One of the hardest things as a parent, in my opinion, is watching your child fall. Whether it is when they are learning to walk or ride a bike or play a sport, it's so difficult to see them stumble and fall, and even more difficult if that fall causes them to experience injury. It's just plain old tough to see your kid hit the ground.
My oldest son Matt had more than his share of tumbles when he was a little guy ... we didn't discover until he was around seven or eight years old that he had a serious vision problem. I'll never forget that day, never ever. It was during a baseball game, and I was very frustrated that Matt couldn't catch or hit the ball. In the car on the way home, I said, "Honey, you just have to keep your eye on the ball." My eyes welled with tears when my little boy replied, "Mom, I can't see the ball." I will also never forget the day he got his glasses ... we walked outside and he said, "Mom, look at the clouds; they're puffy. And look at the leaves on this tree; they have lines on them." I know ... I deserve some sort of plaque or something for being the absolute worst mom ever. To this day, Matt teases me from time to time that he's lucky he didn't walk in front of a bus or fall in a well during his early years.
One thing I distinctly remember from the various spills my three children took down through the years was what I would say to them as I helped them up, brushed them off and encouraged them to give it another shot. "You're OK ... get back up and try again. You can do this ... I know you can."
A couple of weeks ago, a friend emailed me the link to a song by Toby Mac called "Get Back Up" ... a great song with an awesome message. It spoke to me so much that I bought the album on iTunes and put it on my iPod, and I've listened to it a lot. It's as if the words of the song were written for me ... "Wide awake in the middle of your nightmare. You saw it comin' but it hit you outta nowhere. And there's always scars when you fall that far. We lose our way, we get back up again; it's never too late to get back up again."
Here's the thing about getting back up when you've fallen. It's hard to get back on your feet by yourself if you've landed flat on your back, if you've been hit so hard that you've had the wind knocked out of you, if you're wounded and bleeding. Just like my kids needed me to help them up, brush them off and encourage them to try again, I need my heavenly Father to help me get back up again ... to say, "You're OK, Terrie ... get back up and try again. You can do this ... I know you can."
It's never too late to get back up again ... if I just grab hold of Your outstretched hand, Lord ... it's never too late.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Itchy Pits
Every Sunday afternoon, I go to the cabinet that houses all my medicine and gather the plethora of bottles and place them on my kitchen counter. Then I open my pill boxes and begin to fill them with the various medications that I need to take each day. And there's never a Sunday as I go through that routine that I don't think about my mom ... sitting at her kitchen table on Sunday evenings filling her pill boxes. Many of those evenings, I sat with Mom and listened as she talked, smiled as she laughed, felt the pain of watching her grow older and more frail with each passing year. But I never really appreciated the significance and importance of her weekly filling of her pill boxes until I had to start the process myself. Almost overnight, I went from taking one multivitamin each day to needing pill boxes to help me organize and remember the multitude of pills that I now have to swallow each day.
Each time my doctors change my medication amounts or add in new drugs, I usually have side effects. Funny, I don't remember Mom ever talking about side effects from her medicine; perhaps she was among the fortunate folks who don't experience any issues from their medications. I, however, don't fall into that category and have come to dread any changes in my medication regimen. As a general rule, the side effects don't last longer than a couple of weeks ... thank goodness. Having a round-the-clock upset stomach or aching muscles or a headache that is relentless ... suffice it to say those are just not fun times for me. While most of the side effects dissipate relatively quickly, there is one ... one quite annoying and embarrassing one ... that has never gone away, and according to my doctors, it probably never will.
In the truest spirit of honoring all of you who have written or told me personally how much you value the openness and honesty of these blogs, this one's for you. My lingering side effect? My armpits itch ... and I'm not talking just a little itch once in a while, friends ... I'm talking my armpits itch all the stinking time. I've discovered something about itchy pits over the last year or so ... there is no graceful way to scratch an itchy armpit. You can try, but you end up looking like a monkey, and people wonder why in the world you're swinging your arms back and forth at such an odd angle. Trust me on this one, there's no graceful way to scratch an itchy armpit.
I'm certain that some of you are scratching your heads right about now (which is so much easier than scratching your armpits, I might add) and wondering why in the world I'm writing about this in a blog. But those of you who are faithful readers know that there's generally a reason behind what at times seems like utter madness on my part. Remember Paul? Yep, that Paul ... from the Bible ... the Paul who repeatedly asked God to remove his "thorn in the flesh," and yet as far as we know, God never took that thorn away from Paul. He had to learn to live with whatever it was, and to trust that God had value and teaching in allowing that thorn to remain.
I've lost count of how many times I've prayed that God would make my armpits stop itching ... and yet, they still itch. All the time. And believe me, I can't even begin to imagine or understand what it is that God wants to teach me from my itchy pits. I do know, however, and I do understand that God is still God. God is still God whether my armpits itch or don't itch. In good times, God is still God. In difficult times, God is still God. Should I live to be 100, God is still God. Should I draw my final breath before I finish this day, God is still God.
He always was ... He always is ... and He always will be God. No matter what. God is still God.
Each time my doctors change my medication amounts or add in new drugs, I usually have side effects. Funny, I don't remember Mom ever talking about side effects from her medicine; perhaps she was among the fortunate folks who don't experience any issues from their medications. I, however, don't fall into that category and have come to dread any changes in my medication regimen. As a general rule, the side effects don't last longer than a couple of weeks ... thank goodness. Having a round-the-clock upset stomach or aching muscles or a headache that is relentless ... suffice it to say those are just not fun times for me. While most of the side effects dissipate relatively quickly, there is one ... one quite annoying and embarrassing one ... that has never gone away, and according to my doctors, it probably never will.
In the truest spirit of honoring all of you who have written or told me personally how much you value the openness and honesty of these blogs, this one's for you. My lingering side effect? My armpits itch ... and I'm not talking just a little itch once in a while, friends ... I'm talking my armpits itch all the stinking time. I've discovered something about itchy pits over the last year or so ... there is no graceful way to scratch an itchy armpit. You can try, but you end up looking like a monkey, and people wonder why in the world you're swinging your arms back and forth at such an odd angle. Trust me on this one, there's no graceful way to scratch an itchy armpit.
I'm certain that some of you are scratching your heads right about now (which is so much easier than scratching your armpits, I might add) and wondering why in the world I'm writing about this in a blog. But those of you who are faithful readers know that there's generally a reason behind what at times seems like utter madness on my part. Remember Paul? Yep, that Paul ... from the Bible ... the Paul who repeatedly asked God to remove his "thorn in the flesh," and yet as far as we know, God never took that thorn away from Paul. He had to learn to live with whatever it was, and to trust that God had value and teaching in allowing that thorn to remain.
I've lost count of how many times I've prayed that God would make my armpits stop itching ... and yet, they still itch. All the time. And believe me, I can't even begin to imagine or understand what it is that God wants to teach me from my itchy pits. I do know, however, and I do understand that God is still God. God is still God whether my armpits itch or don't itch. In good times, God is still God. In difficult times, God is still God. Should I live to be 100, God is still God. Should I draw my final breath before I finish this day, God is still God.
He always was ... He always is ... and He always will be God. No matter what. God is still God.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Write the Word
This may come as a shock to some of you, but I am old enough to remember a time before email, cell phones, iPods, Facebook, Twitter and texting. I remember a time when people would sit on their front porches and talk to their neighbors and wave at cars as they passed on the street. I remember a time when people would rather talk face-to-face than electronically. And ... I remember many of those personal conversations ... conversations that changed me, conversations that moved me, conversations that made me laugh or cry, conversations that hurt me, conversations that healed me.
I have a theory about electronic communication ... I think it's an "out" for many people when the subject matter is difficult. It's hard to look a friend in the eye and apologize for your words or actions. It's hard to sit across the table from a man who is telling you he needs a break from your relationship. It's hard to speak one-on-one with a family member and confront her about her inappropriate behavior. By avoiding those difficult eyeball-to-eyeball conversations, however, I think we open a door to the lack of personal communication on every level and often rob ourselves of some true blessings that flow from talking ... really talking ... to another person.
As I thought about this whole concept ... how little we actually talk face-to-face in today's world ... I began to think about the way that God communicates with me. As far as I know, God doesn't email, and He doesn't have a Facebook or Twitter account. He talks to me on a real and personal level through prayer and His Word. He wants to know me, really know me, from the inside out. And He wants me to know Him the same way ... He wants me to delight in His Word, to seek Him out, to look forward to every conversation with Him.
It's not a coincidence, I believe, that God has me thinking about the whole communication thing at this time in my life. I received an email from someone a few days ago that said, "I'm glad you are blogging because that's the only way I know you're still alive." I've thought about her message a lot over the last few days ... I've thought about how quiet I am now, apart from the words I write. I've thought about a conversation that I had with someone a week or so ago ... a rare personal conversation for me in the place where I currently find myself ... in which the person encouraged me to "write the Word," to go to God's Word and not just read it, but to write it out on paper. Not on a computer, not via blog or email, but to hand write God's Word ... His way of personally speaking to me ... on paper, and then to post those written-out verses in places where I will see them every day. I've thought about the suggestion, rolled it around in my mind, but I haven't done it. Yet.
Maybe God has me thinking about conversation because He has something He wants me to listen to. Maybe God has me thinking about writing the Word because He has something He wants me to learn from the process. Maybe God has me thinking about Him because He has something He wants me to ... maybe God has me thinking about Him because He wants me to.
I have a theory about electronic communication ... I think it's an "out" for many people when the subject matter is difficult. It's hard to look a friend in the eye and apologize for your words or actions. It's hard to sit across the table from a man who is telling you he needs a break from your relationship. It's hard to speak one-on-one with a family member and confront her about her inappropriate behavior. By avoiding those difficult eyeball-to-eyeball conversations, however, I think we open a door to the lack of personal communication on every level and often rob ourselves of some true blessings that flow from talking ... really talking ... to another person.
As I thought about this whole concept ... how little we actually talk face-to-face in today's world ... I began to think about the way that God communicates with me. As far as I know, God doesn't email, and He doesn't have a Facebook or Twitter account. He talks to me on a real and personal level through prayer and His Word. He wants to know me, really know me, from the inside out. And He wants me to know Him the same way ... He wants me to delight in His Word, to seek Him out, to look forward to every conversation with Him.
It's not a coincidence, I believe, that God has me thinking about the whole communication thing at this time in my life. I received an email from someone a few days ago that said, "I'm glad you are blogging because that's the only way I know you're still alive." I've thought about her message a lot over the last few days ... I've thought about how quiet I am now, apart from the words I write. I've thought about a conversation that I had with someone a week or so ago ... a rare personal conversation for me in the place where I currently find myself ... in which the person encouraged me to "write the Word," to go to God's Word and not just read it, but to write it out on paper. Not on a computer, not via blog or email, but to hand write God's Word ... His way of personally speaking to me ... on paper, and then to post those written-out verses in places where I will see them every day. I've thought about the suggestion, rolled it around in my mind, but I haven't done it. Yet.
Maybe God has me thinking about conversation because He has something He wants me to listen to. Maybe God has me thinking about writing the Word because He has something He wants me to learn from the process. Maybe God has me thinking about Him because He has something He wants me to ... maybe God has me thinking about Him because He wants me to.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Happy Trails to You
A friend emailed me a couple of days ago and asked me several questions concerning the generation of ideas for my blog. She is new to the blogging world and is struggling to know what to write about. As I typed a response to her, it caused me to think about several things in relation to blogging and to writing in general. I shared with her a characteristic of this blog that other writers have told me is rather odd ... the titles always come to me first, and the subject matter follows. I guess most writers write about a subject or write a chapter in a book and then title it after the material ... the meat of the premise, if you will ... is already composed. I can't explain it, but without fail, whether it is this blog or poetry or books ... the titles come to me first. And those titles come to me at differing times through very different means. Like today's, for example.
Driving into work yesterday, I passed a truck with a logo emblazoned across its side that said, "Happy Trails." I don't remember what the business was ... it was the words "Happy Trails" that caught my eye and caused me to think of the old song by the same name made famous by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans on their television show that was popular in the 1950s. Which I watched in reruns, by the way, lest some of you deem me older than I actually am. The song was always sung over the closing credits of the show, and I still remember the words to the tune even now ... yes, many years later.
I'm sure you are more than a bit curious as to where I'm going with this ... quite honestly, when I added this title to the list of titles that have come to me for blogs yet to be written, the same curiosity worked its way into my brain as well. Last night, after a particularly arduous day at work and thinking that I could use a happy trail or two, I decided to Google the words "Happy Trails." As I went down the path of following links, I wound up at royrogers.com on a page that listed the lyrics to the old song. Now here's the lesson ... the reason God caused me to think of a television show from years gone by ... also on the page was a listing of the rules for the "Roy Rogers Riders Club." Ten short rules that I believe God wanted me to think about ... to ponder on ... to muse over ... rules that fit amazingly closely with the guidelines for living that He gave me in His Word.
1. Be neat and clean.
2. Be courteous and polite.
3. Always obey your parents.
4. Protect the weak and help them.
5. Be brave but never take chances.
6. Study hard and learn all you can.
7. Be kind to animals and take care of them.
8. Eat all your food and never waste any.
9. Love God and go to Sunday school regularly.
10. Always respect our flag and our country.
So, cowboys and cowgirls ... "Happy trails to you, until we meet again."
Driving into work yesterday, I passed a truck with a logo emblazoned across its side that said, "Happy Trails." I don't remember what the business was ... it was the words "Happy Trails" that caught my eye and caused me to think of the old song by the same name made famous by Roy Rogers and Dale Evans on their television show that was popular in the 1950s. Which I watched in reruns, by the way, lest some of you deem me older than I actually am. The song was always sung over the closing credits of the show, and I still remember the words to the tune even now ... yes, many years later.
I'm sure you are more than a bit curious as to where I'm going with this ... quite honestly, when I added this title to the list of titles that have come to me for blogs yet to be written, the same curiosity worked its way into my brain as well. Last night, after a particularly arduous day at work and thinking that I could use a happy trail or two, I decided to Google the words "Happy Trails." As I went down the path of following links, I wound up at royrogers.com on a page that listed the lyrics to the old song. Now here's the lesson ... the reason God caused me to think of a television show from years gone by ... also on the page was a listing of the rules for the "Roy Rogers Riders Club." Ten short rules that I believe God wanted me to think about ... to ponder on ... to muse over ... rules that fit amazingly closely with the guidelines for living that He gave me in His Word.
1. Be neat and clean.
2. Be courteous and polite.
3. Always obey your parents.
4. Protect the weak and help them.
5. Be brave but never take chances.
6. Study hard and learn all you can.
7. Be kind to animals and take care of them.
8. Eat all your food and never waste any.
9. Love God and go to Sunday school regularly.
10. Always respect our flag and our country.
So, cowboys and cowgirls ... "Happy trails to you, until we meet again."
Monday, March 28, 2011
Kids and Dogs
Since I began writing this blog in 2008, I've written a lot about my dad. And if you haven't guessed, I'm probably going to write about him as long as I write. You see, my dad was one of the wisest men I've ever known. He had a gift for taking the simple things in life and turning them into profound lessons for me. Lessons that have stayed with me my whole life. Lessons that I've tried to pass along to my own children. Lessons from a man with a tender and gentle heart, a man who lived out the faith he shared with others every single day of his life.
Little kids always loved my dad ... always. If there were kids in a room, even if they didn't know him, they would eventually wind up laughing and playing with Daddy. He had a way with kids ... a way of making them feel loved, comfortable and important. Dogs always loved Daddy, too ... always. Every family dog we ever owned loved Daddy more than anyone else in the family. As did all the other dogs in the neighborhood or stray dogs on the street. I think those hounds were drawn to Daddy's gentle spirit ... and they sensed that he was a genuine dog lover by nature. I think he proved his own theory about kids and dogs ... my dad had a truly good and kind heart.
Those of you who know me well know that I've been in a valley lately, a valley so deep that I'm having a hard time seeing the path before me or the beauty of the mountains that I know surround me. A valley that has me questioning my mind ... my soul ... my heart. A valley that is dark ... a valley that is lonely ... a valley that is cold. But ... every night when I come home, there are two dogs who are so very happy to see me. Dogs who love me ... dogs who live to see me walk through the door. And on Wednesday nights, when I go to Awana at church to listen to the little kids say their Scripture verses ... those little kids are so very happy to see me. They hug on me and smile when I come in the room and high-five me on their way out the door.
Both my dogs and the little kids at church don't seem to notice that I'm sad. They don't judge me or tell me that my faith is weak. They don't run away because my health isn't always so great. They just love me. They just enjoy being with me. They just make me smile at a time in my life when my smile seems to be on a long-term sabbatical. Most of all ... they make me remember my dad's words ... "If kids and dogs love a person ... there's a good heart in that person somewhere."
Father God, help me to always remember ... my heart belongs to You. When I've lost my way ... when I can't find my heart ... help me to remember ... You are my heart, Lord, You are my heart.
I think perhaps some of the greatest lessons Daddy taught me came through some of the "sayings" he had ... you know, small one-liners that carried a huge amount of meaning and wisdom in them. One of those in particular has been running through my mind lately, and I'm quite sure there is a reason for my recalling Daddy's words during the season of life that I currently find myself in. "If kids and dogs love a person ... I'm telling you ... there's a good heart in that person somewhere. A person may be able to pretend with other people, but kids and dogs know if a man has a good heart or not."
Little kids always loved my dad ... always. If there were kids in a room, even if they didn't know him, they would eventually wind up laughing and playing with Daddy. He had a way with kids ... a way of making them feel loved, comfortable and important. Dogs always loved Daddy, too ... always. Every family dog we ever owned loved Daddy more than anyone else in the family. As did all the other dogs in the neighborhood or stray dogs on the street. I think those hounds were drawn to Daddy's gentle spirit ... and they sensed that he was a genuine dog lover by nature. I think he proved his own theory about kids and dogs ... my dad had a truly good and kind heart.
Those of you who know me well know that I've been in a valley lately, a valley so deep that I'm having a hard time seeing the path before me or the beauty of the mountains that I know surround me. A valley that has me questioning my mind ... my soul ... my heart. A valley that is dark ... a valley that is lonely ... a valley that is cold. But ... every night when I come home, there are two dogs who are so very happy to see me. Dogs who love me ... dogs who live to see me walk through the door. And on Wednesday nights, when I go to Awana at church to listen to the little kids say their Scripture verses ... those little kids are so very happy to see me. They hug on me and smile when I come in the room and high-five me on their way out the door.
Both my dogs and the little kids at church don't seem to notice that I'm sad. They don't judge me or tell me that my faith is weak. They don't run away because my health isn't always so great. They just love me. They just enjoy being with me. They just make me smile at a time in my life when my smile seems to be on a long-term sabbatical. Most of all ... they make me remember my dad's words ... "If kids and dogs love a person ... there's a good heart in that person somewhere."
Father God, help me to always remember ... my heart belongs to You. When I've lost my way ... when I can't find my heart ... help me to remember ... You are my heart, Lord, You are my heart.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Scoot Over
My middle kiddo, Bradley, is the one of my three children who was my clinger when he was little. He always wanted to be held, to sit in my lap, to be rocked for hours ... and he is the one of my three who still kisses me goodbye every time we part and calls me almost every day. He's also the one who is going to bungee jump off the Grand Canyon in April with a camera on his helmet to film a commercial for a crime scene company, and I am the mom trying to be calm about his newest adventure. Back to when he was young, however ... no matter where I was sitting or whom I was sitting with, Brad would squeeze himself in and say, "Scoot over, Mommie, I need a sit by you."
It's cold and snowing here in Kansas today ... a good day for staying inside, watching TV and sleeping. After lunch, I looked at the hound dogs I live with and said, "Let's take a nap, dogs, a nice long nap." It's funny to me the way dogs never seem to need encouragement when it comes to taking naps on a Sunday afternoon, or any afternoon for that matter. And they certainly don't need an ounce of encouragement to sleep in my bed. In fact, sometimes I think it's more their bed than mine, especially when it comes to who takes up the most space.
Since the first night that Oliver came to live with me and Julie a little over a week ago, he has slept right up next to me ... actually, it's more like under my side than next to me. I spend a lot of time in the night, or during nap time, saying, "Oliver ... scoot over." No matter how many times I move him away, he always manages to wriggle his little wiener dog body so close to me that he almost pushes me out of the bed. When I woke up this afternoon, I was hanging off the side of the bed, and Oliver was sleeping soundly ... half under me with his head on my pillow. As I patted his little head, tears pooled in my eyes and began to stream down my cheeks.
This morning, my pastor talked about how sometimes life doesn't turn out the way we think it will, that sometimes things happen that we don't see coming ... things that are hard, things that we don't understand, things that hurt and wound. He talked about how sometimes all we can do is wrap our arms around God and just hold on for all we're worth. I couldn't help but think as I tried to move Oliver over a bit ... how many times instead of wrapping my arms around my Father do I say, "Scoot over"? How many times instead of wriggling in as close as I can get to Him do I try to move Him away?
Oliver ... scoot over. Lord ... come closer.
It's cold and snowing here in Kansas today ... a good day for staying inside, watching TV and sleeping. After lunch, I looked at the hound dogs I live with and said, "Let's take a nap, dogs, a nice long nap." It's funny to me the way dogs never seem to need encouragement when it comes to taking naps on a Sunday afternoon, or any afternoon for that matter. And they certainly don't need an ounce of encouragement to sleep in my bed. In fact, sometimes I think it's more their bed than mine, especially when it comes to who takes up the most space.
Since the first night that Oliver came to live with me and Julie a little over a week ago, he has slept right up next to me ... actually, it's more like under my side than next to me. I spend a lot of time in the night, or during nap time, saying, "Oliver ... scoot over." No matter how many times I move him away, he always manages to wriggle his little wiener dog body so close to me that he almost pushes me out of the bed. When I woke up this afternoon, I was hanging off the side of the bed, and Oliver was sleeping soundly ... half under me with his head on my pillow. As I patted his little head, tears pooled in my eyes and began to stream down my cheeks.
This morning, my pastor talked about how sometimes life doesn't turn out the way we think it will, that sometimes things happen that we don't see coming ... things that are hard, things that we don't understand, things that hurt and wound. He talked about how sometimes all we can do is wrap our arms around God and just hold on for all we're worth. I couldn't help but think as I tried to move Oliver over a bit ... how many times instead of wrapping my arms around my Father do I say, "Scoot over"? How many times instead of wriggling in as close as I can get to Him do I try to move Him away?
Oliver ... scoot over. Lord ... come closer.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
A Keeper
Returning items to a store is something I'm not good at ... even if the dish is broken, the blouse doesn't fit, or the tool doesn't work ... I simply do not like returning things. Some people, however, are what I would deem "professional take backers" who seem to delight in the whole process of making purchases and then returning those purchases a few days or weeks later. And honestly, I don't understand that behavior at all, not even a little bit. Why on earth would anyone consider it "fun" to wait in line to buy something, take it home, decide it's not what you want, and then wait in another line to return it? Lest some of you think my house is filled with broken, too small, non-working items, let me assure you that I do return things when I have to ... I just don't like to do it.
The whole take it back or throw it away mentality of many in our society today is something I've thought a great deal about recently. I heard a mother in a store a couple of weeks ago say to her young daughter, "Don't worry about it ... it's only $35 ... if it doesn't work for your party, we'll just pitch it ... it's not a big deal." Sorry, but not only is $35 a big deal to me, I have some giant issues with just throwing something away if it's not perfect.
It's been a week since I brought Oliver Chance the wiener dog home ... Ollie for short. And over the last week, I've discovered that he's not perfect. In the home he was removed from, he was kept outside in a cage with a concrete pad, so he peed on my recycling can in the garage and pooped on the sidewalk for the first few days. Since he was so emaciated when he was rescued, the lady who cared for him fed him table food to put some weight on him, so now he begs for my food. He wanders all over the trail when we go for a walk and barks like crazy when he's out in my back yard. He's kind of odd looking with the scars on his face and his weird little pink nose. He isn't perfect by any means.
But ... he has brought life back to Julie, and they play until they are both exhausted and then curl up together and go to sleep. He follows me all over the house and showers me with kisses as many times as I'll let him lick my chin. He snuggles in as close as he can to me in my bed and sleeps all night with his little paw on my neck. He's happy all the time, and his tail wags his whole body. He loves little kids and other dogs and playing with a tennis ball. He knows how to sit, stay and lay down, and he loves, loves, loves riding in the car. And ... Julie and I have decided that he's staying ... actually, Ollie made it obvious within the first couple of days that he had found his new home and had no intention of leaving.
I can't help but think about my own imperfections ... the things in me that would cause others to return me or pitch me out. But God looks past my undesirable habits, my wandering off His path, my yelping into the wind, and He invites me to come home with Him, to rest in His arms, to find my joy just by being with Him. The truth is that God doesn't mind that I have scars or some weird-looking physical traits ... He made me who I am, and He loves me just as I am.
So ... Ollie is a keeper. Someone wise far beyond her years told me something last week that I can't shake from my mind. She said, "Terrie, God sent J.R. to save your body, and he stayed with you until he knew you could go on without him. I think maybe God has sent Ollie to save your heart, and I think he's going to stay with you a really long time." I'd like to think that maybe J.R. had a paw in choosing Ollie ... I'd really like to think that he did.
Definitely a keeper.
The whole take it back or throw it away mentality of many in our society today is something I've thought a great deal about recently. I heard a mother in a store a couple of weeks ago say to her young daughter, "Don't worry about it ... it's only $35 ... if it doesn't work for your party, we'll just pitch it ... it's not a big deal." Sorry, but not only is $35 a big deal to me, I have some giant issues with just throwing something away if it's not perfect.
It's been a week since I brought Oliver Chance the wiener dog home ... Ollie for short. And over the last week, I've discovered that he's not perfect. In the home he was removed from, he was kept outside in a cage with a concrete pad, so he peed on my recycling can in the garage and pooped on the sidewalk for the first few days. Since he was so emaciated when he was rescued, the lady who cared for him fed him table food to put some weight on him, so now he begs for my food. He wanders all over the trail when we go for a walk and barks like crazy when he's out in my back yard. He's kind of odd looking with the scars on his face and his weird little pink nose. He isn't perfect by any means.
But ... he has brought life back to Julie, and they play until they are both exhausted and then curl up together and go to sleep. He follows me all over the house and showers me with kisses as many times as I'll let him lick my chin. He snuggles in as close as he can to me in my bed and sleeps all night with his little paw on my neck. He's happy all the time, and his tail wags his whole body. He loves little kids and other dogs and playing with a tennis ball. He knows how to sit, stay and lay down, and he loves, loves, loves riding in the car. And ... Julie and I have decided that he's staying ... actually, Ollie made it obvious within the first couple of days that he had found his new home and had no intention of leaving.
I can't help but think about my own imperfections ... the things in me that would cause others to return me or pitch me out. But God looks past my undesirable habits, my wandering off His path, my yelping into the wind, and He invites me to come home with Him, to rest in His arms, to find my joy just by being with Him. The truth is that God doesn't mind that I have scars or some weird-looking physical traits ... He made me who I am, and He loves me just as I am.
So ... Ollie is a keeper. Someone wise far beyond her years told me something last week that I can't shake from my mind. She said, "Terrie, God sent J.R. to save your body, and he stayed with you until he knew you could go on without him. I think maybe God has sent Ollie to save your heart, and I think he's going to stay with you a really long time." I'd like to think that maybe J.R. had a paw in choosing Ollie ... I'd really like to think that he did.
Definitely a keeper.
Friday, March 25, 2011
If I Only Had a Brain
My dad was a deacon in the Baptist church during my growing up years, and he had a philosophy concerning church attendance. It was quite simple, actually ... if the church doors were open, our family was there. And honestly, there were times that I just flat out did not want to go to church, especially on Sunday nights. Because ... that's when the weekly Disney movie came on TV. Yes, some of you are so young that you will find my next statement hard to believe. There was a time when there were only the three major networks on television, along with maybe an educational public channel. No cable, no Internet, no Cartoon Network ... three channels. And Sunday night was Disney movie night.
I prayed a lot as a kid ... I prayed that I would be sick on Sunday nights so that I could stay home and watch the movie. Or at the very least that I could fake being sick to the point that I was believable enough to get Daddy to cave in and allow me to miss church. Sometimes I look back on the things I did in my youth and I wonder what I was thinking ... or if I was even thinking at all when I acted on some of the schemes that popped into my brain. And I'm quite certain in my adult years that I never fooled Daddy for one minute with my sick act. I'm sure he thought that once in a while, I just needed to stay home and watch a movie.
On one of those Sunday nights when I really was legitimately ill, I watched The Wizard of Oz. Perhaps it was my high fever or my lack of sleep for a couple of nights, but that movie terrified me. The house caught up in the tornado ... the flying monkeys ... the wicked witch ... all frightening images that seared themselves into my brain. But the one part of that movie that creeps into my dreams even now and scares me to pieces? The scarecrow. Yep, the guy with no brain. Forget that his body was made of straw ... he sang that "If I Only Had a Brain" song. I have goosebumps just writing about it.
Last year, I had to have an MRI on my brain, and I was ecstatic when my doctor called and confirmed that I did indeed have a brain. No, I'm serious ... ecstatic. There have been times in my life when I've wondered, based on decisions I've made and things I've done, if I really did have a brain ... at least a sane, rational, functional one anyway. And there are times now when I wonder what's going on inside that brain of mine ... is it my brain that controls my heart? Or does my heart control my brain? Is there something in my brain that is askew ... something deep within my head that is causing the seemingly unshakable sense of sadness that pervades my every waking moment? Or is it my heart that is off kilter ... has a part of my heart simply disappeared forever and the way I feel now is the way I will always feel?
As I ponder such dilemmas, as I hum that ever-frightening tune from The Wizard of Oz, as I have so many more questions than answers, there is one constant in my brain, my heart, my soul. God knows the answers ... He holds my brain, my heart, my soul in the palm of His all-capable hand. He knows what lies behind me and what is for me today and what will be in my future.
Hmmmm ... maybe that song isn't so scary after all. Maybe.
I prayed a lot as a kid ... I prayed that I would be sick on Sunday nights so that I could stay home and watch the movie. Or at the very least that I could fake being sick to the point that I was believable enough to get Daddy to cave in and allow me to miss church. Sometimes I look back on the things I did in my youth and I wonder what I was thinking ... or if I was even thinking at all when I acted on some of the schemes that popped into my brain. And I'm quite certain in my adult years that I never fooled Daddy for one minute with my sick act. I'm sure he thought that once in a while, I just needed to stay home and watch a movie.
On one of those Sunday nights when I really was legitimately ill, I watched The Wizard of Oz. Perhaps it was my high fever or my lack of sleep for a couple of nights, but that movie terrified me. The house caught up in the tornado ... the flying monkeys ... the wicked witch ... all frightening images that seared themselves into my brain. But the one part of that movie that creeps into my dreams even now and scares me to pieces? The scarecrow. Yep, the guy with no brain. Forget that his body was made of straw ... he sang that "If I Only Had a Brain" song. I have goosebumps just writing about it.
Last year, I had to have an MRI on my brain, and I was ecstatic when my doctor called and confirmed that I did indeed have a brain. No, I'm serious ... ecstatic. There have been times in my life when I've wondered, based on decisions I've made and things I've done, if I really did have a brain ... at least a sane, rational, functional one anyway. And there are times now when I wonder what's going on inside that brain of mine ... is it my brain that controls my heart? Or does my heart control my brain? Is there something in my brain that is askew ... something deep within my head that is causing the seemingly unshakable sense of sadness that pervades my every waking moment? Or is it my heart that is off kilter ... has a part of my heart simply disappeared forever and the way I feel now is the way I will always feel?
As I ponder such dilemmas, as I hum that ever-frightening tune from The Wizard of Oz, as I have so many more questions than answers, there is one constant in my brain, my heart, my soul. God knows the answers ... He holds my brain, my heart, my soul in the palm of His all-capable hand. He knows what lies behind me and what is for me today and what will be in my future.
Hmmmm ... maybe that song isn't so scary after all. Maybe.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Expiration Date
My sweet mother was notorious for several things ... well, at least she was notorious in our family anyway. Like the way she would preface so many sentences with the words, "Lord, help!" or how she always called ice cream "ice creamy" or her love of shoes (she had hundreds of pairs at one point in her life) or her obsession with cleaning off the cascading porches on the back of her house with the water hose or her complete and total dislike of four-legged creatures of any kind. Perhaps one of the most interesting of Mom's notorious little quirks, however, was her approach concerning the expiration dates on food. Yep, expiration dates ... Mom had a thing about expiration dates.
You see, Mom's theory was that food companies placed expiration dates on products just to get you to purchase more food by making you think that the food had "gone bad" when it was really just fine. Down through the years, I watched Mom open various containers of food, give them the smell test to determine whether they were still "good" or not, and then proceed to either trash the item or eat away. She rarely even looked at an expiration date, except to complain about the food companies' desire to make you throw away food that had "not a dern thing wrong with it." As I stood at my refrigerator last night checking the dates on several items, I couldn't help but think of Mom ... and how she would have surely eaten the yogurt that I pitched because it was a couple of days past the expiration date marked on the container. Oh, Mom, how I do miss you sometimes and your funny little ways.
Sometimes I think God causes me to roll things around in my head for a while so that what He wants to teach me finally sinks through to me. Hence, I've thought about the whole expiration date concept since last night ... in fact, it was so much on my mind that I woke up a couple of times in the night thinking about it. Well, that and one certain little wiener dog kept rooting me to the edge of the bed, but that's another story for another blog. The more I thought about it, the more profound I think God's lesson for me (and maybe some of you) really is.
You see, I don't have an expiration date stamped on me ... only God knows when my life here on earth will end. But ... one day, it will most definitely end; that is a certainty. In fact, I've come to understand that most things that we often consider so important in this life expire ... jobs expire, friendships expire, cars expire, money expires, dreams expire, words expire, marriages expire ... everything, really, that is of this world, expires or will one day. Everything. Except ... God and His love. Talk about an expiration date ... "All of eternity."
I used to often say that I wished God would send me a DVD of what the future was going to bring into my life, but I don't think I want to know anymore. I'm glad I don't know when my expiration date is, that only God knows ... not me, not the doctors, not my children or my family, not my friends ... only God knows. And I'm good with that. I'm really good with that.
You see, Mom's theory was that food companies placed expiration dates on products just to get you to purchase more food by making you think that the food had "gone bad" when it was really just fine. Down through the years, I watched Mom open various containers of food, give them the smell test to determine whether they were still "good" or not, and then proceed to either trash the item or eat away. She rarely even looked at an expiration date, except to complain about the food companies' desire to make you throw away food that had "not a dern thing wrong with it." As I stood at my refrigerator last night checking the dates on several items, I couldn't help but think of Mom ... and how she would have surely eaten the yogurt that I pitched because it was a couple of days past the expiration date marked on the container. Oh, Mom, how I do miss you sometimes and your funny little ways.
Sometimes I think God causes me to roll things around in my head for a while so that what He wants to teach me finally sinks through to me. Hence, I've thought about the whole expiration date concept since last night ... in fact, it was so much on my mind that I woke up a couple of times in the night thinking about it. Well, that and one certain little wiener dog kept rooting me to the edge of the bed, but that's another story for another blog. The more I thought about it, the more profound I think God's lesson for me (and maybe some of you) really is.
You see, I don't have an expiration date stamped on me ... only God knows when my life here on earth will end. But ... one day, it will most definitely end; that is a certainty. In fact, I've come to understand that most things that we often consider so important in this life expire ... jobs expire, friendships expire, cars expire, money expires, dreams expire, words expire, marriages expire ... everything, really, that is of this world, expires or will one day. Everything. Except ... God and His love. Talk about an expiration date ... "All of eternity."
I used to often say that I wished God would send me a DVD of what the future was going to bring into my life, but I don't think I want to know anymore. I'm glad I don't know when my expiration date is, that only God knows ... not me, not the doctors, not my children or my family, not my friends ... only God knows. And I'm good with that. I'm really good with that.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Picture Perfect
The first camera I ever owned was a Polaroid instant camera that my brother Jerry gave me when I was 10 years old, not too long before he was involved in a traffic accident that took his life. I took that camera everywhere with me, and I took pictures of anything and everything. Until Mom said that she would only buy me one pack of film each month ... that slowed down my picture taking and made me much more selective about the photos I took. I think about that Polaroid sometimes when I'm snapping hundreds of pictures in quick succession with my digital SLR camera, about how technology has advanced through the years and how much the art of photography has changed.
Last weekend, I took engagement photos for a sweet young couple that is embarking on a new phase of life in a few months. As I snapped photo after photo of the two of them as they laughed and smiled and gazed into each others' eyes, it was obvious that their love for one another was strong and deep. I walked away from the photo session thinking ... these two are going to make it together ... these two will last through all that life will throw at them ... these two are the real thing. Unfortunately, I don't always have that feeling when I shoot engagement or wedding pictures for couples. Sometimes I leave wondering if the seas ahead of them are going to be incredibly choppy and rough and if they will be able to weather the storms.
One of the things that impressed me so about the young couple from last weekend was that they weren't at all worried about "perfection." Their clothing was casual, their hair was askew from the strong wind, they even got their shoes wet crossing a small creek. They didn't care if the pictures were perfect, and they told me so before I ever snapped one shot. They wanted "real" photos, not "perfect" ones ... photos that will shout to everyone who sees them that these two kids are happy just being who they are. They have no need to impress anyone else because they are confident in whom they are as individuals and in whom they are as a couple. And I've gotta tell you ... it was a cool thing to see, a very cool thing to see.
I've been thinking a lot about the whole concept of perfection ... of how we often expect it in others and in ourselves as well. When people don't live up to our expectations, we toss them away and move on in search of someone who more closely measures up to our standards. When I am less than perfect in my own actions or words or thoughts, I feel like a failure and torture myself with the "I should do better" chant. Even the little wiener dog who is staying with me ... because people are searching for perfection and he's got some scars on his face, no one wants him. Sad, but so very true ... many of us want perfection rather than realness.
I'm so very thankful that God never expects me to be perfect; in fact, He knows I never will be perfect. He knows that it's in my times of greatest weakness that He can demonstrate His all-powerful strength. He knows the realness of who I am, not the picture perfect look I may display to others.
And you know what else? He loves me anyway. He loves me abundantly. He loves me always. He just loves me. No qualifiers ... not if I look a certain way, if I behave a certain way, if I feel a certain way. He just loves me. And He loves you, too.
Last weekend, I took engagement photos for a sweet young couple that is embarking on a new phase of life in a few months. As I snapped photo after photo of the two of them as they laughed and smiled and gazed into each others' eyes, it was obvious that their love for one another was strong and deep. I walked away from the photo session thinking ... these two are going to make it together ... these two will last through all that life will throw at them ... these two are the real thing. Unfortunately, I don't always have that feeling when I shoot engagement or wedding pictures for couples. Sometimes I leave wondering if the seas ahead of them are going to be incredibly choppy and rough and if they will be able to weather the storms.
One of the things that impressed me so about the young couple from last weekend was that they weren't at all worried about "perfection." Their clothing was casual, their hair was askew from the strong wind, they even got their shoes wet crossing a small creek. They didn't care if the pictures were perfect, and they told me so before I ever snapped one shot. They wanted "real" photos, not "perfect" ones ... photos that will shout to everyone who sees them that these two kids are happy just being who they are. They have no need to impress anyone else because they are confident in whom they are as individuals and in whom they are as a couple. And I've gotta tell you ... it was a cool thing to see, a very cool thing to see.
I've been thinking a lot about the whole concept of perfection ... of how we often expect it in others and in ourselves as well. When people don't live up to our expectations, we toss them away and move on in search of someone who more closely measures up to our standards. When I am less than perfect in my own actions or words or thoughts, I feel like a failure and torture myself with the "I should do better" chant. Even the little wiener dog who is staying with me ... because people are searching for perfection and he's got some scars on his face, no one wants him. Sad, but so very true ... many of us want perfection rather than realness.
I'm so very thankful that God never expects me to be perfect; in fact, He knows I never will be perfect. He knows that it's in my times of greatest weakness that He can demonstrate His all-powerful strength. He knows the realness of who I am, not the picture perfect look I may display to others.
And you know what else? He loves me anyway. He loves me abundantly. He loves me always. He just loves me. No qualifiers ... not if I look a certain way, if I behave a certain way, if I feel a certain way. He just loves me. And He loves you, too.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Say What?
My daughter Meghann was born with double ear infections and spent the first few days of her life in the neonatal unit. She had three sets of tubes placed in her ears before she was three years old, with the first tube surgery happening when she was only seven months old. She spent a ton of time crying ... actually she screamed rather than cried ... with her ears during her early years of life. Even now, she often experiences excruciating pain in her ears when she travels to the mountains of Colorado. The doctors told us from early on that she would most definitely suffer hearing loss as she grew older, but amazingly, her hearing has always been perfect ... unless of course you count the selective hearing episodes she experienced during her teen years.
As a parent, I think we often want to empathize with our children as they suffer illness or hurt or struggles in life. I think it's hardwired into us especially as mothers to be able to say, "I know exactly how you feel, honey." When I would hold little Meghann, rock her and try to soothe her as she suffered through one ear infection after another, I could never truly say that I understood what she was going through because I never had ear infections as a child or in my youth. Never ever. I find it more than a bit odd that now as an adult, I've had multiple ear infections over the last few years. And each time that throbbing pain returns to my ears, I immediately think of my little girl and how much she suffered when she was young. Twenty years later, I get it, Meggers ... I understand now ... I know what you went through.
I'm in the midst of another ear infection, and I've been miserable for the last two days. I feel like there's an ocean sloshing around in my head, I'm running a fever, there's an annoying ringing in my left ear, my balance is a mess, and everything sounds muffled and far away. It's kind of like the way you feel after you go to a really loud concert or a sporting event in a large stadium ... not able to hear very well and sort of out of kilter all the way around.
To say that I slept in short spurts for the last couple of nights is a huge understatement ... I have tossed and turned and taken Tylenol and gotten up to get a drink of water and paced the floor holding a hot cloth against my ears. As I cooked myself some breakfast this morning so that I could take all my medication, I said aloud to the dogs, "My ears are killing me, pups. And I can't hear anything." Stirring my sugar-free chocolate syrup into my almond milk ... yeah, I know, it sounds disgusting ... I began to think about the difference between hearing and listening. How many times do I hear God speaking to me, but I don't really listen? How many times do I hear what He's teaching me in His Word, but I don't really listen? How many times do I hear His leading through the counsel of friends, but I don't really listen?
Open my ears, Lord ... not just to hear, but to really and truly listen.
As a parent, I think we often want to empathize with our children as they suffer illness or hurt or struggles in life. I think it's hardwired into us especially as mothers to be able to say, "I know exactly how you feel, honey." When I would hold little Meghann, rock her and try to soothe her as she suffered through one ear infection after another, I could never truly say that I understood what she was going through because I never had ear infections as a child or in my youth. Never ever. I find it more than a bit odd that now as an adult, I've had multiple ear infections over the last few years. And each time that throbbing pain returns to my ears, I immediately think of my little girl and how much she suffered when she was young. Twenty years later, I get it, Meggers ... I understand now ... I know what you went through.
I'm in the midst of another ear infection, and I've been miserable for the last two days. I feel like there's an ocean sloshing around in my head, I'm running a fever, there's an annoying ringing in my left ear, my balance is a mess, and everything sounds muffled and far away. It's kind of like the way you feel after you go to a really loud concert or a sporting event in a large stadium ... not able to hear very well and sort of out of kilter all the way around.
To say that I slept in short spurts for the last couple of nights is a huge understatement ... I have tossed and turned and taken Tylenol and gotten up to get a drink of water and paced the floor holding a hot cloth against my ears. As I cooked myself some breakfast this morning so that I could take all my medication, I said aloud to the dogs, "My ears are killing me, pups. And I can't hear anything." Stirring my sugar-free chocolate syrup into my almond milk ... yeah, I know, it sounds disgusting ... I began to think about the difference between hearing and listening. How many times do I hear God speaking to me, but I don't really listen? How many times do I hear what He's teaching me in His Word, but I don't really listen? How many times do I hear His leading through the counsel of friends, but I don't really listen?
Open my ears, Lord ... not just to hear, but to really and truly listen.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Quick Fix Cafe
Back in my hometown of Chattanooga, there's a little place called the Yellow Deli. Actually, it's not so little anymore, but when I was in college, it was this eclectic, small cafe-type restaurant where my friends and I would often congregate. The joint had some of the best sandwiches ever, especially their turkey and Swiss on rye. I have so many fond memories of a group of us gathered around a table or two, talking until late in the night ... solving the troubles of the world, railing against the establishment, sharing dreams of the grand things we would do once we graduated. Looking back, life was simple then ... easy then ... the biggest problems we had concerned grades or boyfriends or cars. And most of those problems seemed quite fixable around the tables of the Yellow Deli ... our own little Quick Fix Cafe.
The last time I visited Chattanooga, I went back to the Yellow Deli with some friends. It's very different than the way I remembered it from my youth, though I did have some awesome turkey and Swiss minus the rye bread. I couldn't help but take a jog down memory lane as I visited with my friends on that sunny November day. As I listened to them relate the events of their lives down through the years, I realized that it wasn't only the Yellow Deli that was very different. Life has changed all of us ... some for the better, some not so much. We've experienced joys such as weddings or the births of children (some even have grandchildren) or successful careers or dreams that have come true. We've also experienced the sting of death or divorce or illness or job loss. We've changed ... all of us have changed.
I've often wished for a Quick Fix Cafe in life ... a Yellow Deli where I could sit at a table, have a bite to eat, and solve whatever problem I was wrestling with at the time. I think the cold hard truth is that many of us, if not most of us, yearn for a quick fix when things are tough, when we are burdened or weary or sick or sad. Years of life and the passage of time have taught me, however, that quick fixes often don't last ... that real restoration and true healing take time and hard work, and more often than not involve more than a little pain and brokenness along the way. Real and lasting fixes in life follow real and lasting changes of heart, of mind, of soul.
Even though I want to eat at the Quick Fix Cafe, Lord, help me find my way to your table instead. Help me to wait on You, to long for You, to seek You, to trust You ... feed me, Lord ... fill me, Lord ... fix me, Lord.
The last time I visited Chattanooga, I went back to the Yellow Deli with some friends. It's very different than the way I remembered it from my youth, though I did have some awesome turkey and Swiss minus the rye bread. I couldn't help but take a jog down memory lane as I visited with my friends on that sunny November day. As I listened to them relate the events of their lives down through the years, I realized that it wasn't only the Yellow Deli that was very different. Life has changed all of us ... some for the better, some not so much. We've experienced joys such as weddings or the births of children (some even have grandchildren) or successful careers or dreams that have come true. We've also experienced the sting of death or divorce or illness or job loss. We've changed ... all of us have changed.
I've often wished for a Quick Fix Cafe in life ... a Yellow Deli where I could sit at a table, have a bite to eat, and solve whatever problem I was wrestling with at the time. I think the cold hard truth is that many of us, if not most of us, yearn for a quick fix when things are tough, when we are burdened or weary or sick or sad. Years of life and the passage of time have taught me, however, that quick fixes often don't last ... that real restoration and true healing take time and hard work, and more often than not involve more than a little pain and brokenness along the way. Real and lasting fixes in life follow real and lasting changes of heart, of mind, of soul.
Even though I want to eat at the Quick Fix Cafe, Lord, help me find my way to your table instead. Help me to wait on You, to long for You, to seek You, to trust You ... feed me, Lord ... fill me, Lord ... fix me, Lord.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Julie vs. the Wiener, Round Two
There are some things in life that are just meant to be together. Like peanut butter and jelly. Rainy days and naps. Babies and pacifiers. Roast and potatoes. Football and cold weather. And in my house, big dogs and little dogs.
Some of you will remember that I've written a couple of blogs recently about a little wiener dog who needs a home. A little wiener dog who was removed from a home where he was being starved and neglected. A little wiener dog who needs some love. Some of you will remember that in one of those blogs, I talked about how I brought him home for the afternoon a couple of weeks ago and Julie hated him. And I kept thinking someone else would take him home. And I kept thinking that Julie and I weren't ready ... that she understands how much my heart still hurts after losing J.R. and that she was telling me no by being so vicious with the new little wiener guy.
And yet, he hasn't found another home. And yet, the lady who was caring for him kept emailing and calling me. And yet, Julie has seemed lonelier than ever after I kept my daughter's little wiener dog for a couple of days. And yet ... and yet ... and yet.
So today, Julie and I went to see the wiener dog again. And Julie barked and growled, and he wagged his tail. And Julie barked and growled, and he reared up on his hind legs and wagged his tail and pawed her face. And Julie barked a little and didn't growl. And he licked her paw. And Julie didn't bark and didn't growl. And he jumped at her face and wagged his tail. And she got down on her front paws and wagged her tail. And he jumped on her and played with her ears. And she chased him. And he ran and wagged his tail. And she stopped and laid down and wagged her tail. And he laid down in front of her and licked her nose. And I brought him home with us ... with the agreement that I can bring him back.
We took a nap in the rainy weather, and he cuddled next to me and Julie. They played chase and tug of war when we woke up. And I wept as I watched them. They ate dinner and had Cheetos, and I wept as I fed them. They are both sleeping next to me on the couch, and I am weeping as I type.
The lady who has been caring for him told me today that no one wants the little guy because he has some scars on his face. And I wept as he looked at me. She told me that when he arrived at her house, the wounds on his face were open and raw. And I wept as I held him in my arms. I know about scars. I know about wounds that are open and raw. I know about not being wanted. I know.
So for tonight, this cold and rainy night, the three of us go together ... me, Julie, and the wiener dog. The wiener dog ... I can't help but think about another wiener dog ... one who changed my life forever, one I miss every day, one who learned to love and be loved, one who was scarred and wounded, too.
Oh, and by the way ... the little guy's name? Oliver Chance.
Some of you will remember that I've written a couple of blogs recently about a little wiener dog who needs a home. A little wiener dog who was removed from a home where he was being starved and neglected. A little wiener dog who needs some love. Some of you will remember that in one of those blogs, I talked about how I brought him home for the afternoon a couple of weeks ago and Julie hated him. And I kept thinking someone else would take him home. And I kept thinking that Julie and I weren't ready ... that she understands how much my heart still hurts after losing J.R. and that she was telling me no by being so vicious with the new little wiener guy.
And yet, he hasn't found another home. And yet, the lady who was caring for him kept emailing and calling me. And yet, Julie has seemed lonelier than ever after I kept my daughter's little wiener dog for a couple of days. And yet ... and yet ... and yet.
So today, Julie and I went to see the wiener dog again. And Julie barked and growled, and he wagged his tail. And Julie barked and growled, and he reared up on his hind legs and wagged his tail and pawed her face. And Julie barked a little and didn't growl. And he licked her paw. And Julie didn't bark and didn't growl. And he jumped at her face and wagged his tail. And she got down on her front paws and wagged her tail. And he jumped on her and played with her ears. And she chased him. And he ran and wagged his tail. And she stopped and laid down and wagged her tail. And he laid down in front of her and licked her nose. And I brought him home with us ... with the agreement that I can bring him back.
We took a nap in the rainy weather, and he cuddled next to me and Julie. They played chase and tug of war when we woke up. And I wept as I watched them. They ate dinner and had Cheetos, and I wept as I fed them. They are both sleeping next to me on the couch, and I am weeping as I type.
The lady who has been caring for him told me today that no one wants the little guy because he has some scars on his face. And I wept as he looked at me. She told me that when he arrived at her house, the wounds on his face were open and raw. And I wept as I held him in my arms. I know about scars. I know about wounds that are open and raw. I know about not being wanted. I know.
So for tonight, this cold and rainy night, the three of us go together ... me, Julie, and the wiener dog. The wiener dog ... I can't help but think about another wiener dog ... one who changed my life forever, one I miss every day, one who learned to love and be loved, one who was scarred and wounded, too.
Oh, and by the way ... the little guy's name? Oliver Chance.
Friday, March 18, 2011
I Know
This may come as a shock to some of my loyal readers, but in my younger years, I was always in trouble. Sometimes a little trouble, like when I superglued some erasers to the chalkboard in 5th grade. That trouble cost me a few hundred sentences stating, "I will not glue erasers to the chalkboard in Mrs. Elder's classroom." Sometimes a lot of trouble, like when I made snowballs for a group of guys who were throwing said snowballs at passing cars. That trouble cost me an overnight stay in the tiny Red Bank, Tennessee, jail. Funny, a few decades later, those times of being in trouble in my youth seem so trivial, so minor, so slight in the grand scheme of things. But at the time ... you can bet your last buck that at the time when I was smack dab in the middle of that trouble ... it was a gigantically huge big deal to me.
As I was driving in to work this morning, I was thinking about the whole concept of being in the middle of a time of trouble. I was thinking about the people of Japan and the trouble so many in that country are experiencing ... trouble that is of a magnitude that most of us will thankfully never have to endure or can even begin to imagine or understand. I was thinking about the trouble that families in the midst of divorce live through and the loneliness and hurt that accompanies the breakup of a home. I was thinking about the trouble that pervades the lives of those who are trying to overcome addictions and of the brokenness and pain that become a moment by moment walk for them. I was thinking of the trouble that follows sin and of the way that sin permeates hearts and destroys lives. The middle of trouble ... being in the middle of trouble ... is never a fun place to be.
While my admission of my times of youthful trouble may be a shock to some of you, I'm quite sure that my next statement won't be. I've found myself of late in a time of trouble, not physical trouble, mind you, but trouble of my mind and my soul. Trouble that reaches to the very core of my being, trouble of my heart that I've never experienced before. Trouble that seems to have no beginning, no middle, no end. Trouble that hurts, trouble that frightens, trouble that drowns. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know how to fix it. I don't know ... I don't know ... I don't know. For all the "don't knows" in my life right now, however, there are some things I do know.
I know that I love God. I know that He loves me. I know that should every person in my life walk away from me, God will never leave me. I know that He has a reason for where He has me. I know that God is with me ... He promised to be with me ... even in the deepest and darkest valleys ... and I know that He always keeps His promises. I know that a little over 11 years ago, I walked into a relationship with His Son Jesus. I know because of that choice on a cold and rainy Monday afternoon ... when my life here is finished, I will walk into an eternal home that is unimaginable to me now. I know beyond any doubt that my Redeemer lives.
I know ... I know ... I know.
As I was driving in to work this morning, I was thinking about the whole concept of being in the middle of a time of trouble. I was thinking about the people of Japan and the trouble so many in that country are experiencing ... trouble that is of a magnitude that most of us will thankfully never have to endure or can even begin to imagine or understand. I was thinking about the trouble that families in the midst of divorce live through and the loneliness and hurt that accompanies the breakup of a home. I was thinking about the trouble that pervades the lives of those who are trying to overcome addictions and of the brokenness and pain that become a moment by moment walk for them. I was thinking of the trouble that follows sin and of the way that sin permeates hearts and destroys lives. The middle of trouble ... being in the middle of trouble ... is never a fun place to be.
While my admission of my times of youthful trouble may be a shock to some of you, I'm quite sure that my next statement won't be. I've found myself of late in a time of trouble, not physical trouble, mind you, but trouble of my mind and my soul. Trouble that reaches to the very core of my being, trouble of my heart that I've never experienced before. Trouble that seems to have no beginning, no middle, no end. Trouble that hurts, trouble that frightens, trouble that drowns. I don't know why I'm here. I don't know where I'm going. I don't know how to fix it. I don't know ... I don't know ... I don't know. For all the "don't knows" in my life right now, however, there are some things I do know.
I know that I love God. I know that He loves me. I know that should every person in my life walk away from me, God will never leave me. I know that He has a reason for where He has me. I know that God is with me ... He promised to be with me ... even in the deepest and darkest valleys ... and I know that He always keeps His promises. I know that a little over 11 years ago, I walked into a relationship with His Son Jesus. I know because of that choice on a cold and rainy Monday afternoon ... when my life here is finished, I will walk into an eternal home that is unimaginable to me now. I know beyond any doubt that my Redeemer lives.
I know ... I know ... I know.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
B.A.D. to the Bone
So yesterday's post was really long. And I talked a lot about my dad. Today's post won't be as long. But I will talk about my dad. Lest any of you think I don't, I do know that today is St. Patrick's Day. I know that I should be wearing green. I know that there's a parade not far from my office. I know that my sons will be drinking green beer today ... tsssk, tsssk, boys. I know what today is. And I know what today would have been ... my dad's 93rd birthday.
Daddy was born March 17, 1918, in Gordon, Georgia, a little bitty town just south of Macon. And I do mean little bitty. Most of the town consisted of, at least back when I was a kid, my dad's family. He was born the 8th of 14 children to Alice Johnson Dennard and William Chandler Dennard. Fourteen children ... I can't even imagine what life would be like with 14 children. Dad was given the name Benton Atticus Dennard, an unusual name for sure. Most people called him B.A., except for Mom who always called him Atticus.
My dad had an ever-present sense of humor and a killer smile. To this day, when I go back to my hometown of Chattanooga, people invariably talk about the constant twinkle in Daddy's eye and the good nature of his heart. When Dad would introduce himself to someone he had just met, he would often say, "Well, hello there. My name is B.A. Dennard, and that means my initials are B.A.D., so if you want, you can just say, 'Hey, Mr. B.A.D.,' and I'll answer you. Yep, I'm B.A.D. to the bone all right, B.A.D. to the bone."
Now's here the thing ... the lesson ... the truth ... my dad really was a good guy ... nice, friendly, generous, loving, compassionate, honest ... all the things that make us label a person "good." And while Daddy was joking when he made fun of his initials, he also used that description of himself as B.A.D. hundreds of times when he talked about his faith and his relationship with Jesus Christ. I can close my eyes and hear him saying to a person who was hurting or wounded or broken, a person in need of a savior ... "You know, my momma and daddy didn't give me those initials for nothing. My name's a constant reminder of the way there's not one of us that's good in and of ourselves. It's only the blood of Jesus that can make us good or clean at all."
There are lots of days when I miss my dad, days when the memories of him and his love and his example cause my tears to fall like rain. Especially on St. Patrick's Day, my mind is filled with thoughts of him ... his smile, his warmth, his gentle heart. And each time I see or hear the words today, "The luck of the Irish," I will think ... I am the lucky one ... because Mr. B.A.D. to the bone was my dad.
The lucky one, indeed.
Daddy was born March 17, 1918, in Gordon, Georgia, a little bitty town just south of Macon. And I do mean little bitty. Most of the town consisted of, at least back when I was a kid, my dad's family. He was born the 8th of 14 children to Alice Johnson Dennard and William Chandler Dennard. Fourteen children ... I can't even imagine what life would be like with 14 children. Dad was given the name Benton Atticus Dennard, an unusual name for sure. Most people called him B.A., except for Mom who always called him Atticus.
My dad had an ever-present sense of humor and a killer smile. To this day, when I go back to my hometown of Chattanooga, people invariably talk about the constant twinkle in Daddy's eye and the good nature of his heart. When Dad would introduce himself to someone he had just met, he would often say, "Well, hello there. My name is B.A. Dennard, and that means my initials are B.A.D., so if you want, you can just say, 'Hey, Mr. B.A.D.,' and I'll answer you. Yep, I'm B.A.D. to the bone all right, B.A.D. to the bone."
Now's here the thing ... the lesson ... the truth ... my dad really was a good guy ... nice, friendly, generous, loving, compassionate, honest ... all the things that make us label a person "good." And while Daddy was joking when he made fun of his initials, he also used that description of himself as B.A.D. hundreds of times when he talked about his faith and his relationship with Jesus Christ. I can close my eyes and hear him saying to a person who was hurting or wounded or broken, a person in need of a savior ... "You know, my momma and daddy didn't give me those initials for nothing. My name's a constant reminder of the way there's not one of us that's good in and of ourselves. It's only the blood of Jesus that can make us good or clean at all."
There are lots of days when I miss my dad, days when the memories of him and his love and his example cause my tears to fall like rain. Especially on St. Patrick's Day, my mind is filled with thoughts of him ... his smile, his warmth, his gentle heart. And each time I see or hear the words today, "The luck of the Irish," I will think ... I am the lucky one ... because Mr. B.A.D. to the bone was my dad.
The lucky one, indeed.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Wee Hours Brilliance
My dad worked for the railroad for over 50 years. That's almost unheard of in today's "switch jobs every five years or so" world. During my growing up years, Daddy usually left the house around 5:00 a.m. and returned home around 4:00 p.m. But there were occasionally periods when his schedule would vary, and he would have to go in earlier or work later. It was always important to Daddy that he see me at some point every day, and so when his normal working routine was disrupted, he would often wake me from a deep sleep to say hello or goodbye and place a kiss on my forehead. And then there were times ... times that I will always remember ... when Daddy would sit on the edge of my little twin bed and talk to me for a while, imparting some pearl of wisdom or sharing some deep insight or new perspective he had gained that day.
I'm awake a lot now, and I often think of those times spent with Daddy during the wee hours. I've come to understand as I've grown older that those moments with Daddy were several things ... they were always spontaneous and never planned out; they were honest, true and sincere, and always from the heart; and they were filled to the brim with ideas and hopes and dreams, both Daddy's and my own. And sometimes ... sometimes they involved a trip to the kitchen for a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup drizzled on top. Maybe not the best idea healthwise, but what could have been more fun than sneaking to the freezer in the middle of the night with my dad?
I think perhaps the example set for me by Daddy of spectacular ideas in the middle of the night explains some of the great ... dare I say even brilliant? ... thoughts that come to me in the wee hours when I so often find myself awake. Such as the one that came to me last Saturday at 4:00 a.m. ... well, technically, I guess it was Sunday rather than Saturday even though it still felt like Saturday night. I woke up thinking about a dog we had several years ago named Ali, a large (and I do mean large) Dalmatian/Lab mix ... sweetest, most gentle giant of a dog ever. Ali lived to the ripe old age of 13, which in dog years is quite old for a dog of her size and breed.
Now I'm aware that some of you will disagree with me, but I've always been the type of person who allows my dogs to sleep in my bed. And Ali was no different than the little dogs I've owned over the years ... all 110 pounds of her would climb into my bed each night, stretch out, and then snore like a freight train as she slept. As Ali aged, she developed severe arthritis in her hips and eventually could no longer get up in the bed without help. Before she passed away, her physical issues and my inability to lift her caused her to spend the last year or so of her life sleeping on a giant dog pillow on the floor of my room.
When I woke last weekend thinking of Ali, I saw my big dog Julie curled up next to me sleeping peacefully. As I swung my legs to the side of my relatively tall bed, I had a thought ... an idea ... a moment of brilliance. Julie is getting older, and she doesn't need to be making the leap into and out of my rather tall bed, so I decided to take my bed off of the frame and place the box springs and mattress directly on the floor. In my foggy, sleep-deprived mind, I thought that would be a good idea for both of us ... Julie wouldn't have so far to jump and I wouldn't have so far to fall should I have a low blood sugar episode. And so at 4:00 a.m. with my bedroom lights blazing, I broke out my toolbox, wrestled my queen-size mattress and box springs off the frame, disconnected said frame from the headboard, vacuumed away the dust and crud from under the bed, and plopped the box springs and mattress on the floor. An hour later as Julie and I climbed back under the covers, I had one overriding thought as I drifted off to sleep ... this was a simply brilliant idea.
Waking on Sunday morning, however, my first thought was ... what the heck happened to my bed? Am I taller? Where did the bottom half of the bed go? And then I remembered my wee hours brilliance. As I sat on the edge of my now "low-rider" bed, I couldn't help but wonder if God had chuckled at my little early morning construction project. And I also wondered if He sometimes shakes His head in sadness at my attempts to solve problems on my own, to fix things in my life that are askew without His help, to heal my wounded heart without His touch.
I've left the bed on the floor this week, partly because the whole not so far for Jules to jump or me to fall really is a pretty good idea. But I've also left it there to remind me that God is the only One who has the answer to my problems, Who can fix me when I'm broken, Who can heal me when I'm wounded and sick. And my prayer this week? Break out your toolbox, Lord ... take away what needs to go to bring me closer to You ... clean out the dust and crud from the depths of my soul ... make me find a new way of resting in You.
I'm awake a lot now, and I often think of those times spent with Daddy during the wee hours. I've come to understand as I've grown older that those moments with Daddy were several things ... they were always spontaneous and never planned out; they were honest, true and sincere, and always from the heart; and they were filled to the brim with ideas and hopes and dreams, both Daddy's and my own. And sometimes ... sometimes they involved a trip to the kitchen for a big bowl of vanilla ice cream with chocolate syrup drizzled on top. Maybe not the best idea healthwise, but what could have been more fun than sneaking to the freezer in the middle of the night with my dad?
I think perhaps the example set for me by Daddy of spectacular ideas in the middle of the night explains some of the great ... dare I say even brilliant? ... thoughts that come to me in the wee hours when I so often find myself awake. Such as the one that came to me last Saturday at 4:00 a.m. ... well, technically, I guess it was Sunday rather than Saturday even though it still felt like Saturday night. I woke up thinking about a dog we had several years ago named Ali, a large (and I do mean large) Dalmatian/Lab mix ... sweetest, most gentle giant of a dog ever. Ali lived to the ripe old age of 13, which in dog years is quite old for a dog of her size and breed.
Now I'm aware that some of you will disagree with me, but I've always been the type of person who allows my dogs to sleep in my bed. And Ali was no different than the little dogs I've owned over the years ... all 110 pounds of her would climb into my bed each night, stretch out, and then snore like a freight train as she slept. As Ali aged, she developed severe arthritis in her hips and eventually could no longer get up in the bed without help. Before she passed away, her physical issues and my inability to lift her caused her to spend the last year or so of her life sleeping on a giant dog pillow on the floor of my room.
When I woke last weekend thinking of Ali, I saw my big dog Julie curled up next to me sleeping peacefully. As I swung my legs to the side of my relatively tall bed, I had a thought ... an idea ... a moment of brilliance. Julie is getting older, and she doesn't need to be making the leap into and out of my rather tall bed, so I decided to take my bed off of the frame and place the box springs and mattress directly on the floor. In my foggy, sleep-deprived mind, I thought that would be a good idea for both of us ... Julie wouldn't have so far to jump and I wouldn't have so far to fall should I have a low blood sugar episode. And so at 4:00 a.m. with my bedroom lights blazing, I broke out my toolbox, wrestled my queen-size mattress and box springs off the frame, disconnected said frame from the headboard, vacuumed away the dust and crud from under the bed, and plopped the box springs and mattress on the floor. An hour later as Julie and I climbed back under the covers, I had one overriding thought as I drifted off to sleep ... this was a simply brilliant idea.
Waking on Sunday morning, however, my first thought was ... what the heck happened to my bed? Am I taller? Where did the bottom half of the bed go? And then I remembered my wee hours brilliance. As I sat on the edge of my now "low-rider" bed, I couldn't help but wonder if God had chuckled at my little early morning construction project. And I also wondered if He sometimes shakes His head in sadness at my attempts to solve problems on my own, to fix things in my life that are askew without His help, to heal my wounded heart without His touch.
I've left the bed on the floor this week, partly because the whole not so far for Jules to jump or me to fall really is a pretty good idea. But I've also left it there to remind me that God is the only One who has the answer to my problems, Who can fix me when I'm broken, Who can heal me when I'm wounded and sick. And my prayer this week? Break out your toolbox, Lord ... take away what needs to go to bring me closer to You ... clean out the dust and crud from the depths of my soul ... make me find a new way of resting in You.
Monday, March 14, 2011
White as Snow
If I had a dollar for each time I've uttered the words, "I am so done with winter this year," over the last month or so, suffice it to say that I could retire in quite comfortable fashion. Both this winter and the winter of 2009 brought to Kansas City way more snow than I wanted. And this morning when I arose? In the middle of March? Right after the institution of Daylight Saving Time? Yep, it was snowing like crazy, and it was 29 degrees.
I had a doctor's appointment this morning ... yes, another one ... and I was grumpy from the time my feet hit the floor when I woke up. A relatively sleepless night plus achy muscles plus snow plus the doctor plus needles, and by the time I got to my car to head to work, I was ready to turn around and go home, climb back into bed, pull the covers over my head and stay there until, oh, mid July or so.
As I waited for the traffic light to change as I left the doctor's office, however, something to my right caught my attention and shifted my focus. There was a bird ... one solitary black bird ... sitting in the middle of all that snow. Now those of you who read this blog regularly may recall that I wrote several blogs a while back about birds and geese and owls. God taught me some deep and lasting lessons last summer through His feathered creations, and as I watched the lone little bird this morning pecking in the snow, I realized that He was speaking to me once again.
The contrast of the blackness of the bird against the white of the snow made me immediately think of the lyrics to an old hymn ... "Jesus Paid it All." As I continued to stare at the bird while ignoring the changing traffic signal before me, I couldn't help but think how much life is like the bird and the snow. Instead of appreciating the blanket of God's forgiveness ... the whiteness and purity of the sacrifice of His only Son ... so many times I see the black spot of my sin, the dark place in my heart. Driving to work with tears coursing down my cheeks, my prayer became the words to the hymn ...
"I hear the Savior say, thy strength indeed is small.
Child of weakness, watch and pray; find in Me thine all in all.
Jesus paid it all, all to Him I owe.
Sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow.
Lord, now indeed I find, thy power and thine alone;
Can change the leper's spots, and heal the heart of stone.
Jesus paid it all, all to Him I owe.
Sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow."
I had a doctor's appointment this morning ... yes, another one ... and I was grumpy from the time my feet hit the floor when I woke up. A relatively sleepless night plus achy muscles plus snow plus the doctor plus needles, and by the time I got to my car to head to work, I was ready to turn around and go home, climb back into bed, pull the covers over my head and stay there until, oh, mid July or so.
As I waited for the traffic light to change as I left the doctor's office, however, something to my right caught my attention and shifted my focus. There was a bird ... one solitary black bird ... sitting in the middle of all that snow. Now those of you who read this blog regularly may recall that I wrote several blogs a while back about birds and geese and owls. God taught me some deep and lasting lessons last summer through His feathered creations, and as I watched the lone little bird this morning pecking in the snow, I realized that He was speaking to me once again.
The contrast of the blackness of the bird against the white of the snow made me immediately think of the lyrics to an old hymn ... "Jesus Paid it All." As I continued to stare at the bird while ignoring the changing traffic signal before me, I couldn't help but think how much life is like the bird and the snow. Instead of appreciating the blanket of God's forgiveness ... the whiteness and purity of the sacrifice of His only Son ... so many times I see the black spot of my sin, the dark place in my heart. Driving to work with tears coursing down my cheeks, my prayer became the words to the hymn ...
"I hear the Savior say, thy strength indeed is small.
Child of weakness, watch and pray; find in Me thine all in all.
Jesus paid it all, all to Him I owe.
Sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow.
Lord, now indeed I find, thy power and thine alone;
Can change the leper's spots, and heal the heart of stone.
Jesus paid it all, all to Him I owe.
Sin had left a crimson stain, He washed it white as snow."
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Socks
It's funny the things people collect, the things that become their obsession at certain times in their lives. In my younger years, I had a real thing for anything "Smurf" related ... you know, the little blue guys from the cartoon. "La la, la la la ..." Yeah, I know what you're thinking. I think the same thing about myself now, although I must confess that I fully intend to find some little kids and take them to see the Smurfs movie that is coming out in August. Because we all know that if you really want to see a kids' movie and you don't want other people to make fun of you, you take a kid or two along with you as cover.
It was around the time of my 30th birthday that my attention shifted from Smurfs (again, I know what you're thinking, and I fully agree with you) to socks. Yes, socks. I developed a major thing for socks. I became fascinated with socks with designs on them, socks made of certain fabric, socks of differing lengths and colors, and of course, socks that matched my clothing. I have no idea where my sudden love for socks came from, but I do know that not only has it remained into my 50-something years of life, it has grown significantly stronger, and, oddly enough, is now a truly important aspect of my physical health.
I learned early on after my diabetes diagnosis that feet are a big deal when you are diabetic ... a really big deal. And I recently learned that diabetes is the number one cause of non-accident related amputations of the feet and legs. That's why almost every time I go to see the doctor, she has me remove my shoes and socks so that she can use this little needle-y thing and stick the bottoms of my feet to make sure I still have sensation in them. And because she is a tricky kind of person, she has me close my eyes so that I can't cheat by seeing when she pokes me. Because I have a significant amount of neuropathy that causes a great deal of pain in my feet from time to time, my long-before established obsession with socks has marched into a whole new realm.
An email comment from a friend this morning about socks is what prompted my pensiveness on the whole socks subject, and thus evolved into the penning of this blog. You know ... I'm thinking ... when I put my shoes on, I can only see the tops of my socks, the part that is probably not really important at all other than it helps to keep the rest of my socks in place on my feet. It's the part of the socks on the inside of my shoe that matters most ... that's the part that cushions my feet, that keeps them warm and dry, that protects them from blisters and pain. The whole hidden versus seen ... important versus unimportant ... I'm pretty sure that's the way God is. The part of me that matters most to Him is what is unseen, covered, hidden away deep within my heart. He knows what's inside the shoes of my life ... and He knows if my socks are what they should be in every way.
And sometimes, sometimes He steps in and tells me that it's time ... time to change my socks.
It was around the time of my 30th birthday that my attention shifted from Smurfs (again, I know what you're thinking, and I fully agree with you) to socks. Yes, socks. I developed a major thing for socks. I became fascinated with socks with designs on them, socks made of certain fabric, socks of differing lengths and colors, and of course, socks that matched my clothing. I have no idea where my sudden love for socks came from, but I do know that not only has it remained into my 50-something years of life, it has grown significantly stronger, and, oddly enough, is now a truly important aspect of my physical health.
I learned early on after my diabetes diagnosis that feet are a big deal when you are diabetic ... a really big deal. And I recently learned that diabetes is the number one cause of non-accident related amputations of the feet and legs. That's why almost every time I go to see the doctor, she has me remove my shoes and socks so that she can use this little needle-y thing and stick the bottoms of my feet to make sure I still have sensation in them. And because she is a tricky kind of person, she has me close my eyes so that I can't cheat by seeing when she pokes me. Because I have a significant amount of neuropathy that causes a great deal of pain in my feet from time to time, my long-before established obsession with socks has marched into a whole new realm.
An email comment from a friend this morning about socks is what prompted my pensiveness on the whole socks subject, and thus evolved into the penning of this blog. You know ... I'm thinking ... when I put my shoes on, I can only see the tops of my socks, the part that is probably not really important at all other than it helps to keep the rest of my socks in place on my feet. It's the part of the socks on the inside of my shoe that matters most ... that's the part that cushions my feet, that keeps them warm and dry, that protects them from blisters and pain. The whole hidden versus seen ... important versus unimportant ... I'm pretty sure that's the way God is. The part of me that matters most to Him is what is unseen, covered, hidden away deep within my heart. He knows what's inside the shoes of my life ... and He knows if my socks are what they should be in every way.
And sometimes, sometimes He steps in and tells me that it's time ... time to change my socks.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Always, Never and Free
Being a senior editor for an advertising agency means I live my life in the land of words. I read all day. I read little words, and I read big words. I read easy words, and I read hard words. I read words about cheese. I read words about surgical prepping applicators. I read words about investment options. I read words about pizza. I read words about parasites in horse and cow poop. No, really, I'm serious about the parasites. And, if you haven't already guessed, I often put words down on paper, too, or on the computer, I suppose. So I guess it's safe to say that words play a pretty huge role in my life.
Today I received a text from a friend that said, "I'm officially cancer free!" And I said aloud when I read it, "Awesome, awesome, awesome news!" My friend has been through so much over the last year or longer ... I can't even begin to tell you. I've said so many times that having diabetes is a walk in the park compared to what she has experienced. She's been so strong ... she never gave up even for a second in her fight for life.
Not long after reading my friend's happy news, I sat in the waiting room of a new endocrinologist that my primary care physician sent me to see. I couldn't help but think of my friend, and the word free ... the word that meant so very much to her on this cold and rainy day. My name was called, and after the perfunctory question and answer session with the nurse, blood pressure taking and pulse counting, I waited again ... passing the time while I waited alone in the drab and gray room by reading the charts about diabetes that covered the walls. The doctor entered the room and spent about 45 minutes talking with me, unusual for a specialist, I thought, to take so much time and ask so many questions of me. As she wrote a prescription for patches to put on my often hurting and sometimes numb and tingling feet, she said some things that I'm sure will linger in my mind for a long time to come.
"You will never be able to go off of diabetes medication. Never. You will always have to test your blood sugar several times a day. Always. Your life will never be like it was before. Never. The disease of diabetes will always progress and march forward. Always. "
As I drove home from my appointment, three words kept rolling around in my mind ... always, never and free. God always loves me. God never walks away from me. God's grace and mercy are free.
Always, never and free.
Today I received a text from a friend that said, "I'm officially cancer free!" And I said aloud when I read it, "Awesome, awesome, awesome news!" My friend has been through so much over the last year or longer ... I can't even begin to tell you. I've said so many times that having diabetes is a walk in the park compared to what she has experienced. She's been so strong ... she never gave up even for a second in her fight for life.
Not long after reading my friend's happy news, I sat in the waiting room of a new endocrinologist that my primary care physician sent me to see. I couldn't help but think of my friend, and the word free ... the word that meant so very much to her on this cold and rainy day. My name was called, and after the perfunctory question and answer session with the nurse, blood pressure taking and pulse counting, I waited again ... passing the time while I waited alone in the drab and gray room by reading the charts about diabetes that covered the walls. The doctor entered the room and spent about 45 minutes talking with me, unusual for a specialist, I thought, to take so much time and ask so many questions of me. As she wrote a prescription for patches to put on my often hurting and sometimes numb and tingling feet, she said some things that I'm sure will linger in my mind for a long time to come.
"You will never be able to go off of diabetes medication. Never. You will always have to test your blood sugar several times a day. Always. Your life will never be like it was before. Never. The disease of diabetes will always progress and march forward. Always. "
As I drove home from my appointment, three words kept rolling around in my mind ... always, never and free. God always loves me. God never walks away from me. God's grace and mercy are free.
Always, never and free.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Come On Get Happy
I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that some of you who read this blog are old enough to remember "The Partridge Family" television show. Some of you, however, are thinking ... the Partridge what??? When I was a kid, I fell in love with that show ... and with David Cassidy, as did most girls my age. My niece and I even pretended to be members of the famous family as we sang along at the top of our lungs to their latest record (for those of you who are still wondering why a TV show about a family of partridges was ever a hit, a record was what we played on a record player to listen to music long before the advent of CDs or iPods).
The show opened each week with its theme song, "Come On Get Happy," accompanied by a montage of footage of the family, including, of course, shots of their renovated, multicolored school bus which was their means of transportation to their various musical events. Looking back, I realize that the show was sort of before its time in many ways, especially because the mother, portrayed by Shirley Jones, was a single mom raising five children on her own. The interaction and situations that were depicted on the show often dealt with issues that at the time were quite controversial and cutting edge.
Now I'm sure you are perplexed as to why I'm writing about a TV show that was popular so many years ago, but those of you who are regular readers of this blog should know by now that I eventually get around to making some sort of analogy related to the seemingly meaningless story I begin with. All day, I've been thinking about the theme song for "The Partridge Family," and all day, I've been wishing that getting happy was as easy as singing a song or hopping on an old crazily painted school bus and hitting the road. The truth is that sometimes life blindsides us, and no matter how many songs we sing or how many places we go, we simply can't get happy.
I think that most of us instinctively want to fix ourselves when things in our life are out of whack, to find our happy when we are sad. As much as it's true that there are times when life is just plain old hard, when the path before us looks steeper than Mt. Everest, when the water is dark and swirling around us, it is even more true that it's in those tough places that we should trust God the most. And perhaps those times ... times of sadness, times of fear, times of pain ... perhaps those are the times when we should rest in and wait upon the Lord to bring us through to the other side.
In the words of the great philosopher Winnie the Pooh ... "Rivers know this: There is no hurry. We shall get there some day."
The show opened each week with its theme song, "Come On Get Happy," accompanied by a montage of footage of the family, including, of course, shots of their renovated, multicolored school bus which was their means of transportation to their various musical events. Looking back, I realize that the show was sort of before its time in many ways, especially because the mother, portrayed by Shirley Jones, was a single mom raising five children on her own. The interaction and situations that were depicted on the show often dealt with issues that at the time were quite controversial and cutting edge.
Now I'm sure you are perplexed as to why I'm writing about a TV show that was popular so many years ago, but those of you who are regular readers of this blog should know by now that I eventually get around to making some sort of analogy related to the seemingly meaningless story I begin with. All day, I've been thinking about the theme song for "The Partridge Family," and all day, I've been wishing that getting happy was as easy as singing a song or hopping on an old crazily painted school bus and hitting the road. The truth is that sometimes life blindsides us, and no matter how many songs we sing or how many places we go, we simply can't get happy.
I think that most of us instinctively want to fix ourselves when things in our life are out of whack, to find our happy when we are sad. As much as it's true that there are times when life is just plain old hard, when the path before us looks steeper than Mt. Everest, when the water is dark and swirling around us, it is even more true that it's in those tough places that we should trust God the most. And perhaps those times ... times of sadness, times of fear, times of pain ... perhaps those are the times when we should rest in and wait upon the Lord to bring us through to the other side.
In the words of the great philosopher Winnie the Pooh ... "Rivers know this: There is no hurry. We shall get there some day."
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Just the Two of Us
When Brad brought Julie home from the animal shelter over six years ago, I was aggravated with myself for caving in and allowing Meghann and him to talk me into another dog. We already had Ali, a dalmatian Lab mix, and Cinnamon, a mini long-haired dachshund. We didn't need another dog, especially one that was as hyperactive as Julie ... she gave the word "motion" all new meaning. And yet, as I write this blog, Julie's head is in my lap and the rest of her is sprawled out across the couch as she sleeps.
Today, I took her to meet Wally the wiener dog, the little guy I wrote about a couple of blogs ago. There was too much commotion at PetsMart for Julie and Wally to really meet, so the gentleman from the shelter agreed to allow me to take Wally home for the afternoon and see how he and Jules responded to one another. I have to kennel Julie in the car to keep her from climbing everywhere while I'm driving, and Wally sat on the front passenger seat next to me. When we got home, I did what all the dog experts suggested when introducing a new dog into an existing dog's environment. I put Wally in the kennel so that Julie could get used to him before I let him out into the house.
To say that it didn't work is an understatement. Julie stood in front of the kennel snarling and growling and showing her teeth, the hair on her back raised, and barking a ferocious and loud bark. Thinking perhaps she would calm down if I tried to soothe her, I patted her head and assured her that Wally was a good little boy and that he wanted to be her buddy. The more I tried to soothe her, the more agitated she became. I finally put her in my room and took Wally out and held him, hoping that Julie would be better when she saw that he liked me and really was a good little guy. I won't give you details of what happened when I opened my bedroom door, but I'll say that I tried for almost three hours to get Julie to be OK with Wally becoming a part of our house. And I will also say that I am absolutely certain that Julie would have hurt him had I allowed her to get close enough to do so. I took Wally back to the folks from the shelter and when I left, a family with two young children had asked to visit with Wally. I turned around for one final look, and he was licking the faces of the kids and wagging his tail. And I got in my car and cried all the way home.
I learned something today, something that may end up being profound in the end. I think Julie's behavior today showed me that her grief for J.R. is much like mine ... deep, permeating, relentless ... and not over yet. I heard myself call Wally J.R. a couple of times today ... once he was in my house, he reminded me of J.R. Was that what agitated Julie so much? Did he remind her of J.R. and she knew it wasn't him? I've said it before, but it bears repeating after today's events. I've never had a dog affect me the way J.R. has ... never in my 51 years of life has a dog gotten inside of me the way he did and left such an imprint on my heart and soul. Never has a pet's death hurt like this, hurt this long, hurt this deeply.
So tonight as she snores, I say to Julie ... it's just the two of us girl, just the two of us. And maybe that's the way it's supposed to be for now. Just the two of us in the house ... joined together in missing one very special little wiener dog.
Today, I took her to meet Wally the wiener dog, the little guy I wrote about a couple of blogs ago. There was too much commotion at PetsMart for Julie and Wally to really meet, so the gentleman from the shelter agreed to allow me to take Wally home for the afternoon and see how he and Jules responded to one another. I have to kennel Julie in the car to keep her from climbing everywhere while I'm driving, and Wally sat on the front passenger seat next to me. When we got home, I did what all the dog experts suggested when introducing a new dog into an existing dog's environment. I put Wally in the kennel so that Julie could get used to him before I let him out into the house.
To say that it didn't work is an understatement. Julie stood in front of the kennel snarling and growling and showing her teeth, the hair on her back raised, and barking a ferocious and loud bark. Thinking perhaps she would calm down if I tried to soothe her, I patted her head and assured her that Wally was a good little boy and that he wanted to be her buddy. The more I tried to soothe her, the more agitated she became. I finally put her in my room and took Wally out and held him, hoping that Julie would be better when she saw that he liked me and really was a good little guy. I won't give you details of what happened when I opened my bedroom door, but I'll say that I tried for almost three hours to get Julie to be OK with Wally becoming a part of our house. And I will also say that I am absolutely certain that Julie would have hurt him had I allowed her to get close enough to do so. I took Wally back to the folks from the shelter and when I left, a family with two young children had asked to visit with Wally. I turned around for one final look, and he was licking the faces of the kids and wagging his tail. And I got in my car and cried all the way home.
I learned something today, something that may end up being profound in the end. I think Julie's behavior today showed me that her grief for J.R. is much like mine ... deep, permeating, relentless ... and not over yet. I heard myself call Wally J.R. a couple of times today ... once he was in my house, he reminded me of J.R. Was that what agitated Julie so much? Did he remind her of J.R. and she knew it wasn't him? I've said it before, but it bears repeating after today's events. I've never had a dog affect me the way J.R. has ... never in my 51 years of life has a dog gotten inside of me the way he did and left such an imprint on my heart and soul. Never has a pet's death hurt like this, hurt this long, hurt this deeply.
So tonight as she snores, I say to Julie ... it's just the two of us girl, just the two of us. And maybe that's the way it's supposed to be for now. Just the two of us in the house ... joined together in missing one very special little wiener dog.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Road Work Ahead
Every day I commute 25 miles each way to and from work, and most days I'm in the car an hour and a half for that commute. Unless, of course, it's raining or snowing or there's an accident (or 3 or 4) or there's construction happening along my route. Then I could easily be in my car for hours and hours and hours. And I detest those days ... truly, utterly, completely, totally detest those days. If I didn't love my house and where I live, those days would almost be enough to convince me to sell out and move into a downtown loft right across the street from my office so I didn't have to make the drive every day.
This morning, about 20 minutes into my drive to work, as the traffic slowed, I noticed several large orange signs along the side of the road. I groaned aloud in the car as I read the dreaded words, "Road Work Ahead ... Be Prepared to Stop." All three lanes of traffic quickly drew to a complete stop, and I began searching through the songs on my iPod trying to find something that would soothe my frayed nerves and calm my growing anger over the morning delay. I settled on John Denver's greatest hits and cranked up the volume on my car radio.
As I sat trapped in my car staring at the now giant orange sign to the right of my car, I found that I wasn't listening to the music at all. Instead, I was thinking about road work ... construction ... change ... things being torn down ... repairing and being made new. I realized that my thoughts had nothing to do with the highway my humming car was sitting upon, but rather my life, my heart, my mind, my soul. I found myself wishing that God would place a sign along the way ahead of me when He was going to disrupt my journey and cause me to slow down and eventually stop what I am doing. "Why can't You just warn me, God, before You tear apart the road I'm on and change everything? Why can't You just put up some orange signs to tell me things are going to get rough? Why do You have to work on me anyway? What do You want from me? Why do I have to take this detour ... this painful and difficult detour? Why do I need road work? Why? Why? Why?"
As the traffic started to move, I wiped the tears from my eyes, and began to hear God speak to my wounded and aching heart. "For I know the plans I have for you, Terrie ... trust Me. I'm working on your road for a reason ... trust Me. I'm causing you to stop so that you can begin anew ... trust Me. The new construction will be so much better than the old ... trust Me. Trust Me, Terrie, just trust Me."
I'm pretty sure I will never see another road work sign along the highway the same way again ... pretty sure indeed.
"Road Work Ahead ... Be Prepared to Stop."
This morning, about 20 minutes into my drive to work, as the traffic slowed, I noticed several large orange signs along the side of the road. I groaned aloud in the car as I read the dreaded words, "Road Work Ahead ... Be Prepared to Stop." All three lanes of traffic quickly drew to a complete stop, and I began searching through the songs on my iPod trying to find something that would soothe my frayed nerves and calm my growing anger over the morning delay. I settled on John Denver's greatest hits and cranked up the volume on my car radio.
As I sat trapped in my car staring at the now giant orange sign to the right of my car, I found that I wasn't listening to the music at all. Instead, I was thinking about road work ... construction ... change ... things being torn down ... repairing and being made new. I realized that my thoughts had nothing to do with the highway my humming car was sitting upon, but rather my life, my heart, my mind, my soul. I found myself wishing that God would place a sign along the way ahead of me when He was going to disrupt my journey and cause me to slow down and eventually stop what I am doing. "Why can't You just warn me, God, before You tear apart the road I'm on and change everything? Why can't You just put up some orange signs to tell me things are going to get rough? Why do You have to work on me anyway? What do You want from me? Why do I have to take this detour ... this painful and difficult detour? Why do I need road work? Why? Why? Why?"
As the traffic started to move, I wiped the tears from my eyes, and began to hear God speak to my wounded and aching heart. "For I know the plans I have for you, Terrie ... trust Me. I'm working on your road for a reason ... trust Me. I'm causing you to stop so that you can begin anew ... trust Me. The new construction will be so much better than the old ... trust Me. Trust Me, Terrie, just trust Me."
I'm pretty sure I will never see another road work sign along the highway the same way again ... pretty sure indeed.
"Road Work Ahead ... Be Prepared to Stop."
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