Get Real

A few years ago, I spent some time teaching senior high Sunday School when my son Matt was in high school. I look back on those years with such fondness ... the kids were such a great group, and I had a blast working with them. We had some truly awesome times together ... a ski trip to Colorado, breakfasts at my little house (packed with 20 or more hungry teenagers!), a class one Sunday when the kids washed each others' feet ... so many wondrous memories for me, and hopefully for the young people who are now adults themselves.

One of the things that struck me in working with the youth was how they seemed to always have certain "catch phrases" that they would say over and over in their conversations. Word combinations like, "Get a life," "Check it out, dude," or "Gimme a break." Over the last few weeks, one particular phrase that the kids often used has returned to my mind and caused me to contemplate who I am and what I hold to be true in my life.

Whenever someone in the group was thinking too highly of themselves or demonstrating questionable behavior or pretending to be something they weren't, invariably one of the kids would say, "Get real." Once again, two little words with huge meaning and impact that have taken on new truth for me even years later. In fact, I woke up this morning thinking, "Am I real? Is my life one of integrity? Am I who I say I am? Do I keep certain things in my life hidden away and hope that no one will ever find me out? Am I really honestly completely and totally real? And if I do get real, will the people in my life still love me? Will they love the real me, the me that is tucked away, the me that at times is not very pretty or loving?"

As I ponder and think and meditate on and contemplate those questions, there are other questions that storm into my consciousness and demand my undivided attention. They are the real questions, the important questions, the questions that override all the others. Am I real with God? Am I trying to play a game with Him concerning certain areas of my life? Am I honest with Him? Am I listening to Him?

Make me real, God ... whatever that means, wherever that takes me, however you need to work on me, whenever you choose to humble me ... please, God, make me real.
 

Truth or Dare

Some things never change. Things like playing the game Truth or Dare if you're a high school or college student. I played it, and so did my children. And kids from now on will probably play it. It's one of those timeless games, maybe even approaching Monopoly status in its longevity and appeal. I've often wondered if perhaps part of the lure of Truth or Dare is the potential danger involved if one chooses the dare challenge without knowing what that dare may be.

One particular game of Truth or Dare I participated in when I was in college is forever etched in my brain. I was with a group of friends, and we were out on a Friday night at a park on Missionary Ridge. I opted for the dare, and my challenge was to spray paint some graffiti on one of the overpasses that connected two parts of the ridge across one of the major interstates in Chattanooga. I allowed two of the guys in the group to hold my legs and dangle me over the edge of the bridge while I painted the concrete beneath me ... upside down over six lanes of interstate with the traffic speeding by beneath me. Definitely not one of the smarter things I've done in my life, and now that I'm an adult, I can't believe I willingly put myself in that kind of danger.

You'd think I would have learned some lessons along the way when it comes to choosing between truth or dare. You'd think I would have learned that the danger in going with the dare option could be so great it could destroy me. You'd think I would automatically choose to know the truth, follow the truth, live the truth. And yet, more often than I'd like to admit, I choose the dare, knowingly putting myself into dangerous situations.

I can't help but wonder how God feels about my choices at times ... I think He must shake His head, His eyes filling with tears, as I wander down a different path than He desires. And I also can't help but wonder why His patience with me seems to know no boundaries, no matter where I go or what I do, He always waits for me to return, hat in hand ... broken, humbled, on my knees. 

My prayer? That when I'm tempted to let someone dangle me over speeding traffic ... when I'm tempted to hang over the interstate, paint can in hand ... I'll think twice and choose the truth over the dare.

Keeping Me Breathing

Every morning around 7:00 a.m., my phone rings. And every morning, I know that it is my friend Debbie calling. And every morning, I know that she is calling for one purpose. She is calling to check on me, to ask how I'm feeling, to make sure I'm still breathing. I quite affectionately call Debbie my "kick the bucket" friend; if I do ... kick the bucket in the night, that is ... Debbie will be certain that I'm taken care of right away, and equally important, that my dogs are protected and looked after.

Dee Dee is my friend who has a key to my house and whom I've taught everything to do to help me when my blood sugar drops into the danger zone. She knows how to stick my finger, knows when I need juice or glucose pills, knows how often and how much I need to eat. When I first taught Dee Dee how to check my blood sugar, I remember saying, "Hopefully, you'll never have to do this." Those were famous last words, I suppose, since she has had to do just that more than once.

I've been having some issues with the signal on my phone recently, and a couple of weeks ago, my phone rang about 7:10, and it was Debbie. She quickly said in a loud voice, "Why didn't you answer your phone?" I replied that my phone didn't ring until just then, and she informed me that she had called at least eight times since 7:00. And then, without missing a beat, she said, "You were down to 60 seconds." "60 seconds for what?" I asked. "60 seconds until I called Dee Dee to come to your house." She then proceeded to let me know that I have 10 minutes to answer my phone when she calls, and if I don't answer within my allotted time, she will call Dee Dee to come and check on me since she lives nearby.

I never asked Debbie to start her morning routine of calling ... she decided on her own that she would make those calls, and she made that decision out of love for me. And Dee Dee was the one who asked me to teach her what she needed to know to help me, because she loves me. Both of these dear friends, along with many other friends and family, know me well enough to know that I'm not good about asking for help and that I'm fiercely independent. They know me well enough to step in when I need it, to back off when I don't, and to love me through it all.

In thinking about the commitment and the loyalty and the love that the people in my life graciously bestow upon me every single day, I can't help but think about how much more God is committed to me ... how His love and loyalty never wavers ... how He calls me every morning ... how He always knows what to do to help me ... how He desperately wants to hold the key to my heart. 

Thank you, Father, for blessing me with friends, with family, with love. Thank you, Father, for giving me life, for loving me through it all, for keeping me breathing. Thank you.

Solitary Confinement

My bedroom in the home I grew up in was small ... really, really small. My furniture fit in the room so tightly that my twin-size bed rested against the wall on one side, and I had to be careful when I got out of bed not to hit my head on the dresser. It's funny that I didn't think of my room as small when I was young, but looking back as an adult who now owns a home ... that room was just tiny.

With its mustard yellow walls, squeezed-in furniture and diminutive size, my room was "my place" ... it was where I did my homework, talked on the phone to my friends, read countless books, wrote a plethora of stories and spent hours dreaming of someday becoming a professional tennis player or a famous writer. It was my retreat, my shelter, my hiding place. And ... it was where one of the quirky components of my personality took root and began to grow ... one that exists even now well into my adult life.

For as far back as I can remember, and especially during my teenage and college years, when I was angry or hurt or depressed or wrestling a big life decision, I would lock myself away in my room often for extended periods of time. As I mentioned, my bed was against the wall, and I would pull the mattress away, leaving just enough space for me to get between the wall and the mattress and lie on the box springs. I would only emerge for the necessary essentials of life, and I would spend a great deal of my sequestered time snuggled into my little cubby next to the wall reading, writing and contemplating the meaning of life. 

My bed no longer rests against a wall, and I don't have a box springs cubby to climb into. I do, however, still close myself off and hide away when life gets difficult ... emotionally, physically or spiritually. I pull away from family and friends; I don't want to see or talk to anyone; I cease electronic communication via email or Facebook; I even distance myself from the One who loves me most of all. I simply want to crawl into my cave and hibernate until the winter in my heart and mind passes. It is quite puzzling to me that at times when I should be snuggling in close to my Lord or allowing those who love me to minister to my wounded heart or soul, my gut inclination is to run, slam the door, turn off all the lights and lock the door.

Pull me from the box springs, Lord, turn on the lights, and force me to unlock the door. Carry me from this place of solitary confinement, this place of seclusion, this place of hiding ... put Your song back in my mind, my feet back on the path, my eyes back on You.

Playing the Game

My three children have always loved playing games ... make-believe, board games, video games ... you name the game, and they loved to play it. And as much as they loved to play games, they loved to compete against each other even more. I can't tell you how many times a simple game became a fight to the death between the three of them. They are all adults now, but on the occasions when we all get together and a game is broken out, it's like stepping back in time to watch them play.

Though I wish I could take credit for raising three children who are honest, straightforward and trustworthy in every area of their lives, that would simply not be true when it comes to the game-playing aspect of my kiddos' personalities. The truth is ... well, they cheat ... and often. I must say, however, that they are quite creative in their cheating endeavors. I remember Matt wearing a plaid shirt so that he could point to the color he wanted Brad to call trumps during Rook games, and Meghann taping a cheat sheet under the table and rigging questions so that she could check her prepared answers.

In traipsing down memory lane and thinking about my kids and their disdain for rules when it comes to playing games, it causes me to think about the more serious subject of the rules involved in the game of life. And in contemplating that subject, this deep-thinking gal has many questions swirling around in my never still or quiet mind.

Why is that I so often seem to have a strong desire to not follow the rules and regulations that society dictates I must? Why does it anger me so that other people are allowed to set the standards and protocols for how I am expected to live my life? And most important, why does it seem to be my innate nature to struggle and fight against following God's direction for me?

Maybe I will never fully understand why my personality is such that I prefer to color outside the lines of life, to march to my own beat, to buck the system. Perhaps I will never be able to simply play the way others tell me is the "right" way to play the game, and perhaps that is not necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps all I really need to be concerned with is if I'm playing the game God's way.

And so here's the thing ... I only have to play the game of life according to His rules ... no one else's ... only His. So roll the dice, Lord ... let's play.

Pruning or Punishment?

In my back yard, by my deck, is a magnolia tree ... a little piece of the South to remind me where I came from and where home is. My oldest son bought the tree as a sapling at a lawn and garden show and planted it as a gift to me. What in the beginning was a 6-inch scrawny-looking twig is now a good-sized tree that towers above the deck.

Each time Matt comes home, he heads outside to check "his" tree. More often than not, he goes into the garage and emerges with trimmers so that he can work on the lower limbs of the tree, removing them so that the tree will grow stronger and more stable. A couple of summers ago, Matt and my daughter-in-law Becca thought the tree was leaning too far to one side and growing at an angle. They devised a plan to tie the tree to the deck in several places to train it to grow in the correct direction ... straight and tall.

In all the times I've watched Matt work on the magnolia tree, I've always been impressed with the care he uses as he prunes away certain branches or readjusts the ties to the deck. It is as if he wants to ensure that he doesn't hurt the tree in any way as he makes the necessary alterations to enable its growth and protect its health. Never once have I heard him raise his voice in anger to the magnolia ... never once have I seen him randomly hack away at a branch ... never once have I seen him willfully inflict any sort of punishment on the tree for the way it is growing. Instead there is a gentleness, a patience, a wisdom in his actions ... the knowledge that what he is doing is to help the tree rather than harm it.

The last time I watched Matt with the magnolia, I couldn't help but ponder the way God works in my own life to cause me to grow stronger, more stable and taller. I couldn't help but contemplate His desire for me to head in the right direction and how the only way to get there is by tying my heart to the anchor of His Word. And, honestly, there have been times when I have also pondered whether God was doing more than just pruning away the parts of my life that were hampering my walk with Him ... at times I've wondered if He was punishing me for the presence of sin in my life, for not being faithful, for dangling my feet in the water of the world.

So, does God only prune, or does He sometimes punish those who have a relationship with Him? I don't pretend to be a theologian or a scholar, and I simply do not know the answer to that question. So, here's my challenge to those of you who read this blog ... tell me what you believe.

Oh, and by the way ... my magnolia tree was covered this spring with beautiful pinkish white flowers surrounded by rich dark green leaves. Matt must be doing something right.

In Spite of Me

It was a little over 10 years ago that I came to know the Lord. I grew up in the church and attended for most of my 40 years of life, but I didn't know Christ. I knew a lot about Him, but I didn't know Him. It was a cold and rainy September Monday when I fell on my face in a small prayer room with two friends by my side, and finally said yes to a relationship with Jesus.

Not too long after my conversion, God began to open doors and call me into a speaking ministry. I've since traveled a great deal speaking to various groups, and I truly cherish the opportunities God has given me to minister to other women. I often come away from an event feeling as though I am the one who is most richly blessed by the fellowship, worship and study that takes place.

As the years progressed and more and more engagements began to come my way, something not very positive or pretty took root and grew in my heart and mind. Quite simply put ... I turned into an arrogant, prideful person. The more accolades I received for my speaking abilities, the more puffed up I became. I had visions of being a world-famous speaker, telling myself that I was better than so many of the speakers on the circuit, convincing myself that I deserved to move into a bigger arena so that I could "bless" countless women with my gift.

I've often wondered why God put up with my arrogant attitude for as long as He did before He humbled me in a big and painful way almost three years ago. Through a series of events, my heart was wounded, my spirit was crushed, my hope was battered. I was angry with myself, angry with other people, angry with God. I quickly went from thinking I was the greatest speaker on earth to feeling completely unworthy to ever stand before a group again. I was convinced that my speaking days were over.

Those of you who know me know that isn't the end of the story. Because my God overflows with grace and mercy and forgiveness, He not only chose to keep me serving as a speaker, He has grown the ministry with every passing year. But so much more important ... so very much more important than the growth of the ministry ... is that He continues to humble my heart, to bring me to my knees, to break my willful pride, to make me constantly aware that it is all about Him and nothing about me.

Last Saturday, I stood before a group to speak, and I stood there with a troubled spirit, feeling very unworthy. And then He spoke ... and I knew again ... it's not because of me that He speaks ... it's in spite of me.

Switching Gears

A few years ago, I got a wild hair and bought a Jeep Wrangler. And quite honestly, I truly loved that car. I loved everything about it ... but I especially loved driving it on a warm day with the top down. There simply is no feeling like buzzing down the highway in a Wrangler with the wind blowing in my hair, sun beating down on my face, looking absolutely beyond cool behind the wheel. And yes, a gray-haired woman can most definitely look cool ... at least she can when she is driving a Jeep Wrangler.

Last October, my oldest son convinced me to trade in my beloved Wrangler for a Jeep Patriot. He cited all of the legitimate reasons ... safety, gas mileage, convenience, I was getting too old to drive a Wrangler ... and I listened to him. And other than the comfort and the savings in dollars on gas when I travel, I have missed my Wrangler almost every day since I made the switch.

As I was driving home today in a torrential downpour, however, I must confess that I felt safer in my Patriot than I did driving my Wrangler in the same type of weather conditions. I always felt every puff of wind in the Wrangler, and being a person who is terrified of lightning, I worried during stormy weather that a bolt would come through the soft top and fry me to a crisp as I drove. I don't know if that has ever happened to anyone, but I worried about it nonetheless.

Over the last months, I've experienced some big life changes ... physical, emotional and spiritual. I've come to realize that the way I handle change says a lot about who I am as a person. While I would like to say that I always accept the unexpected things that come my way with grace and patience, that often isn't the case. Sometimes, I ... well, sometimes I ... well, I just freak out and have a meltdown when my life changes or shifts. And then there are times when I simply glide through the changes, embracing and accepting them with ease.

When God switches the gears in my life, it can sometimes bring the deepest, most unanticipated blessings. My prayer? That I would go along for the ride and trust Him to do the shifting ... bring on the changes, Lord, bring 'em on.

Muddy Water

For the last several days on my evening walk, I've seen a beaver in the creek along the walking path. He's a good-size fellow, and he's been diligently working on building a dam. We haven't had rain for a while, so the creek has been clear, making it easy to see Mr. Beaver even when he would dive beneath the water to swim for a bit. Each night, I've stopped and pointed out the beaver to J.R. the wiener dog, who is a great deal less impressed with the creature than I am. He much prefers to gaze upon the family of ducks that resides a bit farther down on our route.

Today is a gray and chilly day with the forecast calling for rain and storms moving in tomorrow. For some reason, the creek was quite cloudy and dull today as J.R. and I made our daily trek along the path. I stopped at the spot where I usually see Mr. Beaver, or Bucky, as I have affectionately named him, and scanned the muddy water in search of his furry body. I must have waited there for 10 minutes or longer, gazing intently, hoping for a glance of Bucky when I noticed a ripple in the creek. I stood poised for a glimpse of the critter, when softly and quietly his little black nose lifted above the water line. And then as gently as he rose, he descended back into the murkiness and disappeared from my view.

As I clucked to J.R. to recommence our walking, I couldn't stop thinking about Bucky, the muddy water and the significance of my sighting of him today. You see, for all my scanning and searching for him, I was unable to see Bucky until he chose to make his presence known to me. And even though I couldn't see him, Bucky the beaver was there all along.

The longer I walked, the more I thought of how often I stare into the muddy, dark water of life ... scanning, searching ... looking for something or someone to fill the void in my heart or to soothe my troubled spirit. And as so often happens as I walk, I became aware that God was once again using His creation to impart a great truth to me. When life is at its darkest, when I am at my loneliest, when the water is at its muddiest ... when I can't see Him, God is there all along.

Maybe, just maybe, I should wait more ... wait for Him to rise above the water and make His presence known to me. Hmmmm .... maybe?

A Message

Last night before I headed out for my evening walk, I read an email from a friend. It was just a generic, chatty email from one friend to another ... until the last two words. Two words that literally seemed to leap off the page as I read them, that are in my head even on this the next day, that are causing me to search my innermost thoughts.

As I left my house to walk, the two words were pounding in my head. Each step repeated the words in cadence, in perfect time with my pace. The sway of the trees in the wind wafted the words across the evening air. The bubbling of the creek along the path danced the words upon the water. Everywhere I turned, the words were there ... speaking to me ... calling me ... humbling me.

Be godly. Those were the words typed at the end of the email. Be godly. The words that won't leave me alone. Be godly. The words that have taken up residence in my mind and in my heart. Be godly. The words that are challenging my behavior. Be godly. The words that stand ready to bring me to my knees and cause me to weep from shame and guilt. Be godly. Be godly. Be godly.

I think perhaps it is in the unexpected moments of life that God speaks the most distinctly and clearly to me. It's the times when I am weak or lonely or tired that He longs to show me His strength, His love, His power. It's the little things, the things most easily glossed over or ignored, that He uses to sear my spirit and spark a fire in my soul. It's at the darkest point of my sin that He calls me to follow Him completely.

And tucked within an email ... a message ... be godly.

Think About It

In the last few days, I've had several people tell me that I am a deep thinker. And, I must admit, I had to think and ponder and contemplate the observation that I think a lot. I know, there's not one shred of irony in my previous statement. But, I'm serious, very serious, in fact. I had to think about the thought that I am a deep thinker.

As I rolled that premise around in my head, thinking about it from every possible angle, I came to a conclusion. I think a lot about a lot of different things. I spend a great deal of time thinking about a plethora of subjects, some good, positive and uplifting, and some not so much. In thinking about my thinking, I think I need to think more about the way I think.

I've read that each time a thought forms, a new crease or wrinkle appears on the surface of the brain. Now I'm not a scientist or a researcher, but that made me think, ponder for a while even, as to whether or not those creases are formed in categories or sections according to what type of thoughts they are. And that thought sent me off on another train of thinking ... do I have more loving, constructive, Christlike creases on my brain, or are there more negative, angry, sinful ones there? Do I think more about the things of God, or do I go more often to the dark places in my mind? Do I "take every thought captive to the obedience of Christ," or do I let my thoughts take control of me?

Romans 12:2 says, "And do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may prove what the will of God is, that which is good and acceptable and perfect."

Now that, my friends, is a lot to think about.

At A Crossroad

My childhood home sat at the top of a hill on a narrow street in a small suburb of Chattanooga, Tennessee. It was one of the coolest homes ever ... at least it was to me. Gazing at the beautiful autumn leaves on the mountain visible from the kitchen window, stretching out on a blanket on the lush grass under the 100-year-old oak tree in the back yard to read a book, climbing onto the roof of the garage to sneak a peek at the current movie playing at the drive-in theater down the hill ... I am blessed with many happy memories from my growing-up years in that home.

The road to the house ran from the bottom of the hill to the top, and about midway, there was a crossroad that ran horizontal to Mom and Dad's street and through several other streets in the neighborhood. Years ago, there were no stop signs at the crossroad, and cars often sped through the intersection at a rapid speed. When I was a teenager, as my dad was coming home from work one day, his car was struck broadside by a car traveling at a high rate of speed. Dad was seriously injured and spent several weeks in the hospital recovering. I still recall the day he came home and how happy I was that he was finally back where he belonged. Most of all, I remember that evening listening to him talk about the accident.

It's amazing to me how at 50 years old, there are some memories from my childhood that are seared into my mind and heart ... some lessons that my parents taught me that I have carried with me all these years. I had been very angry with the young man who caused the accident and very aware that Dad could have been killed. When I vocalized that anger to Dad, he was quick to talk about forgiveness and then he said something that has recently come back to the forefront of my mind.

He said, "Terrie, there will always be crossroads in life. Sometimes you drive through them and stay on the road without a care in the world. Sometimes you stop for a bit and let someone else go in front of you. Sometimes something or someone comes speeding along and knocks you completely off the road, leaving you bleeding and hurt. It's those times, the tough ones, that teach you what you're made of, that make you know what you believe, that cause you to make the choice whether or not to get back on the road."

I think I may be at one of those crossroads in life ... a place where I've got some decisions and choices to make. A place where I run the risk of getting knocked off the road. A place where I could be left bleeding and hurt. A place where I may need to stop for a while and let someone else walk in front of me. A place that will, no doubt, teach me what I'm made of, cause me to know what I believe, determine the road I travel.

And even though I may be standing right smack dab in the middle of the crossroad, of one thing I'm sure ... all I really need to do is to keep my eyes on the true "cross" road and the One who walked it.