Under the Deck

On the back of my house, I have a deck. It's not a big deck, but it's not a small deck either. I call it my Goldilocks deck ... it's just the right size for me. It's got lattice work around the sides and slats across the top; in fact, I think those slats are what protected my grill and glass-top table from being pulverized in the hail storm we had about a month ago. And by the way, my new roof and repaired windows, guttering and paint look really good ... according to my oldest son and my brother, I should now sell the house and move into an apartment (because they think I'm too old and not well enough to take care of all the maintenance ... blah, blah, blah). But, once again, I digress from the story at hand. The bottom part of the deck is covered in lattice as well, with small openings where the lattice criss-crosses ... and that is where this story begins.

Sometimes, little critters get under the deck ... I've seen rabbits, mice (yuck, yuck, and yuck), frogs, and even a baby raccoon scamper out from the safety of the wooden covering. My big dog Julie is a Labrador retriever, and if you know anything about Labs, you know they are hunters by nature. So suffice it to say that Julie knows when there's a critter under the deck, and she almost gives herself a heart attack running from side to side with her nose crammed in between the small openings in the lattice.

Last Sunday afternoon, Julie, Ollie and I were dozing on the couch when all of a sudden, Julie jumped down, ears laid back against her head, crying and bolting down the hall toward my room. By the time I got off the couch and went to check on her, she had wet on my carpet and was cowering in the corner whimpering. Julie never ever has an accident in the house, so I knew that something was wrong. I took her outside to potty, and she immediately jumped the fence and took off down the street. Thankfully, one of my neighbors was outside and grabbed her collar and held her until I got to her. For the rest of the day, Julie was ... well ... she was just upset. She cried and whined and climbed all over me, and she went crazy sniffing around the deck when we went outside. It was a couple of days before she calmed down and started acting normal again.

Here's the thing ... I am sure that there was some sort of "critter event" in my back yard last Sunday afternoon. I don't know what it was, whether an animal got hurt and crawled under my deck or whether some babies were born under there ... I have no clue. But I know that whatever happened, Julie heard it while we were snoozing on the couch. She knew that something was going on outside ... she knew there was something happening under the deck ... she knew even though I didn't hear or see anything.

I've thought about Julie's behavior all week, and about how she knows things are hiding under the deck when no one else does ... about how she hears sounds and cries that I can never hear. And I've thought about how God knows what I try to hide away under the deck of my life when no one else does. And I've thought about how He hears the sounds of my soul and the cries of my heart as only He can.

One of these days, I should probably figure out a way to clean out the stuff under the deck behind my house ... I'm sure it could use a good scrubbing under there. Come to think of it ... God ... since You're the only One who knows what's under the deck of my life, maybe You could clean out all the stuff that needs to go ... it's a mess.

I'll Catch You

My oldest brother Jerry was always sort of bigger than life to me, maybe because he was 21 years old when I was born. He was a junior high science teacher and a lifeguard at a local pool during the summer. His wife Charlotte often told me she knew the day she met the good-looking young lifeguard holding his two-year-old little sister in his lap that he was a special man. "A man who loved his baby sister the way Jerry loved you," she would say, "I knew he was the man I wanted to marry." And she did, and I was the flower girl in their wedding.

I spent a ton of time with Jerry and Charlotte when I was young, and I have many sweet memories from those years. In fact, if you go back to the very first blog I wrote, you'll find the story of the tree house that Jerry built for me and his two young sons ... and you'll also find the reason that's the name I chose for my blog. One of my strongest memories of Jerry, though, is of the day he taught me to swim. I can't remember how old I was, but I do remember the details of that afternoon ... I can close my eyes and see my brother with his dark brown eyes and jet black hair laughing and smiling as he talked with people at the pool.

After Jerry finished his lifeguarding duties for the day, he said, "Come on, Little Bit, today is the day you learn to swim." He then spent an hour or so working with me in the shallow end of the pool before he announced that I was ready to jump off the diving board. He walked me to the part of the pool where the two diving boards loomed out over the glistening water ... the low dive and the high dive. As I walked toward the lower board, Jerry tugged on my arm and said, "Nope, Little Bit ... you're going to jump off the high dive. If you're gonna jump, you might as well jump big." Even just writing those words causes my heart to beat a little faster ... I well remember the feeling in the pit of my stomach as I climbed the ladder toward the diving board, my legs trembling and my palms sweating.

I also remember what I saw when I inched my way to the edge of the wooden plank ... I saw my brother Jerry treading water beneath me, smiling from ear to ear with pride as he looked up at his baby sister on the high dive. And I will never forget what he shouted up to me as I stood trembling and frightened, wondering how I could climb back down the ladder to safety. "Little Bit," Jerry yelled, "Little Bit ... jump! I'm right here, and I'll catch you ... jump, Little Bit, jump!" I can hear him ... I can see him ... I can feel him. "I'm right here, Little Bit ... I'll catch you."

When I was 10 years old, Jerry was involved in a car accident on his way home from tutoring a student athlete who had broken his leg. He was going home to change his clothes and come get Daddy and me to take us with him to the junior high basketball game. The accident was bad ... Jerry was thrown from the car, and he died later that evening in surgery. I remember that night, too ... I remember that night. Jerry would have been 70 years old last December ... but the picture of him in my mind is of that day at the pool. I jumped, and he was laughing as he caught me ... laughing and smiling as he caught me in his arms.

There are times now when the same feeling of fear that I felt on the diving board that day washes over me. My legs tremble, and my palms sweat. I try so hard to figure out how to get back down the ladder to the safe ground below me ... to not have to jump, to not have to trust, to not have to swim. And yet, when I look ... when I gaze into the water ... God is waiting for me, calling out to me ... "Terrie, jump! I'm right here, and I'll catch you ... jump, Terrie, jump!"

Crazy Old Lady

My sweet old mama never let anyone see that she had gray hair. For as long as I can remember, she would buy a box of Lady Clairol at Walmart and "color" her hair. Then she would go to the "beauty shop" to get her hair "done." And for times that she couldn't make it to the beauty shop, she would "twig up" her hair herself. I can't help but smile when I think about Mom and her hair ... she definitely had a thing about her hair. I, on the other hand, at least when it comes to the color of my hair, could care less that my hair is gray ... well, uh, actually it's more white than gray now, and I honestly don't care. Sometimes, however, people think I'm much older than I am due in part to the color of my hair.

I haven't felt well for the last couple of days, mainly because of the new medication for my aching shoulder. Last night after dinner, I decided to take Oliver for a slow meandering walk thinking perhaps it would help to soothe my upset stomach if I was outside walking. I know ... crazy thinking, but that's what I was thinking nonetheless. It was a beautiful evening, cool enough for jeans and a sweatshirt for me and a doggie sweater for Ollie ... one of the sweaters J.R. used to wear when he and I walked together in the cool night air. I was deep in thought as we sauntered along, and Ollie was more than happy that I was content to let him stop and smell as often as he wanted. There were a lot of people on the trail, perhaps because it was such a beautiful night.

We were on our way home ... for those of you who know the path where I walk ... we had just crossed the first bridge before the school and were about to head up the hill. That's when Oliver spotted a squirrel at the foot of a tree to the left of the trail and instantly bolted toward it. I walk him on a retractable leash that extends 20 feet, and last night's mood dictated that I just let him run as far as the leash would go. He was so close to the squirrel when he reached the end of the leash ... just a few feet from the creature he wanted so badly. As the leash abruptly stopped him, he turned and looked at me and whimpered. I don't exactly know what came over me, but I shouted, "Come on, Oliver, let's get him!" and took off running toward Ollie and the tree.

Needless to say, Ollie needed no encouragement from me to try to reach the object of his desire, and also needless to say, the squirrel scampered up the tree long before Ollie and I got near him. As Ollie placed his little front paws on the trunk of the tree, I started talking for Ollie and said, "Oh, if I was just a little taller, I could get that squirrel, Mom ... if I was just a little taller, I could get him." We circled the tree four or five times, and then again, something came over me and I started running through the field with Ollie, shouting at him to come on and run with me. We ran back and forth, up and down the hill, his tail wagging as hard as it could wag ... pure doggie happiness filling his little doggie body and legs as we ran. Because I was so focused on Oliver and how much fun he was having, I had failed to notice that we had an audience ... several people had stopped along the trail and were watching us as we played together in the field. It wasn't until I flopped down in the grass with Ollie and he jumped on my chest and began to lick my face that a couple of folks from the group of spectators made their presence known to me.

A young couple walked over to us, and the young man leaned over and said, "Maam, maam ... are you OK?" Looking up, I said, "What?" And the young woman said as she pointed toward the trail, "We were afraid that you fainted or were hurt or something when you fell down in the grass. Are you OK?" Sitting up and turning my head toward the trail, I saw a good-size group of people pensively watching Oliver and me. I waved and stood up and assured the young couple that I was fine and began to walk toward the trail, feeling pretty sheepish that I had managed to make a fool of myself in front of a bunch of strangers. As we passed the folks who had been watching us, I said, "We're fine ... really ... when you get to be old like me, you can run in a field and talk to your dog ... that's what crazy old women do."

And the lesson I learned? My "here's the thing" for this story? Sometimes when life is hard, when you don't feel well, when it's cold outside ... sometimes you just need to run in a field and talk to your dog. That's what crazy old women do. 

Love Calling

"In the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love," was penned by Alfred Lord Tennyson in the mid-1800s as part of the poem "Locksley Hall." It has always fascinated me how certain pieces of written text seem to take on a life of their own and are remembered and quoted from generation to generation. Each year when spring rolls around, I, along with many others, I'm sure, think of this quote from Tennyson's writing. And each time I think of Tennyson's quote, I always have another thought that crosses my mind ... our fancies should turn to thoughts of love all year long, not just in the spring.

Yesterday while I was out running errands on my lunch hour, my phone rang which, quite honestly, it doesn't do much anymore. And when it does ring, I always know that it's one of my kids, my doctor's office or one of the two other people who sometimes call me. I didn't recognize the number that appeared on the screen, so I answered the call thinking it might be the pharmacy concerning a refill on some medication. Instead, I heard the voice of a fellow Christian speaker whom I haven't seen in six months say, "Terrie, hello to you, sister! How are you, girl? I've missed you!" I hoped that my voice didn't convey my thought of "Oh, why did I answer the phone?" as I tried to politely say, "Well, hello to you, too." Nothing at all against the gal in any way; in fact, she's an incredible person and God is using her in a mighty and powerful way. I simply don't have a lot of oomph in me right now to play happy on the phone.

I can't even begin to share with you my complete surprise at her words that followed ... "Friend, I'm calling to tell you that the Lord woke me from sleep last night and impressed upon me to fall on my knees in prayer for you. He spoke to me in my spirit and said, 'Your sister Terrie needs your intercession ... she's under attack and you need to lift her up.' I spent three hours on my knees for you, girl ... now tell me about this fight you're in." I had to pull over to the side of the road because I couldn't see for the tears that blurred my vision. I choked out some excuse about needing to get back to work, thinking that would end the conversation. But this dear lady proceeded to make me promise ... yes, that dreaded word ... she made me promise that I would call her after I got home from work.

Deciding I would call when I went for my evening walk (because she made me say "I promise I will call tonight"), her words kept coming back to me throughout the afternoon and during my drive home from work. Under attack ... this fight you're in ... what was that supposed to mean? I'm just trying to make it from one day to the next right now ... there's no attack, and there's certainly no fight left in me. Dialing her number as Oliver and I marched along the trail, I found myself hoping that she wouldn't answer and I could just leave a message. But as He often does, God had a different plan for me last night.

I walked along the trail weeping as my sweet sister in the Lord spoke, in her words, "words of truth" to me on the phone. Words that pierced my wounded soul ... words that burned my hurting heart ... words that pounded my troubled spirit. Walking with my head down staring at the ground before me as I so often do now, she said (as though she could see me through the phone), "Satan wants your head down, girl ... raise it up, sister, raise it up and understand that God has your face cupped in His mighty hands and He wants you to look up at Him." I sobbed as she said, "You have to hold on, Terrie, just hold on one more day, one more hour, one more minute. Don't give up, sister, don't, don't, don't you give up." My tears fell like rain as she said, "Look forward ... don't look back. God is making you a new person during this season. Old things are passed away and new things are coming, girl ... hold on to the God of the universe ... He's working on you."

She ended the call by praying for me on the phone ... that's only happened to me a few times in my life, but each time has always been moving for some reason. And all day today, I've thought about her words ... the words that I am certain God gave her because He wanted me to hear them. I've thought about the way He orchestrated that conversation ... a call that I took because I didn't recognize the number, from a person I haven't talked to in months, and who, quite honestly, doesn't know me very well at all. I've thought a lot today about prayer ... prayers that awaken those in the night who seek His face, prayers that are filled with authority and power, prayers of intercession and compassion for other believers in need.

I've scratched my head in wonder a lot since that phone call last night ... in wonder that the very same God Who rules the universe, Who is the Alpha and the Omega of all things, Who sacrificed His only Son for my sins ... that very same God put a gal on her knees in Kansas City Monday night and had her make a call on Tuesday ... because He loves a hurting, wounded, gray-haired girl that much. Because He loves me that much ... that was love calling, friends ... love calling indeed.

Hello, My Name Is ...

There have been a couple of times in my life when I've had people who held me accountable on certain things that I was struggling to overcome. There have been a few times in my life when I've served as the one holding someone else accountable on issues in their lives. And I'll tell you a secret ... it's much easier to hold another person accountable for their actions or thoughts or words or walk with the Lord than to be held accountable myself for those same things. I don't like having to open up the shadowy parts of my heart or soul to anyone, and I certainly don't enjoy having another person call me out on my failures or ... dare I say it ... my sins.

I'm sure that many of you are familiar with the way people introduce themselves in Alcoholics Anonymous or any of the many 12-step type groups. Each person says, "Hello, my name is Sam (or Mary or John or Sue or whomever they may be), and I'm an alcoholic (or a drug addict or a compulsive gambler or a nicotine addict or whatever other stronghold they are trying to overcome). If you've ever been present in one of those types of meetings, it's pretty powerful to hear so many people from so many different walks of life openly and willingly admit their struggles in such a public forum. It's humbling ... it's inspiring ... it's real ... gut-wrenchingly real and raw, in fact.

I think in some ways, those of us who blog about the true issues of our lives are sort of using this forum as our own way of standing up and saying, "Hello, my name is Terrie, and I'm a ... " A dear friend of mine who writes an amazing blog of her own said something to me in an email last night that really struck me. "That element of despair just takes us to the very edge and makes for some good writing." I don't know about my own writing, but I know that her writing from the depths of her pain is real and raw and revealing ... and it's healing to many of us who read along with her as she shares her journey as she tries to find her way out of her own desert.

As I left my doctor's office last night with another bag full of sample medications for my wounded shoulder in hopes of nursing it along until after Meghann's wedding, I had one overriding thought as I climbed into my car. "Hello, my name is Terrie, and I'm a druggie." No, I'm not a drug addict (and I never have been, I might add), and most of my medications are to treat depression or diabetes. But still ... I left the doctor's office once again with another bag of drugs, and it made me feel weak and like a failure. Funny ... the way I so often feel is the same way many people feel who attend those groups where they rise and say, "Hello, my name is ... "

Maybe that's part of what God is teaching me during this season of my life ... to be real and raw with Him ... to admit my struggles ... to acknowledge my need ... to stand before Him and say, "Hello, God, my name is Terrie, and I'm nothing without You." 

Square Peg

When my children were small, each one of them loved to play with the shape ball. I'm sure many of you (especially those who are moms) know what I'm talking about. It was this tough plastic ball with all kinds of shaped holes cut into it and corresponding shaped plastic pieces to fit each hole. It had these little handles on each end that you would pull to open the ball to get the shapes out so that you could do it all over again. Of the three of my children, Brad was the master of the shape ball ... interestingly, he was also the kiddo who could work a 1,000-piece jigsaw puzzle by the time he was five years old.

One thing that fascinated me with all three of my kiddos was how many times they would try to force one of the plastic shapes into the wrong opening on the shape ball. No matter how often I would say, "That's the wrong fit," they would push and push with their little hands trying to make the shape go where they wanted it to go. Sometimes, they would get so frustrated and angry that they would throw the ball or just give up and walk away. But sometimes, they would listen to my instruction and place the shape where it belonged.

I've always been a "fitter" ... able to make friends easily, chat with anyone, feel at ease in just about any situation. My children used to give me a hard time about my fitting ability, asking me to please not be so friendly in line at Walmart or assuring me that the server in the restaurant didn't want to hear any of my stories. Over the last few months, however, my fit has changed ... my shape doesn't fit into any of the holes on the shape ball anymore. And the more I try to figure out a way to get back inside the ball with all the other shapes, the more I feel that perhaps I never will fit again.

There's something to be said for not fitting, though, for being on the outside looking in at where you used to reside. It's truly a time of reflection, a time of soul-searching, a time of learning ... a time to think about others who didn't fit ... like the woman at the well, men like Saul and Zaccheus, or the woman caught in adultery. And here's the thing, at least one of the things that God is teaching me while I'm walking in the desert. All of those "non-fitters" were in their own deserts in a way, but they were accepted and loved and saved by Jesus. And it seems to me that He didn't ask them to fit ... He just asked them to follow Him.

Help me to remember, Lord, to always remember ... when I don't fit ... when I don't belong ... help me to always remember ... I fit in Your hand, Lord, and I belong to You.

In a Moment

When my son Matt was in undergraduate school at Manhattan Christian College, he served for a couple of years as a youth minister at a small, very traditional church on the outskirts of town. He was the first minister the church had who was dedicated to establishing and growing a ministry for junior and senior high students. While that was his main responsibility, from time to time Matt was called upon to preach on Sunday morning, and Brad, Meghann and I would make the two-hour drive to hear him speak. I don't remember many of his sermons, but I do remember one ... I remember one that I will never forget, one that has been on my mind for a couple of weeks.

The title of Matt's sermon was "Make a Difference," and quite honestly, I expected it to be sort of a renegade "let's change things in this church" type of sermon. But as Matt began to speak, I realized that the direction his sermon was taking was very different than what I had thought it would be. He began by listing three events where just a moment, a blink of an eye, had changed the lives of the people involved forever. He talked about the tsunami that struck Thailand in 2004, and he spoke about the assassination of President Kennedy. But when he began to talk about a phone call from his brother Brad on the night of June 15, 2005, tears poured down my cheeks as I recalled that night ... the evening my mom passed away sitting in her favorite chair. As tears filled his own eyes, Matt looked at me from the pulpit and said, "Mom, you have to stop or I'll never get through this sermon." I nodded my head and fought with every ounce of strength I had to hold back the emotion that continued to flood my heart. Matt pulled himself together and finished his sermon ... and just as I will never forget the night Mom died, I will never forget the tribute my eldest son paid to her that morning in his sermon.

The premise of Matt's sermon that day is what has kept coming back to me recently, however ... the premise that a moment can change everything. As I sat alone at the back of the church this morning with tears streaming down my face, I acknowledged in my soul that this Easter morning was drastically different than those in years past for me. So many things are different now ... so very different than they have ever been before. What a difference a year ... a month ... a day ... a moment can make. What a difference indeed.

As my mind wandered back over events and circumstances of the last year, I began to think about the moment when my time here on earth will be complete and I will step into eternity. I began to think of the first Easter morning and how the sacrifice of Jesus was brought to fruition on that day. The moment when Jesus burst forth from the tomb and broke the chains of sin and death forever ... what a difference that moment has made for all mankind.

Thank You, Lord ... thank You.

Inside the Tomb

When I was a kid, there was one thing that my dad always insisted upon on Easter morning, and it had nothing at all to do with eggs or candy or bunny rabbits. He would come into my room and rouse me from sleep, tell me to get dressed and we would then head to a community-wide sunrise service. I know that many of you are thinking ... what's the big deal about a sunrise service ... lots of folks go to sunrise services on Easter morning. It's not that we always went to the sunrise service that made it unusual or special ... it was where the service was held that made it a memory that has stayed with me for all these years. The sunrise service was held in a cemetery, on the part of the grounds that was named The Garden of Gethsemane. People from all across the city would gather and listen to a pastor deliver a short message, and then the sounds of hundreds of voices united in singing How Great Thou Art would fill the rolling hills of the cemetery.

Each time I travel back to Tennessee, I always go to visit the graves of my mom, dad and brother. And each time I turn into the drive of the cemetery, I look to my left and see The Garden of Gethsemane and think of those many Easter mornings when I stood holding Mom and Dad's hands at the sunrise service. And as I stand at my family's graves, I remember the words of my dad ... "Someday, there will be an Easter like no other. Someday, all these graves are gonna open up ... someday ... and what a glorious day that will be."

I didn't appreciate Daddy's words back then the way I do now ... now I think a lot about heaven, about the Rapture of the church, about eternity. I think about those graves opening up ... I think about the triumphant return of Jesus. I think about the time when every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. I think about an Easter like no other. And I wonder ... I wonder what it was like for my Lord inside the tomb before He rose on the third day. And I wonder what happens when we die and are in our own graves. And I wonder when the Easter like no other will come.

After my mom passed away, I traveled back home a few months later and one of the things I did on that trip was to purchase a burial plot close to my mom, dad and brother's final resting places. It's down the hill just a bit from them, under a large oak tree ... a good place, I think, to wait should I leave this life before the Lord returns.

Tomorrow is Easter Sunday, the day the world celebrates the resurrection of God's only Son, Jesus. I don't know about you, but I sure am glad that He didn't stay inside the tomb. Eternally glad.

Ink Me Up

This seems to be the week of throwing open the doors to my closets and inviting all you folks who read this blog to come right on in and see what's inside. So consider yourselves warned right up front on this post ... I'm going to reveal something else about myself that many of you don't know. While this revelation isn't as intense as my depression confession ... oh, the poet inside of me likes the way those words sound together ... it will, however, come as a shock to some of you.

When my son Matthew turned 16, he wanted one thing for his birthday and only one thing ... he wanted me to get a tattoo with him. Now let me say that never in my life had I wanted a tattoo, never ever even considered getting one even during my rough and rowdy high school and college days. So it was easy for me to tell Matt no for several months. I even offered to buy him almost anything he wanted for his birthday, but nothing else would do. He wanted nothing but to get a tattoo with his gray-haired mom. When a dear friend asked me if I realized how awesome it was that I had a son who wanted us to have tattoos, matching tattoos, marks on our bodies that would forever be a reminder of the strong relationship we share ... that's when I agreed to get inked with my son. And it's a day I will always remember, probably more so than Matt since he fainted at the first touch of the needle.

Needless to say when my middle kiddo Brad and my youngest Meghann began to approach their 16th birthdays, they started clamoring to have tattoos with me as well. So ... I have three tattoos ... each one matches the corresponding kiddo's tattoo who chose the design. I have an ichthus on my right ankle for Matt, a dove on my left ankle for Meghann, and the head of Jesus with the crown of thorns with a cross for the background on my left arm for Brad.

For years I've said that when all the kids were grown and out on their own, I would get a tattoo on my right arm ... one that I chose, one that had significant meaning to me. I kept putting it off because I wasn't sure what I wanted the design to be, and I knew that I would know when the time was right and what the right design was. And then I was diagnosed with diabetes and the doctors said no tattoo because of the difficulties that I have with healing. But last week, my doctor said that I could go get inked, and I've known since December what the design will be. So I'm thinking that after Meg's wedding, I'll be paying a visit to my favorite tattoo man.

Today is Good Friday, and all day I've been thinking about Jesus, the cross He carried, the wounds He suffered, the price He paid for my sin. All day I've been thinking about the marks left on His body from the nails that pierced His wrists and His feet. All day I've been thinking about what it means to live for Him, to follow His calling, to give Him my all, to be willing to die for Him.

On this day, Father, this day when the world remembers the death of Your beloved Son, my strongest wish, my all-consuming desire is that I bear on my body the marks of Jesus. I pray that my heart is forever tattooed with not only His name but with His love, His grace, His compassion and His mercy as well. Ink me up, God, ink me up.

All Dressed Up

My son Matt and daughter-in-law Becca own two wiener dogs, Andy and Chloe. Before they decided to keep Chloe when she came to them from the organization that they foster dachshunds through, Andy was an only dog. And he was the epitome of an only "child" to Matt and Becca. They doted over him and taught him all kinds of tricks (my personal favorite being when they ask Andy how girl dogs pee and he squats ... cutest thing ever, trust me) and even called him "King Wiener." Sometimes Matt comes up with these weird little sayings ... remember a former blog when I talked about his penchant for nicknaming everything and everyone? Well, not too long after Andy (Anderson Cooper Johnson if you want to be formal) joined their little family, Matt would take Andy's long doxie ears and turn them ... well, kind of inside out and lay them flat against his head. And then he would say, "All dressed up!" in this little singsong voice. "Look, Grandma Terrie ... Andy's all dressed up!" I know ... it's weird, but cute at the same time.

Not long after Ollie the wiener dog joined Julie and me, I began to notice that he flaps his ears back all by himself from time to time. And each time he does, I hear myself say, "All dressed up! Look, Julie ... Ollie's all dressed up!" I know ... even more weird that I picked up Matt's odd little saying and am now saying it out loud in my house with no one else around to hear it but me and my dogs.

I've been thinking a great deal about being all dressed up lately because my daughter Meg is getting married at the end of May. She and I went dress shopping a while back, and she chose a dress for me to wear to the wedding ... a short little black number with a wrap thingy for my shoulders. The fact that I just used the words "wrap thingy" is probably a good hint that I'm not much of an all dressed up kind of gal. My idea of the absolute best outfit in the world involves a thermal undershirt, flannel shirt, overalls and hiking boots ... short little black dresses with wrap thingys, not so much. But ... I love my daughter, and because I do, come May 28, I will be all dressed up for her. On that day, I'll don the beautiful black dress for Meghann and Barrett's wedding ... I'll have on pretty jewelry and make-up, and hopefully, it will be a good hair day. But everyone who truly knows the real me will know that the minute I get home after the reception, I'll be in shorts and a T-shirt faster than lightning.

Now here's the thing ... and those of you who read this blog faithfully know where I'm going ... here's the gigantic lesson God has for me in thinking about the whole all dressed up premise. I can't help but draw the comparison between what I wear on the outside and what I wear on the inside. How many times do I try to get all dressed up in my heart or my soul so that I look good to others? How many times do I try to cover up my scars or blemishes or wrinkles so that I appear to be flawless? How many times do I throw on some bling so that no one can see the tarnished metal that lies beneath the surface? How many times indeed?

You know, Lord, when I'm real and when I'm just all dressed up. You know my heart, Father ... when no one else does, you know my heart. I long to be clothed by Your hand, Lord, to be dressed in Your righteousness, to wear Your love, Your forgiveness and Your grace.

The Fugitive

Some of you youngsters will not believe me and thus will do a Google search to determine if I am telling the truth concerning what I am about to reveal to you. I must say that it does make me grin a little on the inside when I pull out a piece of "ancient" history that causes my younger readers to shoot me a message saying, "I didn't believe you until I Googled it." Believe it or not, young ones, there once was a television series called "The Fugitive" that starred David Janssen as Dr. Richard Kimble long before the movie starring Harrison Ford as the wrongly accused doctor and Tommy Lee Jones as the FBI agent who relentlessly pursues him (two of my all-time favorite actors, I might add). I grew up watching reruns of the TV series with my white-haired Granny Waddle, and each time the famous movie is on the tube, I watch it even though I've probably seen it a hundred times.

I always tear up at the end of the movie when Tommy Lee Jones tells Harrison Ford that he knows he's innocent, and the scene in the police car when the hardened FBI agent uncuffs Dr. Kimble's hands and places an ice pack on his wounded wrists gets me every time. Each time I watch the movie, I always wonder ... how far would I go to defend my innocence? How long would I search for justice? How tempted would I be to just give up and spend the remainder of my days behind bars? And today, for some reason, the whole fugitive thing has me thinking ... and thinking ... and thinking.

As I often do when I get a word or a concept stuck in my head, I go to the trusty dictionary in search of deeper meaning or perhaps just simple confirmation of what I already believe to be true. While the first definition of the word fugitive was what I expected, "running away or taking flight," some additional meanings surprised me and have served only to cause me to ponder even harder about what it really means to be a fugitive. "Being of short duration; likely to evaporate, deteriorate, change, fade, or disappear; being of transient interest." Hmmmm ... hmmmm ... hmmmm. If I ascribe to the secondary definitions of the word, then I think it's safe to say that all of us are fugitives in this earthly life ... we are of short duration; we evaporate, deteriorate, change, fade and disappear; and most, if not all, of us are creatures of very transient interest.

Having "fessed up" in my last blog about the season of life that I'm currently plodding through, perhaps my senses are heightened in regard to how quickly life as we know it can change. Almost overnight, things that you once took for granted can vanish, and suddenly, you're face to face with the very real meaning of "being of short duration" and of how important it is to treasure those parts of life while you have them. I think I'm beginning to understand that God may want me to grasp and know to the core of my being that I truly am a fugitive here on earth.

Father God, I pray that You will teach me to use my short duration in this life to serve You, to love You, to praise You ... that while I'm a fugitive, I'm running toward You and You alone.

Closet Dwellers

A couple of weeks ago, we had a teaser of spring weather here in Kansas City ... some warm, sunny gorgeous days. In one of my brilliant moments, I decided that I should dig out all of my summer clothing and see if anything still fit from last year. Once I started trying on clothes, it naturally followed that I should go ahead and clean out my closet. I spent the better part of a Saturday afternoon and evening bagging up clothes that are too large for me, and moving my winter clothing from my bedroom closet to the office closet. In throwing open the doors to my closets and cleaning them out, I found things I'd been looking for, things I didn't know I had, things that needed a good cleaning and things that should be discarded.

The whole concept of closets and the things we keep in them is something that's been on my mind for a while, and after the emails and messages I received concerning yesterday's post ... well, now it's pounding in my head rather than strolling through. And I'm going to warn you up front, this post is gut-wrenching for me to write on more levels than I can ever explain. But I read a post yesterday ... a very brave post ... from a fellow blogger. A post that inspired me, challenged me, understood me ... a post from someone who is living the same life I am living. Someone who is in the desert, too. Someone who knows, really and truly knows, what it's like to be a closet dweller.

I've termed the place I now reside as a desert. Others have called it the wilderness. The doctors have labeled it diabetes-induced depression. I've never been where I find myself; I'm 51 years old, and I've never pitched my tent in a spot such as this. I've always been a generally happy and positive gal, no matter what was occurring in my life. And even more than the general sense of optimism I've always possessed, I've always been strong ... I've always had this overall inner strength ... again, no matter what was happening in my life, I've always been able to dig deeply within and pull myself up or out or through. And most of all, since I accepted Christ over 11 years ago, He has been my strength and hope and peace.

In the blog I read yesterday, the author spoke of the feelings of weakness that washed over her, of how her mind screamed at her that she was a failure, of how she was powerless against the beast of depression that had invaded her life, of how family and friends could not understand the nature or cause of her overwhelming sadness. Again ... as I read her words, it was as if she was inside my head, living my life, feeling my pain. I've read a ton about depression over the last few months ... about the connection between depression and diabetes, about how lonely depression often is, about depression treatments and outcomes and research, and I've absorbed a tremendous amount of information. But her words ... her words meant more to me than any others I have read. Her words were brave and courageous and strong. Her words brought her years of closet dwelling out into the light of day and asked those of us who have been hiding at the back of our own closets to step out with her, to stop cowering or denying or running ... to step out and speak up.

I've written in the past about how hard it is for me to admit that I'm weak or to ask for help. I've talked about how I'm the one others lean on and that I'm not a good leaner. I've spoken about faith and strength and overcoming to groups of women across the country. I'm not supposed to be depressed. I'm not supposed to be weak. I'm not supposed to be lonely. I'm not supposed to look in the mirror each morning and beg for this to be the day that I find my happy again. I'm not supposed to war all day against the tears that so often overtake me. I'm not supposed to fear that there's something wrong with my faith. I'm not supposed to be here in this place, and yet, here I am.

So, there it is, and I suppose that some of you will judge me, and some of you will no longer read this blog because of my admission. Some of you, however, are living in your own closets ... maybe not the same closet as mine, but closets nonetheless ... closets of illness, of guilt, of fear, of sin, of judgment, of despair, of hurt, of so many things. Maybe it's time we all come out of those closets ... maybe it's time we all stop pretending ... maybe it's time we all be the open, honest, real and transparent sons and daughters that the God we claim to serve desires us to be.

One thing I've learned out here in the desert is that God wants me humble, He wants me on my knees, He wants me helping others, He wants me ...all of me ... imperfect and weak and frightened as I am ... He wants me, and He always, always will.

Judgment Call

Ever have a week that you could have just done without? You know ... a week when you find yourself dreading the week that's ahead because you're afraid it may be a repeat of the lousy week you just experienced. A week when you just can't seem to do anything right no matter how hard you try. A week when it seems like your dogs are the only creatures on earth who love you unconditionally. Sure you have ... we all have those weeks from time to time but hopefully, they are the exception rather than the rule.

Last week was that week for me times about a thousand. I won't even begin to share details; in fact, there's only one part of the week that I can't seem to get out of my head. The rest of the week I'm trying to simply forget. But the part that I can't stick on a shelf or throw out with the trash ... that part bears some contemplation and some commentary and perhaps even a bit of controversial discussion from you, my loyal readers.

Four differing situations last week warranted ... at least in the various people's minds who were involved ... me being reprimanded, chewed out, griped at, given a stern talking to, or whatever other tasty terminology one would ascribe to such events. Again, not sharing details and also willingly admitting that one of those chewings I rightfully deserved, one of the confrontations has weighed heavily on my heart for several days now. As is so often the case when faced with things in life that make me uncomfortable, I believe the reason this particular conversation keeps hanging on in my mind is because God has a lesson to teach me, a time of growth to bestow upon me, a change He wishes to bring about in the way I think and respond to others.

Each evening when I walk, I listen to music on my iPod ... mainly Christian music (with a little John Denver thrown in, of course) from a wide range of artists, some new and contemporary and some really old school. As I was walking last week, someone texted me and said they passed me on the trail as they drove by, but that I didn't hear their horn honking because I had my earphones in. She asked who I was listening to, and I answered with the artist's name. I then received a scathing text in return insisting that I shouldn't be supporting that certain artist, questioning the validity of my faith because I listened to her music, and suggesting that I'd better be getting my heart right with the Lord. Tears filled my eyes as I entered my response ... "Sorry you feel that way. Have a good evening."

Her beef with the artist? Last year, she declared that she was gay and had been in a relationship with another woman for several years. And let me say that I'm not going to get involved in any way, shape, form or fashion in any discussion about the wrong or right of homosexuality ... that's not what this post is about. The truth is that this gal is a great singer, and the lyrics to her songs, especially those penned in her earlier years, bring me right into the presence of my God ... I worship, truly worship, when I sing along to her music. And to be honest, my worship time on the trail is MY worship time on the trail ... no one else's to judge or critique or condemn ... my worship time is between me and God, and no one else.

Yes, I'm still stinging from the person's words, but I will give her credit for a couple of things ... her words have made me think deeply about my faith over the last few days and caused me to revisit God's Word to see how Jesus treated others. The truth? Jesus spent most of His time with people whom the religious leaders condemned ... a tax collector, a prostitute, a thief, a liar, a woman caught in adultery. In fact, he called the guys who thought they were so religious "whitewashed tombs" ... they looked great on the outside while their insides reeked of death.

Those of you who read this blog are aware that I've been walking through the desert for the last few months ... a lonely, dry desert. There is so much truth to the statement that it's in the tough times that you find out who your true friends are ... that's when you discover who will stay by your side through thick and thin, and who will leave you sick, alone and hurting by the side of the road. And as much as it pains me to say so, some of the people who have stayed by me are the very ones that my Christian friends would condemn. The last few days have made me realize something as I never have before ... more than anything, I want to love as Jesus loves, to accept as He accepts, to comfort as He comforts, to help as He helps ... without apology, without regret, without pretense.

I know this is a long post, and I apologize for the scope of my dissertation. It seems to me, however, that sometimes you've just gotta say what God lays on your heart to say and let the chips fall where they may. One thing about being by yourself in the desert is that you don't worry or care so much about chips anymore ... you focus more on what's really important ... like water ... living, holy, life-saving water. Even though it's already quite lengthy, I'm going to close this post with some lyrics to a song ... a song that often causes me to go to my knees.

"From glass alabaster, she poured out the depths of her soul. Oh, foot of Christ, would you wait if her harlotry's known? Falls a tear to darken the earth, of humblest offerings to forgive the hurt. She is strong enough to stand in Your love, I can hear her say, 'I am weak; I am poor; I am broken, Lord, but I'm Yours. Hold me now, hold me now. Let he without sin cast the first stone if you will. To say that My bride isn't worth half the blood that I've spilled ... She is strong enough to stand in Your love, I can hear her say, 'I am weak; I am poor; I am broken, Lord, but I'm Yours. Hold me now, hold me now.'"

Calcutta Calling

In my younger years, I often dreamed of traveling to faraway lands, of becoming a famous newspaper columnist, of marrying a prince and living in a castle in Scotland. As it turns out, the farthest place I've traveled to was Mexico ... this blog is the closest I will come to writing a column, and I don't get paid for it and am certainly not famous ... I've been divorced for 17 years, and I live in a small house in Kansas. But ... but ... but ... I wouldn't trade the life I've had for all the dreams in the world, if for no other reason than my three wonderful kiddos.

This evening on my walk, I was deep in thought when I heard someone asking if she could pet Oliver. I looked up to see two nuns smiling at me and reaching their hands toward Ollie. I smiled in return and told them Ollie was a very friendly little guy, and he wagged his tail furiously as they petted him. Then one of them pulled a camera from the pocket of her robe and asked if she could take a photo. Though I thought the request was a bit odd, I agreed and offered to take a picture of the two of them with my little hound. Instead, they wanted me in the picture, too, and they traded places with each other standing next to me while I held Oliver.

We stood and talked for a while, and the sweet smiling nuns told me they were from Calcutta, India, and are here working in a hospital to learn medical skills to take home with them to help others in their country. They spoke about Mother Teresa and the work that she did for the people that society rejected ... the lepers, the babies with AIDS, the mentally handicapped, the homeless. They shared their own vision for ministering to the children of Calcutta ... children who live in despicable poverty, children who suffer from unimaginable diseases, children who have never known what real love is.

As we parted, both Sister Widgi and Sister Lucia hugged me and thanked me for talking with them and letting them spend time with Ollie. Walking toward home, I fell deep into thought once again, but instead of thinking about all that I needed to accomplish over the weekend, whether or not I would need surgery on my shoulder, my daughter's upcoming wedding, or the work week ahead ... instead I thought of the children of Calcutta, of my friends Thane and Charlotte who recently moved to Africa as full-time missionaries, of Sister Widgi and Sister Lucia.

I've thought often over the last year and a half that I've been walking the trail about the people that God has allowed me to meet along the way. And I'm sure ... beyond sure, in fact ... that not one of those meetings has been by chance or accident, but instead divine appointments by a Father who not only loves me, but One who knows all my dreams from the past, One who holds all my dreams of today, and One who plans all my dreams for the future.





 

Vegas, Baby

I'm not sure why, or if I'm the only mom who does, but when my kids are embarking on some grand adventure in their lives, I head down memory lane and think of them when they were little. Like when Meghann began her job as a para professional in the school district, I thought of the countless times she lined up all of her dolls and taught them in "school." Or like when Matt first went to China as a presenter with a group of professors, I thought of how he used to love to dress up in a suit and tie and pretend he was a businessman. Or like today when Bradley landed in Las Vegas and texted me that he was safe, I thought of his first plane ride when he was three years old ... pacie in his mouth, blankie in his hand and little fireman backpack on his shoulders. And yep, the tears are flowing as I'm typing.

Tomorrow morning, my little pacie, blankie, backpack baby boy will strap a camera on his helmet and bungee jump at the Grand Canyon. Am I nervous for him? Of course I am. Am I excited for this awesome opportunity for him? Of course I am. Will I feel better when I know his big boy feet are back in Lawrence, Kansas, safe and sound? Of course I will. Bradley is a senior in film school, and I have a feeling that this adventurous shoot is only the first of many to come for my son. This particular one is for a commercial for a crime scene investigation company, a stepping stone on his way to becoming the next Spielberg.

As I sit here tonight, I'm struck with the places my children are in their lives ... Matt is just an internship away from receiving his Ph.D; Brad is ... well, you know what Brad is doing; and in less than six weeks, Meghann will get married and become a pastor's wife. I am also struck with how quickly the years have flown by ... how it seems like only yesterday that I was dressing the three of them in color-coordinated sailor outfits (which they still hold a grudge about, I might add). And even though they are each accomplished young adults in their own right, no matter how old they are or where they may go in life, they will forever be my kiddos and I will forever be their mom. And in some ways, they will always be little boys and a little girl to me, always.

I can't help but wonder tonight if God sometimes sees me the same way I see my own children ... all grown up and yet still such a child to Him. And I'm thankful ... so very thankful ... that I will always be His daughter, and He will forever be my Father.

So be safe tomorrow, my all grown-up little Bradley ... and know that I love you and always will.

Wounded Wing

Early last Sunday morning, just about the time the sun was coming up, I took Ollie the wiener dog for a walk. As we rounded a curve on the trail, two ladies cautioned me that there were two circling hawks just ahead and they were afraid they might try to swoop down and grab Ollie. I tugged on his leash and kept him close to my side and kept my eyes on the sky as I quickened my pace. I saw one hawk circling a tree and watched him dive into the tree and emerge with a squirrel in his talons. He then flew down to the ground where the other hawk sat on the grass, and together they killed the squirrel and began to consume their prey.

Ollie and I continued our walk, and as we came upon the field again on our way home, the hawks were still there. I figured they were focused enough on their meal that Ollie and I could stand for a moment and watch the massive birds (from a safe distance, of course). I found myself quite fascinated by the hawks' wings ... they would periodically unfurl and flap them as they ate, and their wing span was quite large, even from as far away as we were standing. At first, I thought perhaps they were injured, but as Ollie and I began to walk on, the hawks took flight and I saw that their wings worked just as they should.

I've had an achy shoulder for a while ... OK, a long while ... and I finally caved in and told my doctor about it today. After she chewed me out for waiting so long to mention the pain, she sent me to the x-ray room ... I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that I think I've finally learned my lesson on ignoring physical issues. Well, maybe. I am a stubborn old gal, you know. My boss, Donna, was in town on Monday, and she insisted that I schedule an appointment and get my shoulder checked out. She told me that I had "wounded wing syndrome" ... that I was holding my arm in such a way as to minimize the pain in my shoulder.

All day today, the vision of the hawks' unfurled wings, the chastising words of my doctor about admitting my pain and Donna's comment about having a wounded wing have been rolling around in my head. I've decided that if I choose to see them, God always has lessons to teach me in every situation or event in life. My wing is wounded ... my shoulder and arm, yes, but the wing of my heart is wounded as well. Just as I needed to ask for help from my doctor to heal my wounded arm, I need to ask for help from my Maker to heal my wounded heart. If I ever want to be able to unfurl my wings again ... to take flight and soar high and free ... I have to trust Him. That's it ... just trust Him ... whether I'm on the ground or in the sky ... just trust Him.  

Kill the Vacuum

The older I've grown, the more I've come to realize that I'm kind of a chicken about certain things. I'm afraid to fly. I'm frightened by stormy  weather. I'm terrified of snakes. OK ... I'm more than kind of a chicken on those three items ... I'm a full-blown shaking, whining, crying mess when it comes to flying, storms and snakes. And ... I sleep with a light on. I drive really slow in the snow. You couldn't pay me enough money to ride a roller coaster. Yep, I'm definitely a chicken about certain things. The funny part of my chicken-itis admission, however, is that I try really hard to act brave when I'm around another person in each of the situations I just described, especially when the other person has no fear at all of the things that frighten me.

My big dog Julie has always been afraid of the vacuum, and I do mean afraid ... she runs to my room and hides her head under the covers when I pull the big bad sweeper out of the closet. She shakes and whimpers and cowers ... she is completely terrified by the green roaring machine. Or at least she used to be. Enter Oliver, the completely fearless wiener dog. He attacks the vacuum with all the gusto his little long body can muster, and I'm certain that in his mind, he thinks it is entirely possible that he can kill the evil vacuum beast if he barks loudly enough or nips hard enough at it while it moves across the floor.

Now here's the interesting thing ... after watching Ollie go after the vacuum for a couple of weeks, Julie became really brave. She ventured out of my room and barked along with Ollie as I vacuumed. It was almost as if she couldn't allow a much smaller dog to demonstrate more courage than she ever has possessed. Last Saturday, though, I decided to see if Julie's bravery was real or if she was simply following Oliver's lead. As she and Oliver stood at the opposite end of the living room and barked, I quickly turned the vacuum and headed toward the two of them. While Ollie charged the vacuum with all his might, Julie tucked her tail and bolted into my room.

As I finished vacuuming and put the machine back in the closet, Julie ventured out of my room with her tail wagging ... the object of her terror safely contained behind the closet door. I couldn't help but think of how much I am like Julie. I try so hard to act brave and show no fear in front of others. I try so hard not to let them see the real me ... the shaking, frightened, cowering me. And here's the thing ... the lesson ... I love Julie even when she's afraid of the vacuum. I always have, and I always will. She doesn't have to pretend with me; she doesn't have to act brave. In fact, I love it when my big old dog needs me to protect her, to comfort her, to show her how strong I am when she is at her weakest.

Just like God and me ... He loves me even when I'm afraid. He always has, and He always will. I don't have to pretend with Him; I don't have to act brave. In fact, He loves it when I need Him to protect me, to comfort me, to show me how strong He is when I am at my weakest.

So, kill the vacuum, little Ollie ... Julie and I will be in my room.

My Bags Are Packed

As I'm sure is true for most of us, I remember a time in my youth when I decided to run away from home. I don't remember the circumstances that surrounded my decision to pack my bags and hit the road, but I do recall thinking the grass had to be greener elsewhere. And as I'm sure is true for many of us as well, I got to the end of my street and decided to go back home. I've often wondered if Mom and Dad ever knew about my halfhearted attempt to bail out on them, but I'd be willing to bet they did. One thing I've learned as a parent is that parents know far more about their children than their children ever realize.

I'd like to say that I've never wanted to run away from home again after that time in my youth, but that would not be true at all. There have been times down through the years when the grass not only seemed greener on the other side, it seemed that the grass on my side of the fence was brown and dying with little to no hope of bringing it back to life. And yet somehow, life always returned, things greened up, and I walked back up the street and unpacked my bags.

Last week, I told my dogs to decide what they wanted to take and what they wanted to leave behind because we were going to run away ... though I'm not sure it really counts as running away if you plan your departure ahead of time. I found it interesting that both Julie and Ollie didn't seem to appreciate what I was asking of them; in fact, they yawned and curled up on my bed and fell fast asleep. As I climbed into the spot they left for me, I thought about that day so long ago when as a kid I packed my duffle bag intending to run from things in my young life that I thought were impossible to overcome.

Laying in the darkness of my room, it struck me ... it's often easier to run away than it is to stay where I am. When life is tough, when things seem impossible to overcome, when it feels as though I've been punched in the gut ... those are the times when I need to hang in there and stay, to hold on and stay, to do what's hard and stay, to unpack my bags and stay.

Just stay.

Hand Holding

A few years ago, I was asked to photograph a "prom" at a retirement center in Manhattan, Kansas. I took posed shots of the couples in front of a backdrop, but I also took a ton of candid shots as they danced, talked, laughed and enjoyed the evening. That was the night that I became fascinated with taking photos of hands ... baby hands, young adult hands, elderly hands. Someday, I may put all of my "hands" photos into a book ... because you see ... hands have incredible stories to tell, stories that more often than not, need no words.

Yesterday, I wheeled an elderly gentleman back to his room at the nursing home after a round of "pretend" bowling in the activity center. As I parked his wheelchair where he asked me to and started to tell him goodbye, he reached for my hand. Holding my hand in his, he patted the top of my hand with his other hand and thanked me for the "ride" home. As I gazed at the man's hands, I couldn't help but think of my dad, and as I walked to my car to leave, tears filled my eyes as I thought about my dad's hands. Rough, rugged, worn hands. Hands that bore the scars of years of hard work and physical labor. Hands that were weathered by time and tested by adversity. Daddy's hands ... what I wouldn't give to be able to snuggle my hand inside of Daddy's just one more time.

Last night, some friends joined me for a walk along with their two little girls. Not long into our walk, the two-year-old reached up and took my hand and giggled when I asked if she was going to hold my hand while we walked. As we strolled along, my mind flew back to my own three children ... holding their little hands on countless walks down through the years. As I held the tiny, soft hand of the little girl, I couldn't help but be struck by the difference in the two hands that had rested in mine that day. One that bore the years of age and the passage of time ... and one that danced with youth and innocence and the beginning of life.
 
I had a pretty sleepless night last night, and each time I woke, I was thinking about hands ... about holding the hands of others, about caring for those who are in need, about the joy that can be imparted through one person touching the life of another. The truth is that each one of us, whether just beginning life or nearing the end, needs to have someone hold our hand every now and then, to let us know that we're not alone on this journey called life, to make us feel loved and cared for and safe. And even truer still is that each one of us needs the touch of the Master's hand ... to let Him cradle us in His mighty palm, to allow Him to hold our lives in the grasp of His never-ending love.

Father, help me to hold Your hand ... to hold Your hand while You hold my heart.

Are We There Yet?

Down through the years, my children and I have made several long road trips as a family. In fact, I was wondering not long ago just how many times we traveled to and from Tennessee and Colorado in the car together, and how many of those excursions included one or more dogs as passengers along with the four of us. The passage of time has seen various automobiles come and go, my children all leave the nest and establish their own homes, old dogs pass away and new dogs join the pack. The memories that were made as we journeyed down the road together, however, will remain etched in my mind as long as I live.

Recalling countless games of "I Spy" or "The License Plate Search" or "I Never" always brings a smile to my face. Meghann pouting if she didn't win, Bradley cheating to ensure that he did win, and Matthew forever and always pretending not to care either way (he had to be, after all, the cooler older brother), arguments over whose turn it was to ride "shotgun" in the front seat, eating at fast-food restaurants and stopping at rest areas, allowing the kids to take their turn at driving on the highway as they each were old enough, hours of conversation that were worth more than gold to me ... all sweet memories to this old gal ... sweet, sweet memories.

For all the words that were uttered during those many hours on the highway, two particular questions that were always posed by one or more of my children have been brought back to my mind in recent weeks. Sometimes it was early on in our drive ... sometimes midway ... lots and lots of times it was as we neared our destination. "Mom, are we there yet?" and more often than not followed by, "How much longer?"

I've done a little bit of volunteering at a local nursing home in recent weeks, and one evening last week, I completed my official volunteer orientation so that I can begin serving on a more regular basis. Each time I leave the nursing home, I feel that I am the one who is most blessed by my time there. And each time I leave, I wonder if I will be as gracious and kind as some of the residents I have met when I reach my elder years. As I drove home from my orientation Tuesday night, I began to think about the questions my children would ask as we traveled ... and I thought about the elderly people I had just seen. And I wondered ... do they ever ask God ... "Am I there yet, God? How much longer?" Tears filled my eyes as I thought of how many times I've asked God those two questions in recent months.

Walking into my house and greeting my dogs, it struck me that I will never "be there yet" until I get to heaven ... until I am made perfect in my eternal home. My "How much longer?" question has but one answer ... the work that God is doing in me, as hard and long and difficult as it may seem to me ... that work will be complete in His time and according to His will. And what He asks of me in the meantime? To wait on Him ... to be patient ... to have faith ... to not give in or give up ... to trust His plan, His timing, His love.

I know that You love me, Father ... and I know that I love You. Help me to be patient as I wait, Lord ... to trust You ... to hold on to You ... to believe that You will get me where You want me to be when You want me to be there.

The Eyes Have It

Recently I was watching Criminal Minds (one of my favorite television programs, by the way) and my favorite character, Penelope Garcia (the gal who does all the incredible computer research that often leads to the identity of the "unsub" the team is searching for) delivered a line that has been stuck in my brain ever since I heard it. She said to Derek Morgan (the guy that she's been not-so-secretly in love with since the show began), "A girl could lose herself in your eyes forever. She could step into the chasm of your love and never leave." Wow. Wow. Wow. So much meaning in those words on so many different levels. Let me say it again. Wow.

I've always been an eye person ... the first thing I notice about someone is their eyes. I notice the color of the person's eyes, of course, but I see so many other things as well. I believe the old saying that the eyes are the window to the soul is quite true, perhaps more true than I ever realized. The window allows me to see the glow of permeating joy, the sadness of overwhelming sorrow, the twinkle of lasting happiness, the ache of physical suffering. The truth is that they speak volumes if I take the time to look ... to really, really look ... into the eyes of those around me. If I slow down and look into another person's eyes, I can get a glimpse into their heart and gaze into the depths of their soul.

Last night as I walked along the trail with Julie, I heard someone calling my name and I looked up to see an old friend I haven't seen for several months. We had only chatted for a couple of minutes when she said, "Your eyes look burdened, my friend, burdened and sad." Tears filled my eyes as I looked down at the ground and nodded my head. When my friend asked if I wanted to talk, I shook my head no, and she said, "Then you just rest for a bit, and I'm going to pray." My tears splashed onto the pavement of the trail as she took my hand and prayed, not for my burden to be lifted but for both of us to look deeply into the eyes of God ... to seek His heart ... to search His will ... to be His vessels to others in need. After a parting hug, I walked home thinking about God's eyes ... looking deeply into His eyes ... seeking His very soul.

Lord, help me to get lost in Your eyes forever ... to walk into the chasm of Your love and never leave. Make my eyes be Yours, Father, to see the world around me as You do ... make my eyes be Yours, Father, so that when others look into them, they see only You through the window to my soul. 

Yo, M and B

Last Sunday, I drove over an hour to go to church. And no, I don't normally drive that far to go to church; in fact, I live five minutes from the church I attend. But last Sunday, I drove over an hour to go to church ... a church in a small town ... a church filled with people who love my daughter ... a church where my future son-in-law is the pastor.

It was a little surreal, to be honest, to see my daughter in her role as the future wife of the minister of the church. My eyes filled with tears as I sat with my arm around her ... to see her so mature and comfortable with the people in the church, while at the same time seeing her as my little girl ... it was more than a bit emotional for me to say the least. As she sang the special music selection, my mind flew back to countless choir concerts ... to her singing at the top of her lungs in her room upstairs ... to her solo at one of my speaking engagements. So many memories ... so many, many memories.

As Barrett began to preach, I remembered the first time I met him at Manhattan Christian College where he was my son Matt's discipleship group leader. I thought of the times he stayed at my house ... of long talks that he and I have had down through the years ... of how quickly I grew to love him like a son. I blinked and blinked and blinked to hold back the tears as he spoke ... and I remembered.

After church, person after person came to introduce themselves to me, including the 80-year-old organist ... a sweet little white-haired gal who reminded me so much of my mom. Barrett and Meghann then gave me a tour of the house where they will soon live as husband and wife, and I climbed into my car to drive home as they headed to the Lions Club for an all-church lunch. To say that I spent my time on the way home deep in thought is by all means an understatement. And I've been thinking about writing this blog since that drive home ... rolling over in my mind what I wanted to say. So here it is, Meg and Barrett ... this is what I want to say.

We've had some ups and downs over the years, as do all families. I've watched the two of you weather tough times together, and I've seen your love for each other grow and deepen. I've seen you laugh together and watched as you ate sushi with more gusto than anyone I know. I love each of you apart from one another, and I love the two of you together as a couple. The one overriding thought I had as I sat in church? Meghann and Barrett fit here ... here with one another, here in this church, here in this town, here with these people.

Meggers ... I love you, kiddo, and I'm proud of the woman you've become, and I know beyond the shadow of any doubt that you'll be an incredible wife to Barrett. And Barrett ... I love you, young man, and I pray that you know that. I'm as sure as sure can be that you will care for, love and respect my daughter as her husband.

Yo, M and B ... the wedding is right around the corner ... soon you will be Mr. and Mrs. I love you both ... and I always, always will.

Leaping Lizards

My daughter Meghann despises bugs of any kind ... big bugs, little bugs, bugs that crawl, bugs that fly, bugs that wiggle, bugs that sit still. She really does not like bugs. In fact, if I had a nickel for every time I've heard her scream when she saw a bug ... yeah, you know the rest of that line. It's odd to me that she hates creepy crawly things as much as she does, because that was certainly not the case in her first years of life. Megs was born in Florida a little less than a year after we moved there from Tennessee. And in Florida, there are lots of bugs. And in Florida, there are lots of tiny little green lizards. Yes, lizards.

One would think that my two sons would be the children who fell in love with lizards ... that boys would be the type to bring lizards into the house, put them in their sippy cups, take them in the car, slide them into a diaper bag, sneak them into mom's purse, shove them into a pocket ... yep, you'd think boys would do those kinds of things. Never would you think a sweet little girl dressed in cute little pink outfits would be the lizard lover in the family. And yet, it was Meghann who was completely enamored with the slithering critters.

Another thing I remember about the countless lizards that Megs toted around with her was the way those tiny green creatures could jump. Many times I would wonder at the distance those guys could cover in a single leap. It was almost as if they had springs or some kind of self-propulsion device built into them somewhere. Which made life quite interesting when Meghann would bring them into the house or the car ... there's nothing quite like driving down the road and having a little green lizard jump into your lap. It didn't matter how many times I said to Meghann, "Leave the lizards alone, honey. Don't touch them, and don't bring them into the house or the car," she still touched them and still brought them into the house and car. The only thing that stopped her? Moving from Florida to Kansas ... there were no little green lizards in Kansas, at least not everywhere like they were in Florida.

I don't know why I've been thinking about Meghann and the lizards, but as I have, it struck me that there's a lesson in those thoughts. The only thing that stopped Meghann from carrying lizards everywhere was to move her away from the lizards. Think about that for a minute ... the only thing that stopped her was to move her away from the lizards. How many times do I continue to do something even after God has told me to stop? How many times do I keep on carrying things that God has told me to drop? How many times does God have to move me away from something to end my disobedience?

God, help me to listen to Your voice ... to drop the lizards I'm carrying and leave them where they fall. Move me away from disobedience, Lord, and closer to You.

By Popular Demand

This blog carries with it a disclaimer: Read at your own risk. Dog material contained herein.

I've received a plethora of requests for some Oliver the new wiener dog stories. And more specifically, many people have asked how Julie and Ollie are getting along. Interestingly, lots of people have asked if I have any walking trail stories with Ollie ... one person even talked about the "Dancing in the Moonlight" blog that I penned in 2009 and quoted the last line ... "Yep, you guessed it ... I scooped that fat little dog into my arms and I danced."

As I sit here typing, Ollie is stretched across my lap sleeping, and Julie is curled up beside me with her head squeezed in as close to Ollie as possible. They play chase and tug of war until they are both panting and exhausted, and then they cuddle next to each other on the floor, the couch or my bed. They are always together ... always. At first, it was Ollie who stuck close to Julie, but now it's Julie who sticks close to him. I've wondered at times if perhaps she wants to make sure that he doesn't leave her like our little J.R. did ... she rarely lets Ollie wander out of her sight.

So ... even though their first meeting was not pleasant, now they are truly a match made in heaven. And before you say, "Good grief, they're dogs," may I remind you that J.R. was the reason I was diagnosed with diabetes ... the reason God granted me a second chance at life ... and I didn't want to even keep him for a weekend. I am very sure that God sent J.R. to me, and no one will ever convince me otherwise. And Ollie? Well, he just wouldn't go away ... no matter how hard I tried, he just wouldn't go away. I can't help but wonder if there's a heavenly purpose behind Ollie's entrance into my world as well. Granted, it may be nothing more profound than the fact that his pink nose makes him look a whole lot like a baby pig, but it's also only been two weeks since he moved in.

And yes, Oliver Chance has joined me on the trail from time to time. I alternate walking with Julie and walking with him, but I think we are very close to me being able to walk both of them together. I think Julie would be fine, actually, but Ollie ... well, let's just say that Ollie exhibits quite a bit of attitude on the trail. Where J.R. would always go out of his way to avoid other people and dogs at all costs, Ollie is just the opposite. When other people, whether just people or people with dogs, approach, his little tail goes straight up in the air and he sticks his chest out and starts this kind of ... well ... I think prancing is the best word. Yes, he prances and struts his stuff like he is king of the world. As crazy as it sounds, I now own a wiener dog with attitude.

As to what I'm learning in my time on the trail with Ollie ... I think perhaps one of the greatest lessons God has taught me in my new journey with Ollie is that sometimes you simply must stop along the walk. You see, Ollie is a wanderer on the trail ... he has to stop and smell everything or look at everything or pee on every tree. The first few days I was constantly tugging on him and saying, "Come on, Ollie, just walk; just come on and walk." Saturday, though ... after a very emotional day at church ... Saturday, Ollie and I just kind of sauntered along in our walk.

We stopped and sat by the creek for a while, and when Ollie climbed into my lap, I told him about how J.R. liked to watch the ducks. And the tears came ... and Ollie snuggled into my arms, and he licked my face. We stopped and watched the sunset, and I told him about how my mom would talk about the sky in Kansas being so big. And the tears came ... and Ollie pawed at my legs for me to pick him up, and he licked my face. We stopped and listened to the wind in the trees, and I told him about taking my kids to fly kites when they were young. And the tears came ... and I leaned over to kiss his furry little head, and Ollie put his paws on my shoulders, and he licked my face.

I still miss my little J.R., and perhaps I always will ... my love for Ollie is growing, but it's bittersweet at times. God is teaching me again through my hounds ... Julie loves Ollie just like she did J.R. And Ollie loves me much like J.R. did. And me? I'm sitting here wondering why the dogs always get more of the couch than I do.

Break Open the Sky

I've never cared for stormy weather, never ever. Severe thunderstorms, tornado sirens blaring, green skies, unbelievable wind, torrential rain, huge hail ... I really do not like that kind of weather. I'll take bone-chilling cold or soaring temps any day over stormy weather. When I moved to Kansas over 20 years ago, I worried myself sick over living in "Tornado Alley." I grew up in Tennessee, and at least in my youth, the idea of a tornado in Chattanooga was unheard of ... not so much now, but when I was young, simply unheard of.

Last night in Kansas City, we had a doozie of a storm ... and I do mean doozie. High winds and hail the size of half dollars (some parts of town had tennis ball-size hail), nonstop lightning, rolling thunder and torrential rain ... I don't think I've ever seen a storm quite like that one. It was almost as if God just broke open the sky and said, "For all of you who doubt Who I am, let me show you what I can do." And even though my doggies were terrified ... well, the big dog Julie was terrified while the little dog Ollie just snuggled into my arms and slept ... and I was a wee bit scared myself ... well, a lot scared actually ... even in the midst of my fear, it was also kind of awesome to have a front row seat in witnessing God's power and might over the elements of the earth.

When we emerged from the basement (of course we high-tailed it to the basement) after the hail subsided, I stood at my sliding glass door with my dogs and watched the lightning flash across the sky. It was the kind of lightning that seems to have no beginning and no end, you know, the kind that is sort of one continuous flash. I'm not sure how long we stood there, Julie, Ollie and me, but I do know that I had one overriding thought running through my mind. One day ... one day ... one day, God is going to break open the sky and call His people home ... one day. As I watched the lightning cross the sky last night, I couldn't help but wonder if there will be lightning on that day that the Lord's people are caught up to meet him in the air. One day ... one day ... one day.

I've been listening to Toby Mac's newest album on my iPod a lot lately, and while all the songs are great, there is one that I listen to every day called "Break Open the Sky." The following lyrics were pounding in my brain last night during the storm. "Break open the sky. Won't You turn off gravity so we can fly? We wanna see Your face, so tear the roof off this place. Jesus, break open the sky."

I find it more than a bit interesting that this morning the roof on my house was still intact, but quite a few of my windows are broken ... shattered by the hail during the storm. And once again, a lesson from my Lord, a loud and booming lesson ... "I know your windows are shattered right now, Terrie, and the storm is intense. But my covering is over you. Even in the midst of the storm, I'm covering you."

My prayer all day today has been the closing words of the Toby Mac song ... "Come, Jesus, come. Come quickly. Come quickly. Break open, open the sky."