Starting Over

The older I get, the more I wonder where time goes. Or has gone. Or will go in the future. I remember when I was young, it seemed that I would never be old enough to drive. Or get married. Or have my own house. Now that I either can do, have done or currently am doing, I often don't want to. Or regret that I did. Or think that I should sell it. Funny ... the more I wonder where time goes, or has gone, or will go in the future, the more I think that I should make some changes. Or undo some things. Or start something new.

As this year winds to a close, I can't help but reflect on the last year and wonder what the next one holds in store. It would be easy to focus on the rough spots of the last year, and trust me, there were plenty of them. My health for a good part of the year felt like trying to ride a surfboard in the middle of a hurricane. I spent months in the desert in my walk of faith. And I lost my little J.R. It would be so very easy to see last year as one of the most difficult of my 51 years of life.

But ... but ... but ... my blood sugar, cholesterol and triglycerides are well within normal range for the first time in a decade, and I've lost over 100 pounds. God was with me through the desert even when I didn't think He was, and He's deepened my faith and humbled me in ways I never imagined. And little J.R. ... though I am still grieving his loss, the joy and blessings he brought into my life will stay in my heart forever.

My prayer as a new year begins is that I will embrace the opportunities God gives me to begin again ... to pursue dreams and chase rainbows ... to make the most of every single moment ... to love with all my heart ... to serve others with true abandon ... to live each day with gratitude ... to follow Him completely ... to put the past where it belongs ... to start over.

A Gift From the Heart

My son Bradley has a talent for making me laugh. It seems that no matter how down in the dumps I may be, he can always say something that will at the very least elicit a smile from his old mom's wounded spirit. He has a quick wit and a dry sense of humor that makes his personality infectious and winsome to the people who are blessed to know him well. Brad is also one of the most spontaneous young men I've ever known, especially when it comes to his passion for filmmaking. He has been known to decide to make a short film on a Monday morning and basically have it completed before the week is over ... the writing of the script, selection of actors, choosing a location, filming and editing ... amazing to me, but he's done it more than once.

Brad possesses another talent, however, that is far more precious to me as his mother. Brad has a knack for putting words on paper that truly touch me to the core of my soul. Several years ago, he gave me a multiple-page letter at Christmas that made me weep as I read it then, and still makes me weep when I read it now. He puts his heart onto the page, and his words come from the depth of his soul.

The last year has been a difficult one for me on many fronts ... I've had some health issues as those of you who are faithful readers know; my job has been quite stressful; and six weeks ago, I lost my little J.R. I've shed an ocean of tears over the last 12 months, but the ones I shed on this year's Christmas morning as I read a card penned by my Brad were tears that I will forever remember and hold close to my heart.

The card began with, "Mom, I know it's been a tough year," and as I read those few words, that's when my tears began to flow. The card said a lot of things which I will always treasure, but a few words in particular warrant sharing with those of you who read this blog. "I searched and searched for something you could 'open' but it just never seemed like the right fit. So I decided the best gift I could give you is a walking Buddy."

You see, Brad knows and understands how very much I miss my little J.R. being out on the trail with me, and how hard it has been for me to walk without him. So Brad arranged for a dog trainer to come to my house and teach my Julie how to walk on a leash, and teach me how to walk with her. We've tried everything down through the years to get Julie to behave on a walk, and she almost tears my arm off when I try to walk with her.

As special as Brad's gift is to me ... what is even more special is that he "gets it." He understands the depth of my grief for J.R., and he appreciates the importance of a walking buddy for me. As I wept while I read his card, Brad quickly reminded me that Julie alerts me when my blood sugar is falling and how good it would be for her to be on the trail with me as I go for my daily walk. He gets it ... Brad completely and totally gets it.

So Bradley Bear ... this blog is for you, buddy. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your gift from the bottom of yours.

Growing Older

Last Sunday afternoon, I did something I've never done before ... I went caroling with a group from my church. Oh, I've gone caroling before, lest any of you deem me a bah humbug kind of gal. But I've never gone caroling where we went last Sunday ... we caroled for older folks at assisted living facilities and nursing homes. The group from church was a diverse one, with the youngest participant being seven years old, and the oldest being ... well ... older than me.

We were told before we left the church that we could go into the people's rooms and greet them, and the children in the group had made cards to hand out to the residents. To say that I was touched as we went from room to room would be a gigantic understatement. As I took the hands of one older person after another, my thoughts flew to my mom and dad and how I miss them ... their love, their wisdom, their laughter. Before we finished singing that afternoon, I had decided that I was going to volunteer at one of the area retirement centers ... I'd like to start a reading group and read to the residents.

Walking the halls of the facilities last week, I couldn't help but wonder how many of the people there lived most of their days alone, how many of them rarely had a visitor, how many of them were lonely and afraid. I never used to think about where I would spend my aging years, but seeing the elderly folks last Sunday has given me pause to think about what my own future may hold in store for me.

Today is my 51st birthday, and perhaps that explains in part why I've been so affected over the past week by the folks I met last Sunday. I've never been bothered by a birthday, and I've never measured myself by the number of years I've lived. But I'll be honest, today has been a hard day for me. It is amazing what a difference a year can make ... in health, in love, in life. And it's also amazing what a difference a moment can make ... in a smile, in a hug, in a word.

This morning, my pastor spoke about the importance of measuring our time, being aware of how short life can be, making the most of every opportunity and seeking God's will every day. So as I embark on my next year of life, I pray that I will be ever aware of the preciousness of the gift of life and that I will measure my time here on earth not by years or wealth or position but only by my walk with my Lord.

May the Force Be With You

When my two sons were young, they loved Star Wars ... the movies, the books, the toys ... they loved all things Star Wars. They would spend literally hours reenacting scenes from the films, and the words, "May the Force be with you," would drift upstairs time and time again as they played in the basement. Matt and Brad would always take turns being the "bad guys," and it always amazed me that they never seemed to argue over who played the good guy and who played the bad. They were equally content with being Luke Skywalker or Darth Vader.

Last Sunday, my pastor's sermon was about darkness, and how Christ's entrance into the world shattered the darkness that permeated the world. One of Ken's points was that darkness is progressive ... that darkness breeds darkness, and the only way out of that darkness is through a personal relationship with Christ. Some sermons cause me to think far beyond Sunday, and last Sunday's was one of those. I've been thinking about the whole concept of darkness versus light all week.

Each morning this week as I've readied myself for work, I've noticed that it seems that the light of morning comes so slowly, especially on a cloudy day. As I've prepared to come home from work each evening, I've been struck with how quickly darkness falls and how fast that darkness becomes deep and penetrating. Driving home tonight in the midst of freezing drizzle, in the dark, I began to think about the slippery slope of sin.

It is amazing how quickly darkness can envelop me when I choose to walk out of the light ... how easily I can find myself wandering, alone, frightened, unable to see the path before me. But it is even more amazing how bright the light of God's love shines upon me when I fall to my knees and cry out for Him to rescue me, to let me come home into His arms, to tenderly guide me out of the darkness and back into the light of His love and forgiveness.

Darkness ... light ... hmmmm. I wonder if the boys' light sabers are still in the basement. I feel like whooping up on the dark side, and I need the power of the Light to do that. The power of the One and Only Light. May the Force ... the true Force, God's Son ... may the Force be with you, today and forever.

Spilling My Guts

Birthdays have never been a big deal to me, perhaps because of when mine is ... December 26 ... yep, the day after Christmas. When I was a kid, I only had one party on my actual birthday where my friends were invited. Out of 25 kids who were invited, two actually showed up. As much as I would like to say the feeling of most of my friends not coming to the party didn't bother me, even though I am almost 51 years old, I still remember how I felt that day. It was my 12th birthday, and I still remember thinking I was a dork, a nerd, an outcast, a reject. I'm fairly certain the day after that attempted party was the day that I decided that I would bury my feelings and emotions far within myself ... that no one would ever know how deeply I was hurt.

Down through the years, I've honed my level of skill when it comes to keeping my emotions in check, to hiding my pain, to painting a smile on my face and not letting people get too close in fear that they might see behind the mask I've worn for so long. The last year of my life, however, has shown me that I've been wrong in my quest to keep the vault of my heart so tightly sealed, to always be strong and never weak or vulnerable. It's been an arduous year, one that has brought with it some difficult and trying situations ... physically, emotionally and spiritually.

One of the many doctors I have had reason to see over the last year ... I'll call him Dr. John ... has a mantra, an insight, a truth that he graciously imparted to me, a new way of thinking that has changed me forever. Open. Honest. Real. Transparent. Each time I would visit him, he would speak those words to me ... pray those words over me ... sear those words into me. I can count on one hand the people I've let inside, the ones I've allowed to get past my ironclad pride and my stubborn will. And I can count on a couple of fingers the people I've let dig around in the depths of my soul, the ones who have shoveled the dirt of my life and yet love me still.

I've spent more time in the desert over the last year than I ever have before. I've wandered away from my Lord, and I've found my way back to Him. I've suffered the pain of loss, and I've experienced the joy of love. I've walked knowingly into sin, and I've known the redemptive power of forgiveness. I've fought to stand alone, and I've learned to let others hold me up. I've tried desperately to hold on, and I've learned to let go.

For as much as I've come to understand that I need to be more open with others, to be honest in every single word and deed, to be real and vulnerable in every emotion, to be a transparent vessel for whatever work my Lord desires to do in me and through me, I've come to understand even more that each of those traits should rule supreme in my relationship with Jesus Christ. Open. Honest. Real. Transparent.

Help me, Lord, to share this life You've given me ... the good, the bad, and all things in between. Help me to spill my guts, Lord ... to trust, to love, to honor, to risk, to feel. 

Wrap Me Up

This post begins with a confession ... I do not like to wrap gifts. Not even a little bit. In fact, I come dangerously close to detesting the whole wrapping process. I have a difficult time judging how much paper to cut to cover a gift, and even more difficulty then cutting said paper in a straight line. I can never seem to make the folds at the end come out equally which totally messes with my mind (see my post called "Don't Mess With My Cool Whip" for reference). The feel of tape on my fingers has often made me nauseous, and the whole bow thing just pushes me over the edge. Needless to say, I'm a huge fan of gift bags.

If I had my way, I would never wrap another gift. But, my children fully expect their Christmas gifts to be wrapped and under the tree (which I haven't put up yet) when they come home for the holidays. I tried using gift bags a couple of years and got a tremendous amount of grief from my young adult kiddos about tradition and how opening a bag just wasn't the same as ripping the paper from a package. So each year, I procrastinate and wait until the day before they are scheduled to come home to wrap their gifts. And I dread doing so up until the minute I drag out the paper and tape and begin the arduous task of wrapping.

Last night as I sat on my couch wrapped in an electric throw trying desperately to get warm, I began to think about my aversion to gift wrapping and my overwhelming lack of Christmas spirit this year. As so often happens, God had a lesson ready and waiting for me when I finally listened to His voice. As I piled a fleece blanket on top of the heated throw, I couldn't help but think about last Christmas ... lots and lots of snow ... and my little J.R. the wiener dog ... and how different this Christmas feels than last year. Tears filled my eyes as I thought of how J.R. would shake when he got cold, or when the thunder would roll, or if his back was hurting. Countless times during the time he was with me, I would wrap him in a blanket and hold him close, speaking gentle words of comfort to him until he stopped shaking.

Sitting on the couch with tears streaming down my face, God's reminder, God's lesson, God's voice spoke to me in much the same way as I would speak to J.R. ... "I've got you, Terrie, I've got you. Wrapped in my arms, safe and sound, I've got you. Don't be afraid ... I've got you. Don't be cold ... I've got you. Don't hurt ... I've got you."

How precious is God's love for each of us ... that He desires to wrap me and you in His arms of love and mercy and grace. How amazing is the gift He sent to us in His Son Jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes with a manger for His bed.

Wrap me up, Lord ... wrap me up.

Blah, Blah, Blah

I'm a talker. It's true. I like to talk. Those who know me well would abundantly agree, I'm sure. I'm definitely a talker. My mom always told me that I have the gift of gab. My kids are always embarrassed when I talk to complete strangers. I love telling stories and I especially love drawing other people outside of themselves ... finding out about their lives and getting them to tell me their stories.

I come by the whole chatterbox thing honestly ... it runs in my family in a big way, and perhaps part of my penchant for yapping is a Southern thing. I've definitely noticed that Southerners tend to talk more, visit more, chat more than a lot of folks in the Midwest. For example, funerals in the South are never a one-evening, one-hour visitation and then a half-hour funeral. No, no, no, my friends. Funerals back home involve at least two or three visitation times spread over a couple of days that often stretch into the late hours of the night, and a funeral service that can easily last an hour or longer, followed by a graveside service and then, of course, a meal that involves lots and lots of food and several more hours of conversation. Sorry ... I digress from my original premise that in many ways, I was destined to be a talker.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to speak to a group of women at a church in a small town just north of Kansas City. As I stood before the group of almost 250 women and prepared to begin the session with my customary funny story before launching into the real meat of our time together, I was suddenly overcome with emotion and tears filled my eyes as I struggled to hold myself together. Looking around the room, I was keenly aware that it was a definite "God moment" ... that my emotion was coming from Him and His leading and guiding and nudging and prompting. From somewhere deep within me, I knew that rather than my lighthearted story, God was calling me to pray ... to get on my knees and humble myself before Him and before the room filled with women ... and pray.

What followed was a sweet, sweet time of prayer among the women there that afternoon ... and very little speaking from me. For all the words I had planned to share, God had an entirely different plan in place, a plan that was far deeper and way more powerful than anything that I could have spoken about. I don't know about the other women, but I do know that God touched me that day, that He forced me to be quiet so that He could teach me once again that it is all about Him and absolutely nothing about me.

Stop me, Lord ... stop me in my tracks ... close my mouth ... open my ears ... break my will ... scrub my heart ... make me fully Yours ... all of me, Lord, all of me, fully Yours.

 

The Littlest Things

For as long as I can remember, I've loved to read ... losing myself in a hilarious comedy, a tear-jerking love story, a penetrating biography or a complicated mystery has always been one of my favorite things to do. When I was very young, I became captivated with a set of books called "The Littles." The main characters were tiny little creatures who were part human, part mouse who lived in the walls of the house belonging to a family named, of course, the Bigs. The books followed the Littles through a series of various adventures, and even now at 50 plus years of age, I still remember the storyline of several of those books. Recently, I've been thinking about the Littles ... and the big impact they had on my young mind. Those books are the first chapter books I recall reading on my own. I'm sure there were others before them, but the antics of the Littles were the stories that drew me in and truly instilled in me a love for reading that has remained throughout my life.

If I haven't learned anything in my 50 plus years of life, and certainly even more so over the last year, I hope I've learned that it's not the big events in life that should cause me to measure my time on earth but rather the little things. It seems to me that we often tend to gauge our lives by things that we deem big ... like graduations, marriages, deaths, births, jobs, houses, and so on. I've come to the conclusion that when I base my "life status" on only the large events, I'm missing the point of what really makes life ... well, life. Please don't misunderstand me, those big things are important ... some of them critically so ... but when I only focus on those, I often am blind to some huge meaning in some small packages.

I've always been a list maker, and over the last week or so, I've been working on a couple of very special lists ... my bucket list, things I want to do before I kick the bucket ... and my little things list, things that may seem small but that make a giant difference in my life. My bucket list has some big things like climbing a mountain, walking in a diabetes walk, traveling to Scotland, helping a total stranger, falling in love again, giving a large sum of money to someone anonymously, writing at least two more books ... but there are also some little things on that list as well ... dancing in the rain, building a snowman all by myself, making a cake from scratch, teaching my dog Julie to walk on a leash.

My little things list ... the list that really and truly matters most ... a hug from a small child, a heartfelt conversation with a hurting friend, the perfect cup of coffee, the sun on my face on a warm day, the sway of my hammock as I read a good book, the sound of my chimes on a windy Kansas day, the taste of sweet blueberries and sugar-free Cool Whip, the color of the leaves as they change in the fall, a midnight snowfall on a cold winter night, a kiss from a sweet dog who completely adores me, playing games with my children (and occasionally winning!), the music of birds in the trees along the walking trail ... and those, my friends, are only the tip of the iceberg.

My prayer is that God will keep me ever mindful, ever aware, ever appreciative of the little things that He so richly blesses me with every single day. That He will keep my eyes open and my heart seeking. That I won't miss ... that I won't skip ... that I won't ignore ... the littlest things.  

Just Right

Sometimes I look at my son Matt and wonder at how smart he is. He's working on his Ph.D. in marriage and family therapy and will complete it before he is 27 years old. When I comment to him that he is incredibly smart, he quite humbly gives me the same response ... "Not really, Mom, I'm just driven and I study really hard." Of course, he is also the son who when I asked if I would have to call him Dr. Mattie when he completes his degree said, "Not every day, Mom." Smart, humble and a comedian ... what a combination. I've mentioned previously that Matt has a thing about nicknames ... for as long as I can remember, he's graced everyone and many things in his life with nicknames. Some make sense and I can see the connection, like when he called our huge dog Ali "Beast" for a long while; others ... I have no clue where they come from, like when he called my mom "Galoop" for several years.

It wasn't long after J.R. the wiener dog entered my world that Matt began to call him Junior rather than J.R. ... and yes, I totally understood how that particular moniker presented itself in Matt's mind. Over the 15 months that J.R. was a member of my family, I found myself, too, at times calling him Junior, along with several other nicknames ... Jar Jar Binks, Binkers, Fat Buddy, Little Man and Prancer. And amazingly, he seemed to always know, no matter by what name I called him, that I was talking to him. 

From almost the first night that J.R. was at my house, I wondered what his initials stood for ... why he was given that seemingly odd name ... just initials, no "real" name. However, it wasn't long until I decided that I definitely knew what his name meant ... what those two little letters signified. Early on in our human canine friendship, I began to tell J.R. that he was Just Right for me. Just right in so many ways ... just the right size dog, just the right color, just right in his behavior, just right to walk with me, just right to snuggle in under my chin, just right to love ... just right to be the vessel that God chose to use to cause me to discover my diabetes. I'm more convinced than ever that J.R. stood for Just Right ... sent to me at just the right time, for just the right purpose.

I finally forced myself over the weekend to go for a walk on the trail where J.R. and I logged so many miles over the last 15 months. And I'm not going to lie to you ... that first walk without him on our beloved trail was the hardest walk I've ever made, and I sobbed the entire time. Don't worry, I've been keeping my promise to J.R. to walk, but I've been walking in a different place. Each step I took on the trail brought a memory flooding back to me, and each person along the way who asked how he was forced me to open the wound of his passing again and again.

As I've written about numerous times in this blog, God has taught and is continuing to teach me many lessons as I walk along the trail, and He especially taught me some sweet and life-changing lessons as I made my daily outdoor journey with J.R. I think, however, that perhaps the deepest and most poignant lesson thus far He gave to me today ... on a cold but sunny afternoon, on a deserted and lonely trail. Walking along holding my medical necklace with J.R.'s tag attached in my hand, I once again felt the emotion of losing my faithful companion wash over me in a big way. And that's when it happened ... that's when God began to whisper to me ... in the chirping of the birds, in the swaying of the trees in the wind, in the crunch of the leaves under my feet.

"I am here, Terrie, I am here. I am the great Healer. I feel your pain and hurt. I'm holding you in the palm of My mighty hand. I am just right for you, Terrie. My plan and my purpose for you is just right, Terrie. My love for you is just right, Terrie. My grace and mercy will cover you just right, Terrie. My forgiveness extends to you in just the right measure, Terrie. I am just right, Terrie ... I am just right."

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.

Never Before

Birthdays have never meant much to me, perhaps because of when my birthday is ... December 26. I don't remember having parties as a kid where other children attended; my friends and their families were wrapped up in the aftermath of Christmas. Oh, we got together as a family, and my sister always made sure that I had a totally awesome cake. And, for the most part, my family was great about giving me a separate gift for my birthday and not a combination Christmas/birthday present. All the same, birthdays just never carried a lot of special meaning for me.

Last year, I turned 50 ... and quite honestly ... that was the first birthday that bothered me a little. All of a sudden, I just felt, well, old. Suddenly rather than seeing myself as still young and at times even rather cool and hip, I noticed that my hair is white; my bones ache when the weather changes; and I forget things a lot more than I used to. Instead of thinking that more than half of my life remained ahead of me, I found myself thinking that my life was more than half over. Little did I realize that my 50th year would be such a defining year, a year that would change me in so many ways.

As I was driving home from the vet with my wounded wiener dog on Tuesday morning, it hit me ... this year has been my "never before" year. Never before have I walked five miles a day every day. Never before have I lived alone for a whole year. Never before have I been invited to speak in England. Never before have I lost over 100 pounds. Never before have I written so many blogs. Never before have I danced with my dogs in the living room. Never before have I shared the deepest, darkest parts of my life with another person. Never before have I seen my beautiful daughter so in love. Never before have I slept all night outside in a hammock. Never before have I read over 200 books in one year. Never before have I seen my oldest son receive his master's degree. Never before have I gone fishing all by myself. Never before have I eaten spaghetti squash. Never before have I attended a film festival to see a film made by my second son. Never before have I had to learn to drink again. Never before have I had two such loving and devoted dogs. Never before have I been to Breckenridge.

And while all of those never befores have impacted me in major and significant ways, they pale in comparison with the never befores that really matter ... never before have I been so broken before my Lord ... never before have I experienced the kind of faith that demands my total and complete surrender ... never before have I spent so much time on my face before God ... never before have I felt God's arms wrapped so tightly around me ... never before have I shed so many tears of confession and repentance ... never before have I truly understood the depth of God's mercy and grace.

My 51st birthday is quickly approaching ... never before have I been 51 years old.

Pulling Rank

When my children were teenagers, for some reason that escapes my comprehension, they suddenly thought we were on equal ground ... they thought they had as much say so in the way things were done in our home or the establishment of rules as I did. I remember several huge battles of wills and minds, many of which ended with me completely exasperated with my arguing, obstinate teens and hearing myself utter the words, "I'm pulling rank on you, and you will do what I say whether you like it or not."

It's funny to me how God often teaches me lessons years later, and He's done just that over the last few days. I never really thought about how humbling it must have been for my children to have me pull rank on them, to force them to do what I knew at the time was best for them, what ultimately was for their own good or safety or protection. But now, years later, I completely understand the humility that comes from needing to have rank pulled on me from time to time ... to have others recognize when I need someone to step in and force me to do what is best for me ... what keeps me safe ... what protects me.

I can't help but think of all the times in my life when God has pulled rank on me, of all the times He so needed to pull rank on me because I wasn't listening to His voice, following His will or seeking His face. And while those times were difficult in the moment, beyond humbling, and often physically and mentally exhausting ... when I reach the other side, my heart is filled with thanksgiving and gratitude that He cares enough for me to do what He needs to do in order to rescue me from myself and mold me into the woman He desires for me to become.

So, here's to pulling rank on this old stubborn gal ... thank you to those of you who are the hands and feet of the Master to me ... those who make me eat when I don't realize I need to, those who force me to drink when I'm not thirsty, those who tell me to get praying when I don't feel like talking to God, those who love me when I'm not at all lovable. And thank you most of all to my Lord ... for chasing me when I try to run away, for wrapping Your arms around me when I don't want a hug, for showering me with grace when nothing in me deserves it.

 

You Asked for It

Those of you who are avid readers of this blog may remember that a couple of months ago my son Brad issued a challenge to me ... to write less about having diabetes and more about the wonders of life. Being open, honest, real and transparent, his words kind of stung a little ... but ... he was right on target in his encouragement. I was struggling at the time to deal with all the changes that were taking place in my life, and the daily grind of trying to find the right balance was beginning to consume me. The truth is that I had a difficult time focusing on anything other than getting through a day and night without a blood sugar drop, and I was missing out on the people and things that are really important. 

It's hard at times as a parent to admit that my children have better perspective or more wisdom than I do, but again, Brad was more than correct in discerning that I needed to search deeper, to listen harder, to think less about my physical condition and so much more about the people I've been blessed to share this remarkable journey of life with. Hopefully, Sir Bradley, since I know that you faithfully read this blog ... which, by the way, totally touches my heart, kiddo ... hopefully, you've found that I have honored your challenge. Now having said that, over the last three weeks, I've received a ton of emails asking for an update on my health and I feel the need to respond to those requests.

I stumbled upon a quote recently on a diabetes forum that I think sums up what it's like to live with an illness that changes from day to day and sometimes even moment to moment. "This is a process, a journey. No two days are ever going to be the same. It's kind of like wrestling an octopus ... some days your two arms alone are enough to win, and some days you need some extra arms to battle the eight that are trying to drain the life out of you." Those words perfectly describe my days ... most days, my arms are wrapped tightly around the waving, squirming eight of diabetes and I'm winning the fight, and other days, without help, the eight would certainly take me down.

For the most part, I feel good and am doing well. My weight loss ... which many of you have specifically asked about ... seems to be leveling off, with a total loss thus far of 112 pounds. I bought some new jeans last week ... six sizes smaller than I wore at this time a year ago. I continue to walk every day, but due to my ongoing issues with low blood sugar, I don't walk as far or as fast as I used to. I've had a huge answer to prayer in the last couple of weeks ... my "drinking switch" has been flipped back on, and I've been able to consume between 60 to 80 ounces of fluid most days. My state of dehydration had reached a pretty critical level, so again, this is a giant answer to not only my own prayers, but those of countless family and friends who have been bombarding the throne with requests on my behalf. I had to have blood work done last Thursday and am waiting on the results from those tests to determine if perhaps I need to add an insulin injection to my oral medication routine.

The last year has been a journey for sure, one that at times has felt like a warm and sunny walk on a peaceful beach and at other times like climbing Mt. Everest naked in a raging blizzard. But along the way, God has done some remarkable work in my heart and soul, and that my friends, is the most important thing I can share with you in this post. He has taught me that He is with me ... no matter what I've done, no matter how I feel, no matter where I am ... He is always as close as calling out His name. He's broken me, humbled me and stripped me of my pride ... and a year ago, I would have never written these words ... that breaking, humbling and stripping has been the best thing that ever happened to me. You see, it's when I am at my weakest that He truly is at His strongest.

So, friends, there's the update you've asked for, and please know how much I appreciate your concern and your continued prayers. God is ever faithful, ever true, ever near ... my prayer is that I'll be faithful, true and near to Him ... that I'll seek Him with all my heart and live in a manner that honors and glorifies Him, because that, my friends, at the end of each day, is all that truly matters, all that truly counts, all that truly satisfies.

God bless each one of you ... and thanks for reading!

Stop, Look and Listen

Last Sunday afternoon was chilly and windy here in Kansas City ... chilly and windy enough for a certain wiener dog to wear his adorable blue striped sweater and for me to layer up before we headed out for a rather lengthy walk. Sunday walks may well be my favorite walks of the entire week. I can't explain it really, but there is something extra peaceful, extra relaxing, extra soothing about my walks on Sunday afternoon. I usually take my time, and J.R. and I kind of meander along, walking farther than we do on our nightly walks during the week. But last Sunday, it was cold, and we were moving at a rather brisk pace when I noticed a young mother preparing to cross the street with her two young children. She was holding their hands as they stopped and she checked to make sure their were no cars approaching, and after making sure the way was clear, she proceeded to cross with her kids safely in tow.

As I watched the three of them cross the street, my mind and heart were suddenly flooded with memories of my own three children. I could see their sweet faces and feel their little hands cradled gently in mine as we crossed countless streets over the years. And I couldn't help but remember a little poem I used to recite to them with each crossing ... "Stop, look and listen ... be careful little feet. Stop, look and listen ... before you cross the street." The smile of sweet memories crept across my face, and before I knew it, right there on the path, I heard myself speaking the words of the poem aloud ... to J.R. the wiener dog, I suppose, since he was the only one there. He looked up at me as though he understood ... I laughed at his upturned little wiener dog face, and once again picked up my pace, pulled my scarf tighter around my neck and said, "Come on, Junior, let's get home ... it's cold out here."

The last stretch on our walk toward home is lined with rather large trees, and by the time we reached that section of the path, I was almost dragging J.R. because ... well ... because I was freezing and just wanted to be home. All of a sudden, my wiener dog stopped solidly in his tracks and looked toward the trees, his tail wagging and his head cocked to one side obviously hearing something that demanded his complete attention. Thinking there was a squirrel or a rabbit that had garnered his interest, I tugged on his leash and said, "Come on, buddy, let's go," but J.R. remained steadfast in his position, refusing to budge an inch. I turned off my iPod and removed the earphones from my ears, intending to see if I could hear whatever it was that had captured my dog in mid-walk and caused him to so abruptly halt our journey.

The minute the music was off and my ears open to the sounds around me, I, too, stopped tugging on J.R.'s leash and stood transfixed by the symphony that was coming from the trees. Countless birds covered the limbs and branches of the swaying trees ... yes, birds ... again, God, with the birds. They were flying gently back and forth among the trees, but more than their gentle glides from branch to branch ... they were singing ... singing ... singing ... and it was deafening and beautiful and moving.

I'm not sure how long J.R. and I stood there gazing and listening, but I heard so much more than the music of the birds that afternoon. I heard my Lord speak gently to me ... "Stop ... look ... and listen, Terrie. Slow down ... see Me ... hear My voice." Tears filled my eyes as I realized that in my rush to get home, I almost walked right past a true wonder that God wanted me to see. As my tears spilled onto the path beneath me, I knelt and patted J.R. on the head and thanked him for stopping me ... for seeing and hearing what I didn't. As I looked back into the trees, I understood what God wanted me to see, to hear, to learn. The birds were in the trees because they are flying south to warmer climates, leaving their homes to make the long and treacherous journey to a place that is safer, to a place that beckons them, to a place they are driven to seek out. And yet in the midst of their trek ... they were singing ... singing ... singing.

I'm stopped, Lord ... I see You ... I hear Your voice ... and ... I will sing ... along the way ... I will sing.

The Haunting

When I was young, I remember watching a movie starring Vincent Price as a mad scientist who developed this elaborate system for draining blood from people so that he could transfuse it into himself. I don't remember the plot or the story line or how the movie ended, but the image of all those tubes and bottles seared itself into my brain and even creeps into my dreams now from time to time. As an adult, I never watch scary movies, and I attribute my aversion to the genre to that early movie-watching experience ... good old Vincent Price succeeded in scaring me forever.

Tonight is Halloween, and I've opened my front door to Ninja Turtles, Spiderman, princesses, Iron Man, cowboys, soccer players, ballerinas and without a doubt the cutest little red devil I've ever seen. It was, however, the mad scientist who rang my doorbell who sent shivers up my spine and caused that old sense of fear to sweep over me just as it did in my youth. Yep, all these years later, a little guy dressed like a mad scientist asking for candy completely creeped me out, and the vision of Vincent Price and all his tubes and bottles haunted me.

As I closed my door and turned off the porch light tonight, my thoughts turned to another kind of haunting ... the haunting that sometimes covers me when I begin to think about the mistakes I've made in my life, the sins I've committed, the people I've wounded. Though my head knows that God has forgiven me because I have a personal relationship with Jesus Christ, my heart at times has a really difficult time forgiving myself. I've often wondered why forgetting past sins seems to be so hard, why memories and promises of grace can so quickly be replaced with regret and self-loathing. Perhaps it is the innate nature of us as humans to repeatedly chastise ourselves, to punish ourselves somehow for what we see as shortcomings or failures in our lives.

It's time to ready myself for bed, and as He is always faithful to do, God has taken my haunting and changed it to thanksgiving ... thanksgiving for His forgiveness, for the clean slate He gives me each morning, for the release from sin He offers unconditionally. And as He is also faithful to do, He brought to my mind a true jewel from His Word ... Psalm 103:12 ... "As far as the east is from the west, so far has He removed our transgressions from us."

Pretty sure that means that nothing should haunt me since I belong to Him. Pretty sure that means that I'm forgiven. Completely, totally, through grace alone ... forgiven.

Bird on a Wire

Please allow me to begin this post by saying that I am well aware that I've written several pieces lately that deal with winged creatures ... and though a part of me feels that I should begin this post with an apology for what could be seen by some as a lack of material or inspiration, I believe it is quite the opposite. I believe that God is trying to teach me, and perhaps some of you readers of this blog as well, some deep and lasting lessons from my friends with feathers. You see, it is often in the repetition that we see the truth, recognize the insight, understand the meaning, soak in the teaching that is intended for us and directed our way. And ... being open, honest, real and transparent ... sometimes God simply must use repetitive events to get His message through my thick skull. There ... I've said it ... I'm stubborn and bull-headed on occasion and don't always listen or pay attention as I should.

It's full-blown fall here in Kansas City ... the leaves are changing colors; there's a chill in the air; the smoky aroma of wood-burning fireplaces wafts through my neighborhood; and one of the truest signs of fall's arrival ... the birds are beginning their southern trek. Growing up in Tennessee, I don't remember seeing large flocks of birds migrating to a warmer climate, perhaps because it's relatively mild in the winter in southeastern Tennessee. But here in KC, it's one of the things that has fascinated me for each of the 20 plus years I've lived here.

A couple of mornings ago on my daily commute to work, I pulled up to a traffic light and my eyes were drawn to the power line across the street. The line was literally filled from end to end with birds, sitting peacefully atop the wire as it swayed a bit in the gusty Kansas wind. I was completely mesmerized by the performance of these birds, so much so that the driver in the car behind me honked to encourage me to move forward through the green light which had escaped my attention. As I proceeded down the street and pulled into the parking lot at my office, my mind remained captivated by the birds along the power line, and as I entered the building, I was struck with a thought ... the power surging through those lines was intense, enormous, life-threatening under certain circumstances. And yet, the birds were unafraid, relaxed, comfortable and safe in their perch high above the street.

Settling in at my desk, I realized that God was again teaching me, prodding me, deepening my understanding of Him and His love for me through the display I had just witnessed by the birds. God's power is so far beyond my comprehension, and I so underestimate the width or depth or height of that power ... power that controls the entire universe, and power that controls every breath I breathe. Power that He offers to share with me ... power that He invites me to call upon ... power that He pours out in my life even when I don't recognize it ... power that surpasses all of my human understanding.

Driving home tonight, God reminded me of His lesson as I noticed a flock of birds flying overhead ... His power ... overwhelming, fathomless ... His power ... wide and deep and high ... His power ... His unimaginable power. 

Losing Control

When I was young, I always wanted to have a horse of my own that I could ride anytime. We lived in the city, though, so having a horse was out of the question. But, my sweet daddy recognized that longing in my heart, so he often took me and my niece Sharon to a friend's farm so that we could ride his friend's horse. Sharon and I would take turns sitting on the front of the saddle and guiding the horse through the backwoods trails that wound around the farm's extensive acreage. Most of the rides were uneventful and pleasant, since the horse was a gentle beast that matched his gait and speed to our direction from tugs on the reins. I remember one ride, however, that was quite different from all the others.

It was a warm summer day, and I was the one directing the horse along the path. All of a sudden, something spooked Copper the horse, and he took off at breakneck speed, heading straight for the woods and a line of trees. Nothing I could do would stop the wild ride, and before we knew it, my niece and I were hanging on for dear life as Copper raced through the trees. Branches slapped our faces and arms as the crazed and wild horse seemed to pick up speed with every forward motion of his hooves. Just as the thought ran through my mind that Sharon and I were going to die in the woods, I looked up and saw a huge branch approaching that appeared to be at about the level of our waists. Before I could utter a word, the branch caught me in the gut and propelled me directly backwards to the ground, taking my niece right along with me in the fall. Amazingly, neither of us suffered any major injuries, unless you count our severely wounded pride. As we trudged back to the barn, I remember saying out loud, "That horse was out of control. There was just no stopping him."

Looking back, I think it was easier as a kid to just accept that certain things ... or horses, as the case may be ... are just not within our control. With youth seems to come a greater ability to roll with the punches, take things as they come, adapt easily and quickly to change. I've often wondered at what point in our life development we suddenly decide that as adults we must somehow be able to control so many things ... our employment, our health, our relationships with family and friends, even our God. We struggle and strive and pull and push and grasp and grapple to gain some sort of control over things that, quite honestly, are not at all within our power to change or alter in any way ... things that are, again, quite honestly, most often unchangeable because they are meant to grow us or teach us or humble us in some way that we cannot see or understand when we are in the midst of them.

In recent months, I've gained a whole new perspective regarding control ... physically, emotionally and spiritually. And a huge part of that new perspective is coming to the realization that it's only in giving up whatever semblance of control I thought I had over any of those areas of my life and completely surrendering myself to the total control of God that life has any real or true meaning and significance. It's more than a little bit interesting to me that it has taken me over 50 years of living to finally understand that concept, to come to terms with what it means to give up, to let go and let God. That's all ... just let go and let God. While the world tells me to scratch and claw and fight to hang on to "my" power, to "my" control, to "my" world, God's Word tells me that what I need to carry, to pick up, to hold on to is the cross of Jesus Christ.

Help me to let go, Lord ... to let go and let You lead my way. Help me to lose control, Lord ... to lose control of me and trust You to hold me in Your arms ... to lose control and rest in You.    

Wise Owl

As I sit here typing this post, there are two very tired dogs who are snoring next to me on the couch. They are both exhausted hounds this evening and are sleeping the sleep that only completely tuckered out canines can sleep. And I ... well, honestly, I am sitting here feeling rather jealous of my dogs and their blissful sleep. For the last several months, there has been a change in my sleeping pattern and I never sleep through the night any longer. But at least when I first go to bed, I fall asleep quickly and get my best rest of the night during those first few hours ... until a week or so ago anyway.

There is a large tree in my neighbor's yard that sits close to the part of my house where my bedroom is located, and some of the branches hang quite near my bedroom window. And for several nights, that tree became the resting place for a large owl ... a large, very vocal owl. While his constant, "Hoo, hoo, hoo," is, I'm certain, music to his own ears, my perception of his loud cacophony of sound is quite different. For the first two nights of Mr. Owl's relentless noise-making, I lay in my bed thinking, "He'll pipe down soon ... surely he can't carry on like that for very long." The next three nights brought about a definite change in my patient and understanding manner concerning my newly acquired feathered nemesis. What began as at least an attempt to see some sort of beauty in having an owl outside my window quickly deteriorated into a strong desire to go out at midnight with a slingshot and encourage Mr. Owl to go bless someone else with his nonstop hooting for a while.

It perplexes me immensely why it seems to take so long for me to "get it" when God is trying to speak to me or get my attention. By the sixth night, as I once again listened to the relentless, "Hoo, hoo, hoo," of the seemingly tireless creature outside my window, I finally said aloud in the darkness of my room, "OK, God ... I give ... what is up with this blasted owl? I need at least some sleep in order to halfway function." The minute the words escaped my lips, Mr. Owl's hooting seemed to take on a different timbre ... a different cadence ... a different tone. Rather than annoying and frustrating me, his voice became almost soothing, peaceful, restful. I began to join him in his "Hoo, hoo, hoo," keeping pace with him in the pauses between each utterance in a sing-song manner until I drifted off to sleep.

Upon the arrival of the seventh night, I was actually anticipating my new nightly routine as I readied myself and my dogs for bed. Snuggled under the covers with the hounds nestled in their respective spots, I once again joined the great winged songster in repeating, "Hoo, hoo, hoo," when it happened ... I had a God moment that brought me quite literally out of my bed and to my knees. In chanting along with Mr. Owl, I suddenly remembered the story of Peter when Jesus asked him, "Who do you say that I am?" Did you catch that word? "Who ... who ... who do you say that I am?" My mouth formed the "Hoo, hoo, hoo," with Mr. Owl as I heard God whisper, "Terrie, who, who, who do you say that I am? Do you say that I am your Lord? Do you say that I am your Savior? Do you say that I am the Christ, the Son of the living God? Who, who, who do you say that I am?"

My prayer as I practically jumped from my bed and fell to my knees is the same prayer that has been constantly in my heart since that night ... may my words, my thoughts, my actions, my very life shout that You are my Lord, my Savior, my Master, my Protector, my Healer ... may my life reflect You ... Your love, Your patience, Your forgiveness, Your truth.

Oh ... and Mr. Owl? He's moved on to croon another night in another tree, to speak to another heart ... hoo, hoo, hoo ... Who, Who, Who do you say that He is???

Better Than Santa

Have you ever people-watched at an all-you-can-eat buffet? If you haven't, you should ... you'll be amazed at the fascinating things you can surmise about people by watching the way they fill their plates at a buffet. Though I rarely frequent those types of restaurants now that my diet is so restricted, I had reason to visit one a couple of weeks ago with some friends. As I sat there watching people stack their plates as high as they could, I found myself quite in wonderment ... though they could return to the buffet as often as they desired, some people obviously had an overwhelming desire to pile on as much food as the plate could hold (and then some). It was as if they were afraid that the mashed potatoes, buttery rolls or that green Jello marshmallowy stuff thrown on top for good measure would somehow disappear before they could make their way back to the food for a second (or third or fourth) trip. And I must admit ... in true open, honest, real and transparent fashion ... that sometimes my eyes well with tears when I drive past my favorite Chinese buffet and remember my own mile high plates from days gone by.

While I no longer consume the same amount of food as I previously did, I often continue to stack the plate of my life with as much as it can possibly hold. Some days, it seems that I race from one task or event to the next with little to no downtime in between. Wednesdays are those kinds of days ... I race home from work each Wednesday to feed my dogs, gulp down some dinner and head to the church to be a listener for the little kids who attend our Awana program. There were a couple of weeks between me agreeing to serve in that capacity and when the program started, and during that time, I chastised myself heartily for saying yes to the mid-week commitment.

The third week into serving as a listener, I discovered that rather than dreading Wednesdays, I was actually looking forward to the time I got to spend with the kiddos. Listening to them recite their Bible verses, seeing their little eyes light up as I high-five their hands when they are correct, talking to them about what the verses mean, hearing them shout my name when I walk into the room ... it's ... well, it's a true blessing to me each week. And as is so often the case, God taught me a valuable lesson last week through one of the little boys ... a lesson that has caused me to think and ponder and wonder and pray for days.

I wear two necklaces ... one is a beautiful and rather expensive diamond journey necklace given to me by my daughter, and it carries very deep and significant meaning for both of us. The other is a $20 medical ID dog tag with emergency information engraved on the back, and I keep it tucked inside my shirt. As I listened to the little boy say his verse for the week, he suddenly stopped and reached up and touched the chains around my neck and said, "I have a chain, too, but I don't have it on." He then asked what was on the end of the chain that was tucked into my shirt, and I pulled the tag out and showed it to him. He looked back and forth from the glistening diamond necklace to the cheap dog tag and without missing a beat, he reached out and touched the tag and said, "This one is so cooler than the shiny one."

It's been said that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder, but I think maybe instead that beauty is in the perspective of the beholder. How many times do I get so focused on the "shiny" stuff in life that I miss the true beauty of the simple? While my diamond necklace will always hold a special place in my heart because it was a gift from my daughter during a difficult time in our lives, my inexpensive dog tag could one day quite literally save my life. The little boy saw something with his little boy eyes and his little boy heart that I didn't ... he saw the beauty, the coolness, the importance in the simple.

So, here's to Wednesdays and the "so cooler" moments that God is showering upon me ... tonight, a little boy told me that I smelled better than Santa Claus. It just doesn't get any better than that ... not one bit better!

 

Make Me a Goose

This morning on my drive into work, I saw a wonder in the sky above me. It was such an awesome sight that I had to pull over and get out of my car for a few moments so that I could gaze in amazement and fully take in the parade above me. Perhaps parade isn't the correct word; it was more like a symphony ... an orchestrated concerto of God's creation and handiwork. Set against a clear blue, cloudless sky, flying in perfect V formation was one of the largest groups of geese I have ever seen. I would estimate there to have been over 100 of the flying feathered fowl ... wafting on the wind, soaring through the sky, determined in their direction.

I've seen countless flying formations of geese over the years, but this group grabbed my attention and gave me pause to stop and watch, perhaps because of the sheer size of the flock ... or perhaps because once again, as has happened quite frequently over the last months, God was slowing me down ... causing me to look up ... teaching me a lesson. As I stood beside my car and shielded my eyes from the sun, I noticed something about the flying V that I hadn't seen at first glance. While the majority of the geese were completely in line and in sync with one another in their flight pattern, there were two of the feathered creatures who were flying together to the left of the group ... pretty far to the left, in fact, almost as if they weren't even part of the flock at all. I kept thinking they would rejoin the group, but they never did ... instead, they fell farther behind and flew farther away.

Returning to my car, my mind was racing and my heart was pounding ... there's nothing like a strong God lesson first thing in the morning to get your brain humming and your blood pumping. It struck me as I merged onto the interstate that it was the beauty of all those geese flying in formation that initially garnered my interest, but it wasn't until I stopped and looked up, really looked up, that I saw the two renegade geese flying on their own. And it also struck me that once my sight was focused on the two outsiders, I was mesmerized by them ... wondering what their story was ... how they ended up separated from the others and what was to become of them if they didn't rejoin the group.

After finishing up some early morning editing, I jumped on the Internet and Googled "geese formations" and "separated geese." What I discovered was nothing less than astounding to me ... the two geese who were flying alone probably weren't renegades or rebels at all. According to my limited research, there is documented evidence that when a goose becomes sick or injured and falls out of formation, another goose immediately leaves the group as well and stays with his ill comrade until he either recovers or passes on.

As I type this blog, my heart is heavy and convicted ... I get so caught up in my own stuff, my own busy life, my own worries that not only do I not leave the formation to help my suffering friend, I often don't notice that he or she is sick or troubled or injured. And honestly? Sometimes I don't even see when my friend leaves the flock and begins to drift toward the ground.

Make me a goose, Lord, a goose who cares more about others than about myself ... a goose who flies in formation with You ... a goose who sticks close by my family and friends when they need me most. Make me a goose, Lord ... please ... make me a goose.

Steel Magnolias

The week before we moved from Florida to Kansas, the group of gals that met each week to play games, go to dinner, head to the beach with all of our children ... the gals who were among my closest friends, took me to see the movie "Steel Magnolias." Being a Southern girl, I still count that flick in my top five favorite films. Not only was the cast astounding ... I mean, seriously, Sally, Dolly, Julia, Daryl, Olympia and Shirley all together in one film sporting heavy Southern accents while delivering some of the most memorable one-liners in the history of movies, the storyline was also heartfelt and timeless.

•  "I'm not crazy, I've just been in a very bad mood for the last 40 years!"
• "Miss Truvy, I promise that my personal tragedy will not interfere with my ability to do good hair."
• "You are too twisted for color TV."
• "I don't trust anyone who does their own hair. I don't think it's natural."

While those lines always make me laugh (even after seeing the movie like 500 times!), the film is also laced with lines that are touching and poignant ... lines that always make me think deeply and shed a tear or two.

• "I have a strict policy that nobody cries alone in my presence."
• "That which does not kill us makes us stronger."
• "Laughter through tears is my favorite emotion."
• "I was there when that wonderful creature drifted into my life, and I was there when she drifted out."

But the line that struck me most the first time I saw the film strikes me even more today, some 20 years later.

• "I would rather have 30 minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special."

Over the last few months, as those of you who are faithful readers of this blog know, God has been teaching me, molding me, breaking me, stripping me, preparing me. And one of the greatest outcomes of this part of my journey is that God has given me pause ... made me stop and listen ... created a deep desire within the depth of my soul to treasure every single moment, every single breath, every single smile, every single step. I want to strive to please Him in all I say and do ... I want to have those 30 minutes of wonderful, and I want those minutes to be ones I spend walking hand-in-hand with my Lord.

Wonderful or nothing special? With Him or against Him? Treasured minutes or wasted years? The choice is up to you, friend. Make the most of your moments ... cry when you need to, laugh as often as you can and love with all you've got.

Heaven Bound

Some of the greatest blessings that come with being a speaker are the people I meet as I travel from town to town and church to church. Like the gals in Solomon, Kansas, who put a fake snake and mouse and frog in my bed. Or the woman in Polo, Illinois, who met Jesus at the weekend retreat at a church camp. Or the young man in St. Louis, Missouri, who called me "Tennessee Tater" for four days. Or the women from all over who keep in contact with me and have become my friends. So many different folks over the last 10 years ... so many stories, so many entwined and connected lives, so many blessings in these brothers and sisters in the Lord.

For those who are avid readers of this blog, you have followed me along on my beloved walking trail, keeping step with me as God teaches me lesson after lesson as J.R. and I march along on our nightly walks. I've met quite a few people as we hoof it each night, and earlier this year, I met Andy, a Baptist minister whose love for the Lord was contagious and recognizable in our first conversation. Andy and I have had many conversations since that initial one, and he recently asked me to come and speak to a group of folks at his church for their Wednesday evening gathering. As is so often the case, I left the church last Wednesday feeling more than abundantly blessed myself.

Andy's group was ... well ... different than many of the groups I'm asked to address. Most often, I speak to women's groups whose ages run the gamut from young to old. Andy's crowd was made up of men and women, and they were an older, wiser group than my usual audience. And, to be completely honest, I was a little nervous as to how well they would receive my at times warped sense of humor. There's nothing worse as a speaker than delivering a line that you think is hilarious and have it met with complete silence ... or worse yet, groans of disapproval. These folks, however, were simply awesome ... warm and welcoming, smiling and laughing and nodding their heads in agreement as I spoke.

Andy had asked me to share my testimony, and in doing so, it seems that at some point during the story, I always end up talking about heaven. As I began to tell the group that my view of heaven has changed recently ... that I think about heaven more ... that I wonder about heaven more ... that I long for heaven more ... I noticed smiles cross the weathered faces of many of the precious men and women in the group. Their countenances reflected something deep, something touching, something tender. It was one of those God moments ... a moment when it was as if I suddenly knew what those kind and gentle souls were thinking. "We're closer to heaven than you are, young woman, we are closer to heaven than we've ever been." Tears welled in my eyes as I looked around the room and saw the peace, the serenity, the comfort in the knowing and wise eyes that gazed back at me.

Only God knows the numbers of those precious ones' days, just as He is the only one who knows the number of the days He has appointed to me or you. Age doesn't matter ... sickness doesn't matter ... time doesn't matter ... all that matters is that my Father in heaven is in control of all things, and He will one day call me home to be with Him for all eternity. As I drove away from the church last Wednesday, one prayer flooded my mind and engulfed my heart.

"Help me to cherish every day, Lord, every moment that You allow me to have ... help me to be your servant in all I say and do ... help me to live my life wisely in a way that honors You at all times. I want to be all yours, God, all yours, so that when that day comes ... when the days you have appointed to me are complete ... when I'm heaven bound ... You will find me ready for the journey."

Don't Mess With My Cool Whip

For as long as I can remember, I've been just a touch on the weird side when it comes to food. There are certain foods, such as beets or Brussels sprouts, that, in my opinion, should be banished from all dinner tables for all time. There are certain foods, such as candy corn and caramel apples, that, again in my opinion, should earn their rightful place as part of the necessary daily requirements for healthy living ... except that now I can't eat either of those wonderful creations ... bummer, dude.

People who have had occasion to share a meal with me have graciously drawn attention to another of my food oddities in that I tend to be a little ... OK, I'm a whole lot ... ritualistic in my method of consuming food. I don't like the different items on my plate to touch each other; I eat the foods individually, meaning I eat all the broccoli, then all the squash, then all the meat; and I save my favorite item until the end of my meal, even if that means I have to pick all the shrimp out of my salad and set it to the side.

Food has taken on a whole new meaning to me, or lack of meaning, I suppose, since I was diagnosed with diabetes almost a year ago. Now I eat to live rather than live to eat. It's funny to me that though I have to think about food and eating all the time now, food doesn't bring me anywhere near as much joy as it previously did, except for two delicious combinations ... combos that I look forward to every day - lime jello with strawberries sliced on top and sugar-free pudding with Cool Whip. And the whole ritualistic eating thing? Yep, definitely applies to both of the aforementioned items ... every bite of jello has exactly two slices of strawberries with it; and the Cool Whip goes on the spoon first and then the pudding, in perfectly symmetrical proportions, of course.

Yesterday I realized that God has changed me over the last year in ways that I didn't even imagine, and that recognition came last night, from all places ... my Cool Whip. When I went to get my nightly snack and opened the Cool Whip container, I laughed and laughed and laughed. In fact, I laughed until I cried ... even the dogs came to the kitchen to see if I had gone off the deep end. You see, I have a way that I scoop my Cool Whip out of the container ... I know exactly how much to scoop to make it match my pudding serving, and I scoop it very uniformly ... always, always, always from the side of the container while being very careful to leave a nice edge on the remaining Whip for the next evening. I never, never, never scoop my Cool Whip from the middle in a random, willy nilly kind of way. And yet, there it was ... a giant hole right in the center of my Cool Whip ... shouting to me that my sweet friend who often cares for me and feeds me when my blood sugar drops had been in my Cool Whip that morning when she came to help me.

Early on in our friendship, I mentioned my Cool Whip weirdness to my friend, thinking she would realize what a true benefit it could be to her if she would model her Cool Whip scooping skills to match mine. Her reply? "You are crazy, and I am so going to mess with you on this every time I feed you Cool Whip. Every time." And being gut honest ... it drove me crazy in the beginning ... to the point that I would spend a lot of time smoothing out my beloved Cool Whip when I next opened the container. 

My big Cool Whip realization last night? I've had to learn to let go of a lot of things over the last months ... my pride, my strong will, my independence to a certain degree, and I've fought the surrendering of each of those with everything I had in me. But when I opened my Cool Whip last night, it hit me ... what I have gained far surpasses what I've lost or given up. I've gained a much deeper and sweeter relationship with my Lord; I've gained a new appreciation for the need to ask for help at times; and I've gained friends who are honest and real and true.

And how can I be so sure that God has changed me? Well, the proof is in the pudding ... or in my case, the Cool Whip. Last night, when I stopped laughing, I grabbed a spoon and scooped out my Cool Whip for my pudding ... right from the middle, in great random and willy nilly style ... and then I snapped the lid on and put it back in the fridge. And then ... then I bowed my head and said a prayer out loud thanking God for my Cool Whip lesson ... and my precious Cool Whip friend.