthur is ... buzz over to Google and find out ... there's way too much stuff to put in this post. I sat there in that renovated barn for several years listening to one of the greatest Bible scholars and teachers of all time ... and I missed it ... I completely and totally missed it.

As I drove home tonight, I couldn't stop thinking about Reach Out Ranch, and I realized that not only did I miss the significance of attending a Bible study led by Kay Arthur in my youth, I also missed the deep meaning behind the original name of Precept Ministries ... Reach Out Ranch. The Arthurs bought the property in 1970 and began the ministry to reach out ... first to youth, then to adults ... to reach out and share the truths of God's Word in a relevant and life-changing way. I couldn't help but think about the people in my life over the years who reached out to me, who wouldn't let me go, who wanted desperately for me to have a relationship with Jesus Christ. And I couldn't help but think about all those who are lonely or wounded or sick or desperate or lost and need someone to reach out to them.

Thank You, Lord, for sending people to reach out to me ... thank You for sowing the seed of Your Word in my heart all those years ago ... thank You for holding me and keeping me and saving me ... thank You, Lord ... thank You.

Just As I Am

2011-10-31T18:44:00.000-07:00

Each one of my three children is different from the other. There may be similarities between them in appearance, and even at times in their behavior (especially when they were young), but they are still very different. They like different foods and different colors and different animals and different movies and different people. They have different temperaments and different ways of expressing their emotions. They spend their money in different ways, and they live in different cities. They clean their places of abode differently, and they drive different makes and models of cars. Each one of my three children is different from the other, and yet I love each one of them just as he or she is. I didn't ask at the hospital when they were born if I could trade them in for different babies ... I loved them exactly how they were ... they didn't have to do one single thing to make me love them ... I loved them just as they were.

It's funny to me that I have no trouble at all in understanding my love for my children ... it was unconditional from the moment I discovered I was pregnant with each of them. My love for my children was never based on how they looked or the words they spoke or what they did ... and it still isn't. I've gone through some rough patches with each of them, but no matter what happened, my love for them never wavered or failed. So it's more than odd to me that I sometimes struggle with God loving me with a depth and passion that makes my motherly love seem meaningless in comparison. My mind knows that He loves me without reservation, but at times my heart simply can't understand why He does. And yet, the truth remains ... God loves me no matter what.

Yesterday someone asked me if I believed that God He created me just as I am and that He loves me just as I am. My answer was that of course I believe those things to be true, but her question has troubled me today as I've thought about it. I wonder what causes us as humans to come to think that anything we can do or don't do or should do can alter God's love for us. I wonder what causes us to think that God somehow made a mistake when He formed us in our mothers' wombs. I wonder how we could ever doubt God's unconditional, sacrificial love when He gave His only Son to save us. I wonder if it is others telling us we are unworthy or unacceptable or unlovable that causes us to lose faith in God's abiding love for us.

In the midst of my wondering ... in the midst of my questioning ... in the midst of my seeking, I keep returning to some verses in the book of Psalms. Verses that tell me God made every part and piece of me ... verses that tell me He knows me from the inside out ... verses that tell me He loves me just as I am.

"For you created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well." Psalm 139:13-14

Where's the Calgon?

2011-10-30T18:58:00.000-07:00

There is nothing quite as soothing as a hot bath, especially when my muscles are aching or I'm bone tired or I'm freezing cold. I remember loving to take baths when I was a kid, too, and I would play with toys in the tub and stay in until my skin was shriveled. I can still hear Mom ... "Lord, help! Are you gonna stay in that tub all night? Get on out of there!" I don't know why, but I remember the tub as being one of the places where I would dream up stories that I would later write down on paper. It was as if the hot water released the creative side of my brain somehow, or perhaps the tub was simply a place of escape for me ... a place where the dirt of reality was washed away and replaced with the freshness of dreams.

I'm sure many of you remember the old Calgon commercials ... a super-stressed woman would come home at the end of a busy day, sink into the tub and proclaim, "Calgon, take me away!" And magically, all of her worries and troubles would instantly evaporate as the soothing Calgon embraced her in its watery world. As is true with many commercial lines or jingles, the Calgon words became a well-known catch phrase for "I can't take it anymore! Get me out of here!" I've often wondered how many women were beyond disappointed when the Calgon didn't make all the bad stuff in their lives go away ... seriously, some people believe those television commercials ... I work for an ad agency, trust me, people believe them.

I was thinking tonight as I climbed out of the tub how many times I've wished that Calgon really did work ... that I could pour a big old dose of it into my bath water and after I soaked for a while, all my troubles would be gone. Perhaps I've been buying the wrong bath stuff because I haven't found anything that works that way yet. No matter how long I soak, all the cares I took with me into the tub are still there when I get out. No matter how many times I chant, "Calgon, take me away!", I'm still in the same place I was when I stepped into the water.

As I sat down to type this blog, I couldn't help but think about the day I was baptized a little over 12 years ago and the way I felt when I came up out of the water. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders, or perhaps I should say from my heart. My world had spiraled out of control, and my life of pretense was destroying me from the inside out. I'm certain that I would not be around today had I not met Jesus that afternoon, had I not been washed in His atoning blood and bathed in His redeeming grace.

Help me to remember, Lord, in the midst of the cares and troubles and worries of this life, Calgon can't take me anywhere ... only You can.

Reaper Road

2011-10-29T18:43:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish I would have written down all of the things I've seen or experienced down through the years in my travels to speaking engagements. I remember a lot of them, but I've forgotten some as well. I won't ever forget, however, when some gals put a fake mouse in my bed at a camp where I was speaking. Or when I was asked to return there a few years later and a couple of different gals put a fake snake and a fake frog in my bed. And then there was the weekend that I spoke at a retreat center where my cabin was located on a very secluded part of the property, and my car got stuck in the mud and I didn't have a flashlight or my cell phone ... that was fun for sure. I have some special serious memories, too, like when I first baptized a woman who was present at one of the retreats ... I baptized her in the hotel pool, and it was one of the most moving experiences I've ever had. I have many memories of deep and touching conversations I've had with ladies at events who were hurting or wounded or struggling in their faith. Maybe one day I'll write an "on the road" book of some sort.

This morning, I drove down to Leroy, Kansas, to speak for their Women's Day event ... Leroy is about an hour and a half from where I live, and it was a perfect day for a road trip. As I drove into the town of Leroy, I saw something that made me laugh out loud in my car. That is just awesome, I thought, just totally awesome. On the right-hand side of the road was the town cemetery ... one of those old-fashioned, small-town cemeteries with the large tombstones atop the graves located there. Now I'm sure you're wondering why in the world I would laugh out loud when I saw the cemetery, and you're probably thinking that I have a really sick and twisted mind. But it wasn't seeing the cemetery that made me laugh ... it was the name on the street sign of the road directly across from the graveyard that made me laugh ... Reaper Road ... as in the Grim Reaper of Death. Come on ... that's just plain old stinking funny.

When I stood to speak this morning, I couldn't help myself ... I had to make a comment about the name of the road across from the cemetery, and all day I've wondered which was there first, the cemetery or Reaper Road. Thankfully, the women in the group understood why that was so funny to me, and they laughed heartily when I told them that tonight they would be the subject of my blog. Two ladies came up to me after I spoke and told me they had lived in the town of Leroy for many years, and they had never thought about the connection between the cemetery and Reaper Road ... hmmm ... maybe those of you who were thinking that I have a sick and twisted mind were more right than you know.

As I left the town of Leroy this afternoon, I smiled broadly as I once again drove by the cemetery and Reaper Road. When I reached my turn to get back on the highway, I started thinking about the Grim Reaper ... the mythological figure who comes to whisk a person away from this life. He most often is portrayed as being dressed in a long flowing black robe with his face and head covered by a massive hood, carrying a large scythe ... a figure to be dreaded and feared. And the more I thought about the Grim Reaper, the more I thought about how different the Christian perspective is concerning death and the hereafter. For those who have a personal relationship with Christ, death is merely the avenue to eternity ... an eternity with our Lord in a place that He has prepared for us, a place where I'm sure there will be no dread or fear ... and no Grim Reaper.

"When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: 'Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?'" 1 Corinthians 15:54-55