Two Words

For the last couple of weeks, I've been infatuated with two-word statements. Yep, two words put together to form a sentence ... no more, no less. This obsession began when I saw a bumper sticker on a car that read simply, "How much?" That short combination of two words has caused me to expend a great deal of thought and contemplation in recent days. And now, it seems as if everywhere I turn, a new two-word pearl of wisdom is placed before me.

Jesus wept. Seek Me. Don't worry. Read carefully. Love you. Drink deeply. God thing. What's wrong? Grace abounds. Walk slowly. Hang on. So sorry. Come in. Not enough. Have fun. Pay attention. He cares. Wait patiently. Speak thoughtfully. Be well. Let go.

These little nuggets have arrived via some rather unique delivery avenues. Bumper stickers, billboards, emails, the Bible, conversations, Facebook comments, books, television, radio ... one of them I even noticed when I was walking one evening - a tattoo on a young woman's shoulder.

I'm not sure why suddenly I am attentive to these phrases or so consumed to analyze them completely, to pick them apart and try to understand any deep philosophical meaning present in them. Perhaps it is nothing more than the "word hound" in me, but then again, perhaps it is something much more.

I wonder. You, God?

Drink Deeply

Before I was diagnosed with diabetes last October, I was thirsty all the time ... really ... all the time. I could never get enough to drink and carried a glass of tea or a can of diet soda with me constantly. My thirst was unquenchable, never-ending and relentless.

Within a month or so of beginning my medication and altering my diet, I noticed a big change in my level of thirst. All of a sudden, I wasn't really thirsty anymore ... ever. I went from not being able to consume enough liquid to having no desire to drink at all. In fact, my thirst level dropped so much that I had to begin setting an alarm on my phone to remind me to drink something.

Looking back over the last five months at all the changes that have taken place in my life, the whole lack of thirst area has been one of the most perplexing to me. And one of the most puzzling and interesting pieces of my "non-thirstiness" is that it seemed to happen literally overnight ... I went to bed thirsty and woke up the next morning not thirsty. Something switched in my body chemistry as I slept that night, a culmination I'm sure of changes that had been taking place when I didn't realize they were happening.

There are times when I am spiritually thirsty, times when I can't get enough of God, when I seek His face and read His Word constantly. And then there are times, often that occur without seeming rhyme or reason, when I find myself trudging through a barren and dry desert in my walk of faith. At a time when the heat of the day and the darkness of the night should make me have an unquenchable thirst, I need to be reminded and encouraged and prodded to drink from my Savior's well.

Make me thirsty, Lord, so thirsty that I'm driven to you and no other. Help me find my way out of the desert and into the cooling waters of your love. Take me to the oasis, God, and let me drink deeply of You.

The Return

Every time I come home, there are two furry creatures who are always happy to see me. They come bounding toward me with tails wagging their whole bodies ... filled with joy that their favorite person in the world has come home once again. It doesn't matter if I've been gone for 10 minutes or 10 days, they are overwhelmingly elated when I return. Whatever my mood, good or bad, I can't help but smile at the love and loyalty that reside in the hearts of my canine companions.

It's a rainy night here tonight ... my sweet mom used to always say that rainy nights were good sleeping nights. And that is what Julie and J.R. have done all evening, curled up as only doggies can do, right beside me on the couch. Peaceful, quiet, rested, content ... next to the person they love most in this world.

Watching them sleep, I think about how God must feel when I've been away from Him ... away from home ... and how He must feel when I return, when I find my way in the dark night, back into the safe haven that is Him. His joy must be boundless when he hears me put my key in the lock and open the door to my heart, when I call out, "I'm home," when I curl up beside Him and slip into a contented, restful, quiet, peaceful sleep.

"I'm falling on my knees, offering all of me."

Over the Fence

When I was a little girl, our neighbors to the southwest of us had a six-foot wooden fence surrounding their backyard. From the time I was about 10 years old, one of my missions in life was to see what was on the other side of that fence. It was more than mere curiosity that drove me; it was a mystical force of some sort that caused my friends and me to spend hours devising plans to scale the jail-like wooden bars and creating scenarios of what might lie in wait over the fence.

Eventually, when I was in my late teens, our neighbors sold their house and the new owners promptly removed the fence from the property. You can imagine my disappointment in seeing that there was nothing more than a patio with a table and chairs, some flowers and a few trees populating the land that in our childhood imaginations had been filled with aliens and prairie folk and even The Partridge Family bus (stolen of course by our neighbors who were spies).

Recently, I've been thinking a lot about that fence and about my childhood home. Losing family members and reconnecting with old friends seems to be drawing my heart toward home quite often. Perhaps it is simply that I'm growing older and getting more nostalgic as time passes. Whatever the cause, my mind in its travels homeward has paused more than once to contemplate the fence and the fascination that it held for me during my years of innocence.

I've always heard it said that with age comes wisdom, but I'm not so sure about the truth in that particular maxim. I find myself still searching and dreaming and wondering what is on the other side of the fence ... wishing that I knew all the answers and had x-ray vision to see through the boards of life. I'd like to know that there is adventure ahead, dreams to be pursued and love to be embraced.

I'm still pretty short in stature, and the fence is still pretty tall, much like when I was a young girl. And I've come to realize that while I'm trying to see over it or create scenarios for what lies beyond its boundaries, I often miss the beauty of what lies right in front of me. I'm so busy trying to figure out the future that I'm missing the present.

So keep me in today, God. Help me to look at You, to trust You and to know that whatever lies over the fence, you already hold in Your hand.

Weak, Weaker, Weakest

Some people have no problem at all asking for help, and I must admit, I admire those people. People who can readily reach out to others for help when they are ill, when they are hurting emotionally, when they are struggling spiritually. And I also admire the people who offer assistance when someone calls out in the midst of a deep need. People who prepare meals or clean house for a friend who is sick, people who listen and counsel when another's heart is breaking, people who point the way to the Father when someone has lost their way.

Most of the time, I'm relatively good about helping others ... most of the time, but not always. Asking for help, however, has never come easily for me. Somewhere along the path of life, I became convinced that I had to be strong, to somehow be able to handle everything that came my way on my own, to always be the one to whom others came for help. And somewhere, somehow, I learned to cover my sickness, my pain, my sin ... to hide behind a mask of strength and a veil of perfection.

While I want to believe that I never need to ask for help, the truth is that at times my illness is so severe, my hurt so painful, my sin so deep, the only way out is to open up and allow someone else to see inside of me. To let a friend to take my hand and walk beside me, to love me unconditionally, to pray for me and with me, to take care of me, to help me.

I'm learning that help may come in human and divine form. I'm learning that asking for help shouldn't come only when I have carried my burden so long that I am too weak to take another step. I'm learning that when I ask, there are friends who will answer. I'm learning that God is always there, waiting for me to whisper, "I need help."

How Much?

Driving into work this morning, I noticed a bumper sticker on the rear of a car that has made me think and ponder and wonder all day. It was a simple black and white sticker that said, "How much?" I immediately had a strong desire to pull up next to the car and yell out to the driver, "How much what?" Being a senior copy editor can be a curse at times, such as when I have a strong urge to edit a bumper sticker on a car right in the middle of my morning commute on the interstate.

My mind has stumbled over that sticker today; my brain has been stuck in bumper sticker land. How much what? How much money? How much food? How much water? How much love? How much did the car cost? How much soap does it take to clean a dirty toddler? How much sunshine? How much mud? How much medicine? How much vacation time do I have? How much is enough? How much? How much? How much? How much what???

As the day has worn on, my "How much" focus has shifted a bit, and I find myself asking some much deeper questions. How much compassion do I have for the sick, the weak or the homeless? How much love do I show to others who are in difficult places in their lives? How much money do I give to help others in need? How much forgiveness do I extend when someone hurts me? How much acceptance do I demonstrate to people with different backgrounds or lifestyles? How much? How much? How much?

I wonder ... I wonder ... I wonder ... if God ever asks how much?

Rolling Thunder

My not-so-fat-anymore wiener dog J.R. is terrified of thunder. I'm not talking just a little nervous or frightened when there is a loud clap or a sudden boom. I'm talking even a small little rumble, and he's shaking all over and finding somewhere to hide. When he first came to live with me, he was afraid of everything and everyone. He's improved so very much (I can actually vacuum now without him having a meltdown), but when it comes to thunder, fear consumes him.

Last weekend, we had rain and some thunder here in Kansas City. It was pretty minor compared to some of the storms I've lived through since moving here over 20 years ago, but there was a low rolling thunder that pierced the evening air. J.R. jumped from his perch in my lap and took off for the bedroom looking for a place where he would feel safe and secure. When I went to find him, he had his head and half of his body under my bed, shaking for all he was worth. I pulled him from his hiding spot, wrapped him a blanket, held him close and rocked him until his shaking subsided.

As we rocked, I had one of those "ah ha" moments ... you know the ones, when you realize a great truth that may well change who you are for the remainder of your life. I began to think of the thunder in my life, of the drenching rain that at times seems to be pursuing and following me, of my desire to run away and find a place to hide.

And as J.R. snuggled his head into the crook of my arm and finally drifted off to sleep, I had a profound revelation, a moment of truth. He felt safe and secure in my arms, cradled against me, tightly held, warm and safe. In the midst of the storm, he had found his spot ... his hiding place ... his refuge. In his fear, his port in the storm didn't shift or move ... J.R. was the one who ran and hid.

When the thunder rolls across the plains of my life, my knee-jerk response is to run and hide, to allow the fear to overtake me, to claim me, to disable me. And yet, my spot, my hiding place, my refuge never moves, never runs away, never leaves me or forsakes me. My God is bigger than the storms, stronger than the thunder and more than able to keep me safe and secure. He is always there, even in the middle of the drenching rain and the rolling thunder.

He is God ... and He is there.

Trial by Jury

I've never served on a jury. I've had to report for jury selection several times, including once for federal court, but I've never been chosen to serve. Most of the times, the jury was chosen before my number was called. Once, I was dismissed because my mom had recently passed away, and I was in tears throughout the entire selection process. I'm certain that the judge was concerned for my mental state and allowed me to step down.

Each time, as I sat and listened and observed the questioning process for the potential jurors, I couldn't help but wonder how it would feel to be on trial for committing a crime. I cannot imagine the emotional upheaval that would be involved, especially if the accused was innocent and on trial for a serious enough crime that could destroy the remainder of his or her life.

Recently, I've experienced both acceptance and judgment in my life, and both outcomes have given me pause for deep contemplation concerning how we as humans are inclined to do life together. More often than not, we categorize and label our fellow man or woman according to a multitude of criteria ... skin color, profession, size of bank account, parent or non parent, married or single, religious affiliation, sexual orientation, and the list goes on and on.

Ultimately, when the layers are peeled back to reveal the core of who I truly am, none of the categorizations or labels even matter in the end. It is of no consequence how I am accepted or judged by a jury of my peers, but only how I am viewed in the eyes of God.