The End of the Line

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Learning Curve

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

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

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

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

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

Candle in the Wind

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

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

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

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

The Last Christmas

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

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

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

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

Love Story

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

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

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

Little Drummer Boy

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

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

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

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

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

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

Super Freak

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

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

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

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

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

Hitching a Ride

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

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

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

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

Under the Ice

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

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

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

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

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

No Words

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

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

Loose Ends

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

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

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

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

Bubble Blowing 101

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to the Manger

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

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

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

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

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

Final Exam

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

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

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

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

The Crook of the Stairs

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

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

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

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

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

With Age Comes ... What???

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

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

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

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

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

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

Money Well Spent

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Have you had dinner tonight, Mark?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Checking Out - Parte Dos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Noise of Wings

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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