The Road to Bethlehem

The road to Bethlehem. Over 2000 years ago, angels, kings and shepherds made their way down the road to Bethlehem. In my mind, I picture that road as a dusty, winding road, perhaps difficult to travel. These shepherds, these kings, these angels – why did they journey down that road? They went to Bethlehem to herald a king. A king born in a humble manner – in a wooden manger, in a stable. A king born to simple parents – a virgin mother and a father who was a carpenter by trade. A king born to be their deliverer, their hope, their blood atonement, their salvation.

This king, this baby in the manger, this carpenter, this brother, this perfect man, this Son of God, has drawn many down the road to Bethlehem over the course of time. Some walk that road out of curiosity, some out of contempt, some out of fear, some out of need, some out of deep hurt or pain. Some come seeking a friend, some an escape, some a provider – but all come in need of a Savior.

I traveled that road to Bethlehem only a few years ago. For me, it was a dark and dusty journey. A journey that spanned my lifetime. A journey that was filled with steep embankments and sharp edges. A journey that passed through shadowy valleys and deeply rutted canyons. A journey that snatched me from the very jaws of death and hell. Truly a journey that led me to that manger, that stable, that King Eternal.

I had spent my life traveling down a different road, a wandering road, a deadly road. I was empty inside, searching for something or someone to fill that emptiness, that ache deep within my soul. The road I followed was dangerous, filled with sin and despair. My life had become a meaningless existence, defined by my reckless defiance of all things pure or holy. Through the love and faithfulness of three close friends, friends who were devoted followers of this King, I finally arrived at the place of the manger. Battered, bruised and broken, convinced that I could never be forgiven, stripped of all my pride, desperate, desolate, hopeless – I came to the manger.

You see, on a cold and rainy Monday, I met the King. The King who was born in the manger, who lived and walked and worked and loved and taught among us. The King who healed the sick, caused the blind to see, made the deaf to hear, changed water into wine, cast out demons, the King who raised the dead. On that Monday, that same King stood before me with outstretched hands, hands that bore the marks of another piece of wood – the cross on which He hung and died for me.

And the King asked me to make a choice. A choice to give Him my life. To believe in the King of the manger; to trust, to trust in the King of the cross; to follow the King of the resurrection. A choice – belief or unbelief. A choice – life or death. A choice – heaven or hell.

I chose the King. That cold and rainy Monday, I took the final steps along the road to Bethlehem, and I met Him. The King. Jesus. Lord of Lords, King of Kings and Prince of Peace. He's transformed my life, He's renewed my mind, and He's given me a whole new heart. And now, He stands waiting, hands outstretched, heart filled with love, ready to change you. On that Monday, I fell on my face and I made my choice. Now, in this moment, if you haven't met the King, if you haven't truly met the King, the choice is yours.

Mother and Son

My son Brad is a second-year film student at The University of Kansas, and he truly loves making films. I should have known years ago when he would spend hours making up stories and adventures that he would someday parlay his storytelling talent into creating films. There is no doubt in my mind that he will make his mark in the world by sharing the gift that God has blessed him with.

His most recent project is a video promo for my book that he has posted on YouTube and GodTube. It took some serious persuading from Brad to get me to step out of my comfort zone and into the realm of the World Wide Web. It began in April with a website dedicated to my speaking ministry, something Brad assures me I should have done years ago. Then came joining several online speakers' bureaus, and having my book on Amazon.com. And now, my talented and visionary son has convinced me to allow him to use his talent to create the book video promo and post it for all the world to see. Talk about teaching an old dog new tricks!

To say that I'm proud of Brad would be an understatement, but not because of his vision in the films that he produces. I'm proud of Brad for the man that he is becoming, for the love he gives so freely to me, for his kind and caring heart, and for his selfless generosity to others. I look forward with great anticipation as to how God's plan for Brad's life will play out in the future.

If you're so inclined, you should check out the video. Just go to YouTube.com or GodTube.com, and search for Lord, Help! Here Comes Mom! Trust me on this one ... it's well worth the five minutes it takes to view it.

And Brad ... I have a feeling that your little Granny would be real proud of you, too!

Turkey, Taters and Gravy

For many years, Thanksgiving was an extra-special holiday for me. Since I moved away from my hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee, almost 20 years ago, Thanksgiving was always the holiday when we traveled back home to spend the week with our extended family. I would look forward to the trip for weeks beforehand.

As my parents aged, the trips became even more special with each passing year. We would all gather at Mom and Dad's for turkey with all the fixings. I especially looked forward to Mom's pumpkin pie, made from my grandmother's recipe. I remember one year in particular when Mom forgot to add the sugar to the pies, and when we all kept saying that they tasted different, Mom's laughter rang through the kitchen as she told us that she forgot the sugar. By the time she realized her mistake, the pies were almost done, and she thought she could pass them off with none of us the wiser.

Now that my children are all grown and have begun their own lives, we didn't travel back to Tennessee last year and we won't be going this year. In fact, this year, only one of my children will be home for the holiday. Matt and Becca have to work and/or are on call for their counseling responsibilities, so they can't come home. Meghann is traveling to her boyfriend's family's and will be gone for most of the week. Brad has a special girl in his life, and her family has graciously invited Brad and I to share Thanksgiving with them.

I must admit that learning to accept the changes that have come with my children growing up hasn't always been easy for me. Perhaps because as a single mother for many, many years, the kids and I spent almost every holiday together. But I've learned in the last few years to cherish the times we have together and that the "holiday" isn't defined by the day, but rather by the time we are together. If that's the day before or after, or even the week before or after, I make the most of "how" we celebrate and not "when."

So this year, I'm thankful for my children, for my brother and sister, for my nieces and nephews, my great nieces and nephews, and even the hounds who live with me. I'm thankful for my health, for the energy to perform my job each day and for a warm house in which to live. I'm most thankful for God's abundant grace and mercy that He bestows on me each day. I'm more and more thankful each day for the gift of salvation through my Lord and Savior and for the hope of eternity.

And last, but certainly not least, I'm thankful for turkey, taters and gravy.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Walking the Path

This afternoon, I grabbed my camera and headed to the walking path across the street from my house. My intention was to spend an hour or so taking pictures of the beautiful trees that are now an explosion of reds, yellows and oranges in their celebration of the fall season. I set up my tripod, framed up several shots and waited for the perfect lighting.

As I took photo after photo, I often had to pause as people passed through the line of my shot. An older couple walking hand in hand deep in conversation. A young woman out for an afternoon run. A teenage boy walking a large black dog. A young father pushing his son in a stroller. The more people who passed by, the more I began to wonder who they are and what their lives are like. Are they happy? Are they surrounded by friends and family who love them? Do they have jobs? And if so, are they satisfied with their work? Do they know Jesus? Are they certain of where they will spend eternity?

We all walk different paths in life, and we make choices each day that impact the paths we've chosen. Some days, I feel as if I've made the best decisions I can and that I am in the center of God's desire for my life. Other days, I feel as though I'm wandering along, not certain of what to do or which way to go. I'm thankful, so very thankful, that whether I'm having a good day or a not so good day, God always has me in the palm of His mighty hand and that He is the one who holds my future.

As I packed up my camera and tripod and walked toward home, I stopped along the path and offered up a prayer. A prayer of thanksgiving, a prayer of hope, a prayer of petition for those around me who aren't walking the path of God, a prayer offering my all in service to the One who died for me.

Oh, and the photos? They are awesome!

Watching Them Grow

My son Brad celebrated his 21st birthday last weekend. As we all gathered at his apartment to spend the day together, I had one of those "mom" moments. If you're a mother, you know the moment well. And if you're a mother of adult children, you know exactly the type of moment I'm talking about. The moment when you look at your adult son or daughter, and all you can think about are memories from their childhood.

As I watched Brad interacting with his girlfriend and his siblings, my eyes saw him as an adult while my brain pictured him pretending to be a fireman, dressed in a plastic red hat, yellow coat and rubber boots; playing Little League baseball; catching bugs in his little bug holder and setting them free minutes later; participating in children's choir; and shooting hoops on our driveway. I look at Matt and Becca, and find it difficult to believe that my oldest son is married. I see Matt dressed as a Ninja Turtle; assembling Lego projects; driving his battery-powered Jeep; catching his first fish; and getting into trouble at church camp for cow-tipping. My eyes move to Meghann, and I am so aware, as I am every time I look at her, that she is truly a beautiful girl. From birth, she had striking blue eyes and gorgeous blond hair. I remember her painting her name on her carpet with red nail polish; dressing like a princess; lining her stuffed animals up for "school"; learning to swim and dive in our neighbor's pool; and singing in choir concerts.

I'm happy to be in the place I am now with my adult children, part parent, part friend. There's nothing more fun for me than to spend time with them whether individually or all of them together. It is awesome to see my family growing through marriage and girlfriends and boyfriends. But, even as I type these words, I'm also aware of how quickly it seems my children have grown into adults. Only yesterday, they were at my feet playing, and today, they are each making their own way in the world.

I often think of the saying that a good parent gives their children roots and wings. My prayer is that my children always feel grounded in my love for them, and that they soar high above the clouds in their adventures through life. And I thank God for the gift of each of them ... every morning and every night ... thank you, Lord, for such precious gifts.

Beyond Belief

Each time I participate in a women's conference, I come away wanting to do so much more in service to my Lord. This weekend was no exception; in fact, I feel the calling on my life growing deeper and stronger than ever before.

The theme for the weekend (every women's conference has to have a theme!) was Beyond Belief. The keynote speaker focused on the life of Peter in her messages, beginning with his failures and ending with his victories and depth of faith that grew out of his adversities. As I listened to the words that God had given her, I felt God calling me to grow deeper in my own faith, to stretch in my trusting of Him, to go beyond my belief in Him and step out of the boat and onto the rolling waves, to take His hand and follow Him wherever He may lead.

I've been speaking for women's events for quite a few years, and I was asked to lead a session this weekend entitled "A Heart Beyond Belief." As I prayed and prepared for the session, as is often the case, God spoke to me about the condition of my own heart. As I studied about what it truly means to have a pure heart, a heart that follows hard after God and His will for my life, I realized that I needed to ask God to wash my own heart, to scrub me clean, to make me pure.

It is so easy to let little things creep into my life that cause a shadow to fall over my relationship with my heavenly Father. It is so easy to allow being too busy to keep me from spending the time I should in God's Word. It is so easy to make excuses as to why I can't step out in faith and follow God wherever and whenever He calls. The very morning I was to lead this session, I found myself on my knees by the side of my bed crying out to God to wash me, clean me, and make me the woman He wants me to be.

I think I would do well to learn from the example of David and cry out, "Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me."

It's Officially Official

Yep, it's officially official. My first book is now available on Amazon.com and createspace.com. There really aren't words to describe how it felt to view the pages and read the first review of my book. Maybe humbling would fit. Or maybe grateful. Or maybe excited. Or maybe even official. Or maybe all of those combined.

One thing I know for sure is that God is the One who should receive any accolades or glory because of the book. He is the One who gave me the words to put on the pages and the time to put them there. He is the reason I live and breathe each day, and He is the giver of all things. Without Him, I would be nothing.

There are many people to thank for their encouragement as I wrote the book, too many to mention here. You who offered support and words of wisdom ... you who told me to persevere when I wanted to quit ... you who read and edited and read and edited again. Each of you deserve my deepest gratitude for your help and my deepest appreciation for your unconditional love and friendship.

It will be fun to see what God has in store for the book as people begin to read it. My prayer is that readers will be touched and drawn into a closer relationship with God and with their families.

I often wonder if those who have gone before us know of things here on earth. If they do, I'm sure that Mom is in heaven saying, "Lord, help! She's done gone and wrote a book about me!"

I have, Mom, I have indeed.

http://www.createspace.com/3352848



http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_gw?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Terrie+Dennard+Johnson&x=15&y=28

Lord, Help!

For as long as I can remember, I've dreamed of becoming a writer. Over the years, I've had some articles published, written for various women's newsletters, and even sold quite a few of my poems. But my real dream has always been to write a book and see it published.

On Thursday, I received the proof copy of my first book, "Lord, Help! Here Comes Mom!" As I stood on my driveway and tore open the envelope containing the book, tears began to fill my eyes as I held my first book in my trembling hands. For a writer, it's a completely overwhelming feeling to see your words in print, complete with cover art and your photo on the back. I know this sounds silly, but to me, one of the most awesome things was to see the ISBN number on the back cover. It made the book "official" somehow, real and tangible.

As you may surmise from the title, my book is about my mother and her cross-country move to Kansas from Tennessee after selling the house she had lived in for 47 years. A pretty big deal for someone at 85 years old. The folks who have read the book say that you'll laugh and you'll cry and you'll think about elder care in a whole new way. You'll get to know a single mother, teenaged children and a feisty little lady named Louise. You'll share their lives and meet their hearts as all their lives change and grow and mesh when Granny joins their daily routine.

I've read a lot about the "Sandwich Generation," the group of Baby Boomers who still have children living at home and elderly parents who need their care as well. Many families across the country are now finding themselves in this stage of life, and they are struggling to find their way and do what is best for each family member involved. My prayer is that "Lord, Help! Here Comes Mom!" will be a light to these families and a testimony to the incredible provision God makes when we seek to follow His path for our lives.

It will be a couple of weeks before the book is available, and I'll post purchasing information then. Since I was allowed to set the price of the book, my royalties for each book are quite minimal. You see, for me, it's not about making big bucks as a writer. It's about helping another single mother who wonders how she will be able to do everything she needs to do in a day. It's about giving hope to a family who is wrestling with caring for their elderly parents and not shortchanging their children living at home. It's about sharing the miracles of God's amazing grace, love and mercy at the times we need them most.

Happy reading!

With This Ring

My first camera was a Yashica 35 mm film model with an attached lens. I remember well the day I purchased that camera with my hard-earned babysitting money at the beginning of my sophomore year of high school. I was 15 and completely convinced that I would someday become a photographer for National Geographic and travel the world in search of the perfect, award-winning photo.

While I haven’t become an internationally famous shutterbug, I have over the years taken some pretty decent photos. A stint as a family photographer taught me the skill of posing people for portraits and how to wrangle a smile from an unsure toddler. Nature photos on vacations and working for an ad agency taught me the art of capturing special moments that happen in the blink of an eye.

And now, having come into the world of digital photography, I’ve recently started shooting for money … photos, that is. I’ve shot some senior pictures and several weddings over the last year or so, and it’s been a complete blast of fun and excitement.

Weddings are such unique and special events in the lives not only of the bride and groom but those of extended family and friends as well. Most often, weddings are happy, joyful events, and everyone involved has a great time. But there are some that are not so happy … families are in conflict, a loved one is missing, the young woman becomes “Bridezilla” the day of the ceremony, and so on. I’ve been fortunate to photograph many more happy ceremonies than sad, which makes my job even more fun.

Perhaps it’s because the older I get, the more I seem to focus on eternity, but I often find myself thinking of heaven as I’m photographing a wedding. In particular, I think often of the wedding feast of the Lamb that is described in Revelation 19: 7-9. Joy, happiness and unbridled praise for our Lord will accompany the magnificent celebration that God has planned for those who have loved and faithfully served Him while on earth. While the confidence of being present at God’s ultimate wedding reception brings me great hope and anticipation, I am also saddened when I see the multitudes that will never be part of that celebration.

God has given each of us the opportunity to say, “I do.”

Are you coming to the party?

“Then he said to me, ‘Write, ‘Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb.’’ And he said to me, ‘These are true words of God.’” Revelation 19:9

Woman's Best Friend

As I sit on the couch and begin to place my words of wisdom into this post, there is a yellowish furry creature pawing at my arm. She is trying her best to discourage me from typing and encourage me into playing tug of war with her instead. Her name is Julie, and she is a 65-pound yellow Labrador Retriever my son rescued from a shelter two years ago.

I've had dogs in my life for as long as I can remember, beginning with a little white dog named Frisky when I was nine years old. Then there was Rocky, Brandy, Cocoa, Choo-Choo, Ali and Cinnamon. One of those died when she was only two, and one lived to the ripe old age of 17. I remember each one of them, and I remember the special place they each held in my life.

Julie, however, is different than any other dog I've had. I can't say that I love her more, because I loved each pup deeply. I can say that I'm not sure that I've ever had a dog who loves me the way Julie does. Julie liked me well enough when Brad brought her home, but she adored Brad. And I do mean adored. She slept with him every night, followed him everywhere, and moped when he had to go to work or school. When Brad left for college and couldn't take Julie with him, she was one sad dog.

Then, one morning Julie woke up and decided that I was her new best friend. She began following me the way she followed Brad. She would wait until I was asleep, and then she would crawl into my bed and sleep with her head across my feet. When I had to go to work, she would tuck her tail between her legs and mope. I found myself looking forward to evening play time with Julie, throwing the Frisbee for her spectacular catches until she decided it was time to stop. Taking walks along the paved path across the street. And yes, talking to her as if she were human. (She does, after all, tilt her head and listen attentively!)

At this particular time in my life when my sons have moved out, and my daughter works two jobs and is rarely home, I spend a fair amount of time alone. I believe that God is the Creator of all things, and that He created animals, and dogs in particular, to bring a certain type of joy into our lives at times when we need that joy the most.

So, when I step out of the shower each morning and Julie is lying on the rug next to the tub, or when I come home from work and she greets me at the door, or when she plants a wet doggie kiss on my arm, or when I am sick and she sits patiently by my side until I am well, I thank God for my faithful furry companion.

As I finish typing, Julie is stretched out on the other end of the couch. Well, sort of, anyway. Her head is snuggled across my feet, and she's snoring. I guess it must be time to turn in for the night.

Too Busy

Sometimes I get too busy. I say yes when I should say no, and I try to do too much. There, I've said it. I am not Superwoman, even though I often try to convince myself that I am.

My "real" job is senior editor for an advertising agency, where I often log in more than the standard 40 hours per week. Due to the nature of the business (i.e., creative people have a hard time letting go of a project they are working on and push the deadline to the last possible second), I often find myself bringing work home in the evening. I'm also a frequent speaker at various women's events around the country, and so I travel a fair amount. My favorite "hobby" is photography, and over the last year or so, I've found myself shooting senior portraits and several weddings. And, I'm always writing ... articles, blogs, my next book, etc.

Most of the time, I do a good job of keeping all the balls in the air. But then there are the times when I get sick, and I can't do anything except whine and moan and beg my children to take care of me. Or, as is the case this summer, I have to take care of the yard. All by myself, with no sons living at home any longer.

I spent most of yesterday and a good part of this afternoon working in the yard. Mowing, weeding, cleaning out the fence line, trimming trees and spreading mulch. Tonight, even my feet hurt. But my yard looks beautiful. My flowers on the deck are an explosion of color, and my tomato plants have blooms.

Being busy is good as long as I keep my focus where it should be, as long as I don't allow being busy to overshadow what is most important in my life ... loving God and loving people.

So now, this blog is finished, and I'm off to read my Bible and go to bed. After I take a couple of ibuprofen ...

It's About Fun

Last week I attended a visitation for a dear friend who went to be with the Lord. Her name was Pauline, and she was 87 years old. The weekend before she passed, Pauline was out dancing. Yes, dancing. And the week before that, she was playing dominoes. Yes, dominoes.

I came to know Pauline several years ago through my dear friend Ann. My children walked to Ann's house every day after school and stayed with her until I picked them up after work. I've never met anyone who loved to play games more than Ann, except maybe her sister, Pauline. Those two old ladies would play games for hours and hours with my children. In fact, the kids absolutely loved it when Ann would have a "sleepover" for them, and they would stay up half the night playing canasta, marbles, Rook or Monopoly.

I've never been much of a game player, perhaps because I always felt that I had so many other things to do. If I didn't learn anything else from Ann and Pauline, I learned the importance of playing games with my children. Now, when we are all together, I'm the one who often suggests that we play a game. I put everything else aside, and I play with my adult children. I wouldn't take anything the world could give me for those times together ... the laughter, the competition, the conversation, the love that flows around a heated game of Scrabble or Sequence.

Ann left this world suddenly a few years ago from a brain aneurysm. She was only 67 years old and appeared to be in perfect health. The Christmas before she passed away in June, the kids and I took her shopping, then for dinner at a nice restaurant and to see A Christmas Carol. When we took her home that night, she said it was the most wonderful day, not because of the things we did, but because we were together. She said, "It's all about being together and having fun."

As I gazed at Pauline last week at her visitation, I noticed that her family had placed a domino in her hands. Not only did her family realize that Pauline loved to play and have fun, they wanted everyone who came to honor her that day to realize it, too. I couldn't help but smile and think that Ann and Pauline knew something spectacular, something that many of us miss in the hustle and bustle of our busy lives.

"It's all about being together and having fun."

The Ties That Bind

When I travel from Kansas City to my hometown of Chattanooga, Tennessee, my heart starts beating faster about 20 miles west of Nashville. There's a feeling that washes over me as my car follows its course over the rolling hills and brings me closer and closer to home.

Last weekend, I made that trip for a very special event. My great niece, Rachel, married Kevin, her boyfriend of four years. Brad, his girlfriend Missy, Meghann and I drove 1,400 miles in two and a half days to attend the wedding. Almost a year ago, my niece made that same drive to come to my son Matt's wedding. It was a long trip in a short amount of time, but I wouldn't have missed Rachel and Kevin's wedding for anything. Rachel and my son Matt are only a couple of months apart in age, and before I moved from Chattanooga, they were good buddies, along with Jeremy, Rachel's brother.

The wedding was beautiful, and the reception was so much fun. We danced like fools, ate the best prime rib ever, cried, laughed and enjoyed every moment together. There's nothing like spending time with family, especially when that time is spent in celebration of the marriage of two wonderful young people.

As we ate breakfast together the next morning before we had to leave town, I sat at the table and looked at my sister and her husband, my nieces and their husbands, and my three-year-old great niece and 11-month-old great nephew, my son and his girlfriend, and my daughter. My eyes brimmed with tears as the love I feel for these wonderful people washed over my heart.

The gift of family is one of God's greatest, I believe. And one that many of us often take for granted in the hustle and bustle of life. My prayer is that I will always appreciate my family, both near and far, and that I will truly treasure those ties that bind us all together. We may not physically be together, but in our hearts, the ties are strong and the ties are deep. And that, is indeed, a blessing.

Yummmm

A friend mentioned to me yesterday how much she enjoyed dining with me because, in her words, “You truly enjoy eating and savor every bite.” Yes, I do enjoy eating, as is obvious by my need to shed several pounds. But what I truly enjoy about eating is sharing meals with my family and friends.

There is something special about gathering around a table and breaking bread with people I love and care about. There are so many wonderful memories from meals throughout the years that are stored deep in my heart. Meals when my children talked about their days at school or their girlfriends or boyfriends. Lunches with my siblings when Dad was dying from Alzheimer’s disease. Friday-evening dinners with Mom during the last six weeks of her life. Breakfasts on Saturday mornings with friends so near and dear to me.

Last night, I had dinner at an Italian restaurant with my daughter and our good friend Ruth. To describe Ruth would take a book … she’s one of the most remarkable ladies I’ve ever known … strong, determined, powerful, and at the same time, loving, gracious, and generous. I’ve known Ruth for over 10 years, and she is a precious part of my life and the lives of my children.

As Meghann, Ruth and I chatted last night at dinner, several times I had to fight back the tears as we talked about Ruth’s husband, Virgil, who passed away last summer. Everyone who knew Virgil loved him, and he is deeply missed by many whose lives he touched. But the one who misses him the most, who loved him the most, who shared over 50 years of marriage with him, is Ruth. Gazing across the table at Ruth as she spoke of him, I was amazed once again at her strength and determination to go on, to now live her life with her lifelong companion no longer by her side.

Tucking the memory of last night’s dinner into the folder in my heart labeled, “Meals to Remember,” I ponder the bonds formed, memories made and blessings shared when loved ones gather to share a meal. I am reminded that the last meal Jesus shared with His closest friends carried with it instructions for remembering, for blessings and for establishing bonds, with Him and with our friends and family as we share in communion.

“While they were eating, He took some bread, and after a blessing He broke it, and gave it to them, and said, ‘Take it, this is My body.’ And when He had taken a cup and given thanks, He gave it to them, and they all drank from it. And He said to them, ‘This is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many.’”

Mark 14: 22-24

Basketball Madness

My oldest son and his wife attend Kansas State University. My son Brad attends The University of Kansas. For those of you who don’t know, these schools are rivals – big, huge rivals down through their years of existence. For me as a mom, it’s a challenge to know which team to cheer for or which college “Mom” shirt to wear. Unless, of course, one those respective teams makes it into the Final Four of college basketball.

Tonight is the game that has the state of Kansas, and perhaps even the entire nation, talking. KU will play in the NCAA championship game, and at least one of my sons is beyond excited about it. This is Brad’s first year in college, and he is soaking up the entire experience of campus life during such a momentous occasion.

I must confess that I didn’t watch any of the games leading up to KU being in the Final Four of the NCAA tournament. I must confess that I rarely watch sports of any kind, save an occasional Kansas City Chiefs game. Granted, I was at every single sporting event that any of my three children participated in (along with countless concerts, plays and musicals), but that is altogether different than watching a group of people I don’t know play a sport I don’t really care about.

To prove how deep doth run a mother’s love, however, I watched the Final Four game last Saturday evening so that when my son called with his excited, out-of-breath question of, “Did you watch, Mom, did you watch?,” my reply could be, “Yes, yes, Brad, I did! And it was a great game!” And I fully intend to be on my couch at 8:00 tonight, remote in hand, popcorn on lap, watching a basketball game that, truthfully, means very little to me.

What means so very much to me is the excitement in my son’s voice as he experiences “school spirit” for the first time on a college level. My son matters to me, and what he loves and what is important to him matters to me. It’s quite simple really … I love Brad, therefore tonight, I love college basketball.

Rock Chalk, Jayhawk!

Bravery Defined

Dictionaries define bravery as a quality of spirit that enables you to face danger or pain without showing fear. I define bravery on a more personal level. My dad was one of the bravest men I have known. No, he never fought in a war because he had poor eyesight. No, he never jumped into a freezing lake to save someone from drowning. No, he never stood before a criminal who held a gun to his head threatening to shoot. But my father had that quality of spirit that made him the truest embodiment of the word bravery.

He worked tirelessly to provide for his family, rising before dawn every day for 50 years to go to his job at the railroad. He came home every night and still found the energy to toss a ball with me. He donated his barbering skills to cut the hair of boys who lived in an orphanage. He dug ditches, painted walls, installed light fixtures and hammered nails. He sang in the church choir, tithed faithfully and taught Sunday School for over 40 years. You see, Daddy was there, day in and day out, doing whatever he needed to do to get the job done. He was never afraid of any task; he never gave up; he was always there.

Daddy died over a decade ago after a long battle with Alzheimer's disease, and I still think of him almost every day. I often wonder what he would think of our family now, my brother and sister, their children and their children's children, me and my own children. I know that he would enjoy being with us and that he would cherish every moment as he always did.

Though Daddy loved us all, one young man in our family held a special place in Daddy's heart, my sister's only son, Charlie. No grandfather ever loved a grandson more than Daddy loved Charlie. Daddy was more like a father to Charlie than a grandfather, and the love they shared was deep and strong.

Charlie is in Baghdad as I type this, serving the country he loves with all his heart. Charlie, this one's for you, and I know that if Daddy were here, he would join me in saying, "I'm proud of you, young man, so very proud of you. You have that 'quality of spirit' that defines bravery, integrity and strength of character."

So, stay safe while serving your country and protecting my freedom, Charlie. Know that you're loved and thought of and prayed for every day. You are your Granddad's grandson; you are the embodiment of bravery.

Midlife Spring

Some experts say that experiencing a midlife crisis comes without rhyme or reason to all of us at some point during our 40s or 50s. You simply awake one morning and decide that you need a new convertible or a new career, or in more drastic cases, a new spouse or a new family. Other experts will argue that a midlife crisis occurs because of external circumstances or pressures in your life that cause you to reevaluate what is most important to you.

I'm not sure which of these is true, but perhaps they both are to a certain degree. I do know that for me personally, I began to feel a definite restlessness in my soul as my children began to leave home to go to college, which, coincidentally perhaps, coincided with my entrance into my 40s. I dreamed of selling everything I owned and moving to a small village in Alaska (my Northern Exposure, Men in Trees phase) or starting my own publishing company (without any cash to do so) or writing the next great American novel. I changed jobs (from one advertising company to another) during this time in my life, and I thought my midlife crisis was over.

Then, a little over two years ago, my 85-year-old mother died unexpectedly while sleeping in her favorite chair. For six months, I felt as if I were moving and working and speaking and operating in a fog. I couldn't seem to get a handle on my grief, and I found myself thrown headlong into a major midlife crisis. I was uneasy, unsettled and unhappy.

It took almost two years for me to come out on the other side of the fog, and I'm still not sure of who or what I want to be when I grow up, but I am happy again. Or perhaps I should say that I am content now. Content to be the woman God wants me to be and to go where He wants me to go. Maybe someday that will be as a full-time speaker and writer, an English teacher on a distant mission field or continue in my current job and minister to those I work with each day. Wherever, whenever or whatever, I simply desire to follow Jesus Christ with all of my heart, soul and mind.

I bought a Jeep Wrangler shortly after Mom died, dealing with the whole midlife convertible issue. Definitely, I might add, one of the best decisions I've ever made. There's nothing like a ride in my Jeep with the top down on a warm spring night. The stars above me, the wind in my gray hair ... peaceful, playful and perfect.

You see, I learned something after losing Mom and going through my midlife crisis. Life is short, even if God graces you with 85 years of life as He did Mom. It's the little things that truly count, the little things that, at the end of the day when you close your eyes in sleep, make you know that it was a good day. Like driving your Jeep on a warm night, waving to a little girl in the car next to you at the traffic light, taking an extra moment to talk to the gray-haired greeter at Wal-Mart, telling your boss you appreciate him or her, walking your dog at dusk, eating a warm chocolate chip cookie, or a million other little things.

Midlife? It's not bad. Not bad at all.

Hallelujah!

"After the Sabbath, at dawn on the first day of the week, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to look at the tomb. There was a violent earthquake, for an angel of the Lord came down from heaven and, going to the tomb, rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightening, and his clothes were white as snow. The guards were so afraid of him that they shook and became like dead men. The angel said to the women, 'Do not be afraid, for I know that you are looking for Jesus, who was crucified. He is not here; He has risen, just as He said. Come and see the place where He lay. Then go quickly and tell His disciples; 'He has risen from the dead and is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see Him.' Now I have told you.'" Matthew 28: 1-7

Those verses were nothing more to me than words on paper until a little over eight years ago when I met Jesus Christ in a small prayer room at my church. I had grown up in the church, but it wasn't until a cold and rainy Monday afternoon in late September 1999, that my head knowledge concerning Jesus became heart knowledge. On that day, my life was changed in a dramatic moment when I gave my life, my heart and my soul over to the saving grace of Jesus. I was, quite literally, at the end of my rope ... a single mother raising three children, working full-time, living 700 miles away from my family, depressed, financially strapped, living a double life, ready to throw in the towel. And then, I met Jesus in a real and life-changing way. He met me where I was, in the midst of my sin and my despair, and He loved me, rescued me and saved me.

Easter has a whole new meaning to me now than it did before that Monday afternoon. The celebration of Jesus conquering the bonds of death now means hope to me, life to me, joy to me. The words of the angel at the tomb mean the promise of heaven and eternal life with my Savior after my life on this earth is complete. Life still gets hard at times, and the older I get, the more I realize that my only hope, my only help, my only salvation is in Jesus and His abundant love, mercy and grace.

So, with the angel at the tomb, I loudly proclaim, "He is not here; He has risen, just as He said."

Hallelujah! He is risen indeed!

Coming Home

A couple of weekends ago, my little house became a flurry of activity. My son Matt, his wife Becca, her brother and his wife, my son Brad and his girlfriend arrived to join my daughter Meghann and I for some long overdue family time. It was the first chance for us to all be together since Christmas, when we spent five days together in Colorado. Also present that day were my three granddogs, Julie, Peanut and Andy, chasing each other and playing like the wild animals they truly are.

As I sat on the couch and listened to the conversations among these young adults, my mind couldn't help but race back to the days when they were young. Listening to Matt's wife tease him about resuming his role of "king" the minute he walked through my kitchen door caused me to recall times when he would take charge and direct his brother and sister to do their chores and help around the house. Brad's constant chattering sent my mind racing back to him sitting in the back seat of the car talking nonstop about fire engines, spotted dogs and trains. Hearing Meghann stand her ground and state her opinions with her brothers made me remember years of spirited discussions among my three children, often ending with the lament of, "The boys never agree with me, Mom."

The time together always passes too quickly, and after a few hours, the house returned to the quietness that is the life that Meghann and I now share. I've never told my sons, but I often fight back the tears as hugs and kisses accompany saying goodbye to them once again. It is part of the circle of life, watching your children grow up and move on to start their own lives. And it is good and right, and I'm very proud of the adults my children are becoming. The tears are tears of gratitude and thankfulness for our time together, for sons and a daughter-in-law and daughter who want to spend time with me, who love me, and who are beginning to take care of me as I took care of them for so many years.

And so I look forward to the next time we are together, laughing and sharing and playing. My heart is beating a little faster just thinking about the next time they all come home again.

Chasing the Dream

When I was a little girl, my oldest brother Jerry would make cheese sandwiches and take me and his two young sons for a picnic in the tree house he built in the large oak tree in his front yard. We would climb the ladder up the tree, spread a blanket and eat and talk about everything under the sun. I remember that Jerry would ask me at some point during each of those conversations what I wanted to do when I grew up. And my answer was always the same, "I want to write books about fish."

Looking back now, I have no idea why I was so fascinated with fish when I was young. Perhaps it was because my dad took me fishing a lot. Perhaps it was because we had a huge aquarium filled with several varieties of goldfish in our house. Perhaps it was because Jerry was a biology teacher. All I know is that even at a young age, I wanted to be a writer. And I wanted to write books about fish.

It seems fitting somehow that my first post on my brand new blog should cause me to remember that childhood writing dream and to reflect on those special times with my brother Jerry. It also causes me to again, as I have so many times over the last 30-something years, wonder how my life would have been different had Jerry not lost his life in a car accident when I was 10 years old.

So, Jerry, if you can look down from heaven and see me now in the middle of my life, I'm sure you are smiling. I'm writing, Jerry, and I'm speaking for women's groups. I've even written my first book. I'm chasing the dream, and I'm trying my best to make you proud.

Oh, and one more thing ... it's not a book about fish.