Immeasurable

One of the big selling points for me when I bought my little house was the wooden, covered deck that sits behind my kitchen. There is nothing better than sitting out on the deck, grilling steaks or shrimp, reading a good book or talking with a friend on a warm night. There is something so peaceful and relaxing about it, almost soothing in a way. Over the last 11 years, I've spent more nights than I can count out on my deck, and I've got a ton of memories wrapped in those pieces of wood. I've prayed on my deck, and I've searched my soul on my deck. I've laughed on my deck, and I've cried on my deck.

For many years, my family teased me about the fact that I didn't cry very often. They used to say that I was hardhearted (in a joking way, of course) because I rarely, if ever, cried about anything. It was always in fun, because they all knew that I had a very soft heart ... it wasn't that I didn't hurt or have deep emotions, I simply didn't cry much. And when I did cry in front of anyone, it was a big deal ... a really big deal.

Fast forward to me now, and it seems as though I cry at the drop of a hat. In fact, many days, I struggle to keep from crying. There is no rhyme or reason to my tears, nothing has to happen or not happen to make me well up ... I just cry. When you take my already weepy state and throw in a big event like oh, say, my daughter's wedding into the mix, it serves up a recipe for some major crying for sure. So needless to say, I've done more than my share of shedding tears for the last few weeks as her wedding drew nearer.

Last night as I sat on my deck watching Julie and Ollie play in the yard after the last of my guests had departed, my eyes welled with tears as I began to think about all the ways my life has changed over the last few years ... some changes have been good, and some have been difficult. And as the drops fell onto my shirt, I wondered just how many tears I've cried throughout my life. Almost as soon as the thought entered my mind, another thought struck me ... in human terms, the number of my tears is immeasurable, but in God's terms, He knows each tear I've cried. Not one tear has left my eye without Him seeing, knowing, caring.

So, God, I'll leave the measuring and counting to You ... and I trust that You not only number my tears, You hold the heart that sheds them in the palm of Your mighty hand. Immeasurable ... Your love for me, Lord, is immeasurable.

Dropping Anchor

My maternal grandfather, Jim Waddle, was a quiet man, at least that's the way I remember him. He passed away when I was in second grade, but I do have memories of spending time with him and my Granny Waddle when we would travel to their home in Kentucky to visit. Granddad didn't say much, but when he did, it was usually something worth hearing. One thing that Granddad truly loved was fishing ... he had an old silver fishing boat that he would take out on the lake as often as he could, throw his cinder block anchor over the side and fish the day away.

I didn't get to fish often with my Granddad, but I remember one particular fishing expedition as if it were yesterday. We caught several fish but it's not the fish that make me remember that outing ... it was the words my Granddad spoke that seared that day into my mind. When I whined that we needed to go fish in the shade rather than the hot sun in the middle of the lake, Granddad said, "We're anchored in this spot, and this spot is where we will stay. We belong right here."

Over the last week, my family (who drove 12 hours to get here) and friends (from near and far) worked tirelessly to help prepare for Meghann and Barrett's wedding. They offered money; took me to purchase the food and then helped to prepare it; provided decorations; purchased flowers and made bouquets; set up, managed and cleaned up after the reception; wiped away my tears, gave me lots of hugs and made sure to keep me eating and on my feet. People helped without being asked, and quite honestly, I don't know what I would have done without them ... I could have never pulled it together on my own.

I've been completely physically and emotionally exhausted for the last few days, evidenced in part I'm sure by the fact that I sobbed all the way down the aisle as I walked Meghann to the front of the church to meet Barrett. As I've rested for the past two days, I've been beyond grateful for a friend who chose to stay with me for an extra couple of days before driving back to western Kansas ... a friend who recognized how difficult the last week has been and how hard it was for me to say goodbye to my family. I've been totally overcome as I thought about everything everyone has done and said ... and I am totally overwhelmed with the selfless love that has been poured out and the prayers that have been lifted on behalf of me and my family.

As my friend and I went for a walk early this morning, I kept thinking of my Granddad's words on the lake that day so many years ago. And I thought about the anchors in my life ... my Lord ... my family ... my friends. Faith and people who beckon me to drop anchor, to find my spot and stay, to recognize where I belong. And I'm thankful that those anchors hold firm, that they never waver or wander, that they remain secure even when the water all around me is choppy and the waves threaten to capsize my boat. So very thankful indeed.

The Longest Walk

If anyone would have told me a couple of years ago that I would be walking several miles each day, and actually enjoying those walks, not only would I have never believed it, I would have laughed out loud. And now, I walk every day. My daily walks are the best part of my day, and I can't even begin to explain to you how precious that time is to me. I've laughed on my walks ... I've cried on my walks ... I've talked with friends on my walks ... I've spent time with God on my walks. So much more than the physical benefits of walking are the emotional and spiritual benefits I reap as I step along my beloved walking trail.

I've thought a lot this week about the walks I've made over the years ... walks across a stage to receive diplomas, walks to the final resting place of both my parents, walks to the altar of a church, and countless others. Some of those life walks have been easy, and some have been extremely difficult. Some have led me to great joy, and some have caused me to travel through great sorrow. But each one of those walks has shaped me in some fashion into the person I am today, and I'm grateful that I've made them.

Today, I will take a walk that I've never taken before. Today, my only daughter, my youngest child, my baby girl, will take my arm and we will walk down the aisle of a church together as she marries the man she loves. I am very happy for Meghann and Barrett, and for the life they will build together. I am honored that Meghann chose to include me in such a special way in their wedding ceremony. I am also certain that walking my beautiful daughter down the aisle will be the longest walk I've ever made.

There is something truly transitional in this walk, something I can't explain. There is something incredibly meaningful about my youngest child getting married. I've been a single mom for many, many years, and though it was a walk I didn't choose, it was a walk with my three children that will forever remain in my heart. Countless memories have flooded my mind this past week, and I've cried countless tears. As we sat at the restaurant last night for the rehearsal dinner, my three children each with the loves of their lives by their sides, I found myself remembering when each of them were born. I remembered the moments when they drew their first breaths ... I remembered their little hands and feet ... I remembered the feeling of them nestled in my arms for the first time.

I'm sure as I ready myself today to make the walk with Meghann ... the longest walk ... the memories will continue, as will the tears. And I will pray that each of my children ... Matt ... Brad ... Meghann ... know how very much I love them. I pray that they will forever remember their mother's love ... I wouldn't trade one moment we've shared together, kiddos ... not one moment.

Practice Makes Perfect

It's always amazed me how there are seasons of life when time seems to simply creep along and others when it races ahead at breakneck speed. And more often than not, there seems to be no rhyme or reason for the tempo at which time passes ... it progresses at its own pace, no matter what we may do to try to speed it up or slow it down. I simply cannot believe that my only daughter's wedding is tomorrow ... tomorrow ... she's getting married tomorrow.

Today will be a busy, busy day with food prep for the reception, last-minute errands, pedicures and probably a thousand other little things that will pop up. I'm sure that the day will zip by, and before I blink, we will be heading to the church for the rehearsal and then to the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner. I've always thought it odd that couples rehearse for their wedding ... seems to me for some reason that you shouldn't have to rehearse getting married. And yet, most couples rehearse the ceremony the night before the wedding ... well, here in the U.S. anyway.

I've been thinking about Meg and Barrett's rehearsal and the wedding, needless to say, for a while now, and this week, that thinking has kicked into high gear in a big way. Over the last few days, however, I've begun to think about another wedding and wedding feast that will come one day. Watching the devastation left behind from the tornado in Joplin and seeing all the lives that were lost has caused me to ponder a great deal this week about the true brevity of this life. It strikes me that those of us who are believers are rehearsing while we are here on earth ... or at least we should be anyway. Our thoughts and actions each day should be a rehearsal for heaven ... we should be striving to live every moment of every day in preparation for the day that God calls us home ... for the coming wedding feast of the Lamb ... for the time when Jesus comes to claim His bride, the church.

So tonight, we will rehearse our parts in Meghann and Barrett's wedding. Tonight, we will share in food and fellowship together. My prayer is that I will be forever reminded that every thought I have, every word I speak, every action I commit is practice ... that I'm rehearsing for the greatest wedding and wedding feast of all.


"

Bittersweet Times Two

Being the youngest child in my family by a good many years (my siblings were 14, 17 and 21 when I was born) certainly had some advantages, but having four sets of parents wasn't one of them. Mom and Dad both worked full-time, so I spent a significant amount of time being cared for by my brothers and sister, and they didn't hesitate to fill the parent role when I misbehaved ... yes, though I know it defies the imagination, there were rare times when I actually did misbehave. Those of you who follow this blog know that my oldest brother Jerry was killed in a car accident when I was 10 years old. It wasn't until I was in my mid-30s with children of my own that my two remaining siblings, Tommy and Elsie (or Sis as she's always been known to our family) stopped seeing me as their baby sister ... no way is that statement true ... they still see me as their baby sister and try to parent me from time to time, and I suppose they always will.

Both Tommy and Sis live in the South, Tommy in Kentucky and Sis in Tennessee. We used to see each other at least once a year when Mom and Dad were living because we would all meet at their house from time to time. We lost Mom almost six years ago, and we've gotten together a few times since then, for happy occasions like weddings and for sad ones like funerals. In those six years, my sister lost her husband, Matt and Becca got married, several other family members passed away, my great niece got married, babies have come along, and now on Saturday, Meghann and Barrett will wed. And today ... today, Tommy and Sis will arrive in Kansas City for the wedding. The two of them are driving out, and I can't help but wish that I was along with them for their road trip.

The three of us aren't so young anymore ... I'm 51, Sis is 65, and Tommy is 68. All three of us have had some significant health issues over the last couple of years, so it's more than a little bit of a big deal that we will be together for the next few days. All week, I've been thinking about their arrival and about the emotion that I am certain will wash over me when I see them. I saw Sis last year, but I haven't seen Tommy in four years ... four years. I think it's pretty safe to assume that we will both look very different since we last saw each other.

As Mom and Dad aged, it grew harder and harder for me to say goodbye to them each time I had to leave after a visit home. I always wondered if it would be the last time I saw them. I would weep as I pulled out of their driveway, knowing that I may never see them again on this earth. I can close my eyes even now and see Mom sitting on the rock wall beside the driveway waving as we drove away. For as hard as saying goodbye was, it was equally hard to see how much they aged and changed physically between our visits. I'm sure that my reunion and eventual parting with my brother and sister will evoke some of those same emotions I felt with Mom and Dad, and that our time together for these few days will be bittersweet. There will be times of laughter, I'm sure, and times of tears as well. I'm sure that the thought will run through each of our minds ... we need to make the most of the time we have together in case it's our last.

Bittersweet times two ... please keep them safe as they travel, Lord, and watch over the three of us as we are together. Help each one of us to treasure every moment ... every smile, every tear, every hug ... bittersweet times two ... bless our time together, Lord, bless our time.

Under the Branches

I've lived in Kansas for over 21 years, and I've never grown accustomed to spring weather out here on the plains. I have friends here who love stormy weather, who just go to bed and sleep right through the storms. Not me, not me at all. I don't like thunder and lightning, and I certainly don't like high winds and the threat of tornadoes. And my dislike for that type of weather has been heightened to a whole new level following the devastating tornado that hit Joplin, Missouri, last Sunday.

With the threat of severe weather again yesterday, I headed out very early for a walk before the weather deteriorated. The skies were cloudy, but I checked the radar online before I took off for the trail ... and there was no rain indicated anywhere near Kansas City. No rain. Let me repeat those words ... there was no rain on the radar. It was a pleasant and cool, albeit cloudy, morning, and Ollie and I had walked for about 45 minutes, stopping and chatting with a couple of people along the way. We were on our way home, and I was deep in thought about all the things I needed to do for Meghann's wedding when I noticed raindrops on the pavement in front of me. I had on a ball cap, so I didn't immediately feel the rain on my head. Within a matter of minutes, the sprinkles turned into a full-on steady rain, and Ollie and I were quickly soaked to the skin.

Ripping my iPod off my arm and stuffing it into my pocket to protect it from the rain, I tugged on Ollie's leash and urged him to hurry along. Stepping up my pace with my wet cold clothes weighing me down, all I could think was that I needed to get home in a hurry. As the rain picked up in intensity, I realized that we were a good 20 minutes from home ... and that was on a sunny warm day, not a rainy one with wet clothes, slick pavement and a shivering wiener dog. I thought of calling a friend to see if she could come pick us up and take us home, but I knew that we would have to walk a good distance to get to the road. Wondering what I should do, I looked ahead and saw that we were close to some large trees by the side of the path. I lifted Ollie into my arms and took off for those trees, and we huddled together under the massive branches for a good half-hour waiting for the rain to subside enough for us to get home.

As I crouched close to the trunk of the tree, I realized that the rain was barely hitting us ... the large branches of the tree were protecting us from the liquid falling from the sky. I've been a weepy mess this week with Meg's wedding right around the corner, and as I looked up into the protective covering of the arms of the mighty tree, the emotion washed over me again. I cried and cried and cried, clutching my furry little friend who was busily licking my tears. The rain finally slacked off, I wiped my eyes, picked up my dog and made a dash for home.

Walking into my garage, I knew that God had taught me another big lesson under that huge tree. It was raining all around Ollie and me, but we were covered ... safe ... still wet from the rain we'd walked through, but we were covered ... safe ... protected. Changing out of my wet clothes and stepping into a hot shower, the tears came again as I realized that God has been covering me with His arms while it's been raining all around me. I've gotten pretty soaked as I walked through that rain, and yet, He beckons me to stop my wet, cold, lonely trudging for a bit and rest underneath the massive branches of His grace, mercy and love.

So last night as I readied myself for another night of stormy weather, I breathed a prayer of gratitude to my Lord ... for His awesome arms ... for His constant covering ... for His lasting love.

Shades of Gray

When I was in my mid-20s, I noticed that I had a few gray hairs scattered among my otherwise brownish hair. When I was in my mid-30s, I noticed that I had a significant number of gray hairs, about as many gray ones as brown. When I was in my mid-40s, I had way more "salt" than "pepper." I'm 51, and my son Brad tells me that my hair can no longer be deemed gray ... he says it's white. And I'm OK with my white hair. Problem is that other people keep telling me that I should color my hair.

Yesterday, someone asked me what day I was going to have my hair "done" for Meghann's wedding. I replied that the gal who's done Meg's and my hair for many, many years is coming to Meghann's apartment Saturday morning. The I'm sure well-meaning lady then said, "She's going to dye your hair the morning of the wedding? I don't think that's very smart at all; what if something goes wrong? You'd hate to have purple hair for the wedding, and that's what happens sometimes when someone is as gray as you are." Gee, lady ... thank you ever so much ... really, ever so much. I tried to sweetly tell her that I'm not getting my hair dyed ... not for the wedding or any other occasion or any other day ... I am seriously fine with my hair being white. After a "Well, if that's what you choose ... " followed by a clucking of her tongue and a shaking of her head, the conversation ended.

All evening, I couldn't help but think about grayness, and it didn't take long for my thoughts to shift from superficial things like hair to something far more serious and important. Sitting out on my deck drinking some delicious strawberry guavabana water, I started thinking of how easy it is to go from seeing certain areas of life as black and white to seeing them as gray instead. It's kind of like the way you're so strict about everything with your first child ... like boiling his pacie every time it hits the ground ... as compared to the way you are by the time the third kiddo arrives ... you take the pacie out of the dog's mouth, wipe it off with your shirt and plop it back in the kid's mouth. Things that you were once so rigid about concerning right or wrong somehow get shuffled by society, by education, even by the church.

Here's the thing, though ... God has given us a set of directions for how He wants us to live and to view the world. He doesn't say, "You only have to obey part of my commands, and you can choose the ones that please you most," or "You only have to love some of your neighbors, and again, you can choose the ones you want to love." God's Word tells us how to live, period. My attempt to take what God tells me in black and white and make it gray ... well, the more I've thought about it, the more I think that's just plain old sin.

I really am fine with my hair being gray ... it's just hair after all. But I'm not fine with being gray when it concerns my walk with my Lord ... not fine at all. My prayer is that God would burn His will and His way into my heart and soul, that He would show me the areas where I'm gray ... the areas where I need to be black and white ... the areas where I need His grace and mercy to make me who He desires me to be.  

The Eye of the Storm

This isn't the blog that I originally intended to post today, but it is the blog that I feel led to post. Yesterday, the town of Joplin, Missouri, was devastated by a massive tornado as I'm sure most of you know by now. The photos on the news are unbelievable ... so many people who have lost everything ... homes, jobs, loved ones. I have friends who have family there ... some lost their homes but are safe, others are injured, and still others escaped with their part of town untouched and unscathed.

I wept as I watched the news today, as I'm sure many of you did. To those of you who read this blog who have friends and family in Joplin, please know that you are all in my prayers today. Please know that there are literally thousands of people praying for the people there. My church, along with many others, is collecting supplies to take to the people of Joplin. And all day, I've been wishing I could do more than donate supplies. And I suddenly realized that I can.

I've got two empty bedrooms in my house, and if any of you have friends or family in Joplin who need somewhere to stay, they are welcome to those rooms. I've got family coming for my daughter's wedding on Saturday, but after that, my house is open. Just comment on this blog or shoot me an email and let me know.

To others of you who read this blog around the world, lift the people of Joplin, Missouri, up in your prayers. And God bless those of you in Joplin ... those who live there, those who have family there, and those who are there helping with search and rescue.

Bargain Basement

Yesterday in Kansas City was a beautiful day ... gorgeous blue skies, enough wind to make it not feel too hot ... the perfect day for all the things I had on my list to get done on the Saturday before the great wedding Saturday next weekend. My day started at 6:00 a.m with two hound dogs showering me with doggie kisses and wagging their tails to let me know it was time to rise and shine ... and go potty and eat breakfast. A haircut at 8:00, chiropractor visit at 9:00, a stop by the bank and a visit to Walmart, and back home by 10:30. A walk with Oliver, a little tennis ball tossing with Julie, lunch, lawn mowing (which is much more challenging with my aching shoulder), picture taking of a cute little 1-year-old girl, weed-eating (again, lots of fun with a wounded wing), dinner and caulking my tub.

Just when I thought the day was winding down and I was going to relax for the evening, I began to experience the flashing light that precedes a migraine headache (which I haven't had in a really long time ... stress-induced perhaps?). I groaned as I sloshed down some Excedrine Migraine and grabbed an ice pack for my head. As the flashes began to subside and the ache of my head began, I flipped on the television to discover that the beautiful day had given way to a really stormy night on the way. When the tornado sirens started sounding, I grabbed Julie and Ollie, a bottle of water and a couple of diabetic protein bars, and headed to the basement where we camped on a sleeping bag on the concrete floor under a table until 1:00 a.m.

Laying on the floor of the basement listening to the wail of the sirens, I began to pray that God would keep all my children safe in the storms. I wonder, I thought, as I prayed ... did I worry more about their safety during stormy weather when they lived under my roof and it was my job to protect them or now when they are all living in different places? As I finished praying for my kids, my dogs calmed down and snuggled in next to me on the sleeping bag. I patted their snoozing heads and thought about other stormy nights that were spent in the basement over the last 21 years that I've lived in Kansas City. I thought of times with the kiddos trying to keep them calm and quell my own fear, and I thought of times when I've been alone after they all moved out of the house.

All of a sudden, something struck me as I tried my best to get comfortable on the hard floor. I had no flashlight, no radio, no blood sugar meds or testing kit, one bottle of water, a couple of protein bars and that was it. I didn't even have shoes in the basement with me ... something Meghann told me one night when it was just the two of us huddled together while the sirens blared ... you should always have shoes in case your house gets hit by a tornado and you need to climb out through the debris. "Man, this is dumb," I said aloud. "I don't have anywhere near what I need down here should a tornado come. You'd think after all these years of living here, I would know to have an emergency kit of some sort stashed in the basement."

The more I thought about my lack of preparedness, about my various nights spent in the basement over the years, about my own storms of life, I found myself also thinking about all the times I had tried to bargain with God ... when I was afraid of dying, when I was afraid of something happening to my children, when I was afraid of who I had become ... I would try to bargain my way out of whatever rough spot I was in at the time. And it seems to me that almost every time I found myself in the basement listening to the sirens soulful howl in the night, I promised God that I would be a better person, I would do whatever He wanted if He would keep the tornado away, if He would just make the storms disappear.

When I woke up this morning, my first thought was of the storm last night and for people who had lost their homes or were injured, and I whispered a prayer for comfort for them. As I sat on my deck drinking my coffee in the warmth of the morning sun, I realized that God had taught me something last night ... He doesn't always make the storms disappear ... sometimes I have to go through them whether I like it or not. And sometimes I have to hunker down in my basement when the storms are so intense and the danger is imminent. But here's the thing ... when the storms are raging, God doesn't want me trying to bargain with Him ... He wants me to trust Him ... to pull the blanket of His love over my head and to crawl under the table of His grace.

Teach me, Lord ... mold me, Lord ... show me, Lord ... no more trying to bargain while I'm in the basement, God ... I know that You love me just as I am ... You love me just as I am.

The Bucket

There's been a lot of rain in Kansas City over the last few days, but I suppose it is spring after all and rain comes with the season. I've always liked rainy days, especially rainy days when I can stay in my house and read or write or nap with my hound dogs. I don't care for rainy days when I have to drive back and forth in rush-hour traffic, and I don't care for rainy days when my basement leaks, which, by the way, is now every time it rains. My son Matt keeps telling me that if I don't get the crack that is causing the leak fixed, my house is going to crumble down around me. Maybe he's correct in his assessment, but right now, there's just not enough moolah in the bucket to pay for massive basement repairs. Hmmm ... the bucket ... I may need one to scoop up the water in my basement after all this rain.

Several years ago on a summer trip to Colorado with my kiddos, I decided that I needed to start a bucket list ... you know, the list of things one whats to do or see or accomplish before kicking the bucket, pushing up daisies, popping your clogs, meeting your Maker, buying the farm, biting the big one ... OK, enough ... I'm sure you get my drift. I kind of went about my bucket list making sort of, well, sort of backwards. I did something I'd always wanted to do and then I started my list so that I could have at least one thing crossed off should I ... yeah, you know. On that particular trip to my beloved Colorado mountains, I packed my three teenaged kids into the car and we drove across Trail Ridge Road, the highest paved through road in the United States. It was at the top when we stopped to take some photos way above the tree line that I decided I had need to create a bucket list, that there were things I wanted to do before I departed from this earthly life.

In the 10 or so years since that unbelievable drive (you should all have that on your own bucket lists, by the way), my bucket list has gone through several different iterations ... I've added some things, I've deleted some and I've even completed some and crossed them off the list. Last night as I was thinking about the rain and my leaky basement and buckets, I couldn't help but find myself pondering my list. The last time I looked at my list was a short while after my little pup J.R. died. I sat by the creek where J.R. and I so often stopped on our walks, leather journal in hand, and made some changes to my bucket list once again.

I don't sleep well right now, so in the wee hours of the night last night, I took out my journal and looked at my bucket list. I realized that I may never cross off all the things on that list ... and it's OK if I don't. I may never learn to fly fish, but I've known the feeling of pulling a large trout from a cold stream in the Colorado mountains. I may never go sailing, but I've felt the stretch of my muscles as I paddled a canoe down a lazy Tennessee river. I may never own a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, but I've experienced the wind on my face as I wrapped my arms around a friend and we sped down the highway on his bike. I may never go to a tropical island, but I've spent quite a bit of time on some Florida beaches. I may never write a best-selling book, but I've penned countless words that have been read by many. I may never fall in love again, but I've been loved and I've loved deeply. And this list, friends, could go on and on.

The more I think about it, the more I think my bucket list doesn't really matter so much. I don't think the things I haven't done matter nearly as much as the things I've been blessed to be able to do already. I think what matters most is the bucket of my life instead of my bucket list, and my bucket has been well-filled ... well-filled indeed.

Caught Up

One of my favorite things to do as I was growing up was to hang out with my friends. It didn't matter much what we were doing, just as long as we were together. It's funny to me now the things that I remember from my youth ... some really important things I've forgotten, while some little things are as clear in my mind as if they had happened just yesterday. I don't really remember anything about my high school or college graduation ceremonies, but I do remember building forts in the woods, selling lemonade on the driveway, riding motorcycles and playing tennis with my friends. I remember football games, spring break trips to the beach and deep and meaningful conversations that went on for hours. I think one of the greatest things about the time of my youth was how easy it was for me to get caught up in the moment ... to simply enjoy whatever was going on at the time with no worries and very few responsibilities.

All day yesterday I couldn't get the idea of being caught up in something out of my head. Several of my co-workers were talking about the guy who has declared that the Rapture will happen this coming Saturday, May 21. The man took out an ad in Reader's Digest proclaiming the end of the world and plastered the message on 2,200 billboards across the country. I work at an advertising agency, and I heard one fellow in my office yesterday say, "The Rapture guy is a public relations genius. Sheer genius." While most folks are writing off the man's prediction as utter nonsense, there are others who have become completely caught up in the possibility that the world as we know it will end on Saturday. Some are frightened, some are sad, some are getting their hearts right with God just in case the guy is right.

God's Word plainly tells us, however, that no one knows the hour or day of Christ's calling home of His bride the church. His Word tells us that the Rapture will happen like a thief coming in the night. And yet, people are completely caught up in this man's prediction ... whether they believe him or not, they are caught up in the media hoopla surrounding the chance that come Saturday, millions of people are gonna disappear and the tribulation will be ushered in. Caught up ... caught up ... I've been thinking a lot this week about those words.

The truth is that one day the Rapture will happen ... one day believers will be "caught up" for sure. One day, God's Word states that every knee will bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord. Did you catch the awesomeness of that statement? One day, every soul that was ever knit together in a mother's womb will bow at the feet of Jesus Christ, God's only Son, and proclaim that He is Lord. Whether through death or through the Rapture, we will all bow before Jesus ... one day. That day could be before I draw my next breath ... it could be before night falls tonight ... it could be at any moment of any day ... but only God the Father knows ... not me, not you, not the Rapture guy of this week's news.

"But of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father alone." Matthew 24: 36

"For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we shall always be with the Lord. Therefore comfort one another with these words." 1 Thessalonians 4: 16-18 

Amen, Lord, amen. Come quickly, come quickly.

Mercy, Mercy Me

With my only daughter's wedding just a little over a week away, I've had my little mom on my mind a lot in recent days. Meg and I talked a few days ago about how much her granny would have enjoyed being part of her big day, and Meg said she'd been missing Mom a lot lately, too ... and we smiled as we talked about what Mom would have said about Meg and Barrett's wedding. You see, Mom was well-known for some of her "sayings" ... phrases that she said so often they became part of who she was ... phrases and words that many of us repeat when we get together as a family ... phrases like, "Lord, help!" or "Land o' Goshen!" or "Lawdy, lawdy, lawdy!" (translated for you non-Southerners ... "Lordy, Lordy, Lordy!") or "She ain't no bigger than a bar of soap!" or one of my personal favorites, "I'm just plumb tuckered out today!"

When I think back on the the things Mom used to say, I can't help but recognize that Mom left a legacy of sorts through many of her quips and quotes ... some were funny, like the ones I just mentioned, while others were more serious in nature and tone, and carried deep meaning that perhaps I am just now beginning to fully understand. In fact, I think it's quite possible that Mom herself didn't recognize just how meaningful some of the words she uttered really were. One of those more serious sayings of Mom's has been echoing in my mind for a few weeks, and mainly because of the lyrics to a song that I've been listening to ... but I'll get to the song in a bit.

At times when things were tough or not going well or situations and circumstances came along that Mom couldn't understand, she would often shake her head and say, "Mercy ... mercy, mercy me." The more I've thought about Mom's speaking those words, the more I've thought about how very much we should all be uttering the same words. Every single one of us stands in need of mercy every single day, and not a single one of us deserves to receive that mercy. We are broken, wounded, sinful creatures ... and yet, God showers His mercy upon us freely and abundantly when we are at our very worst. So many times we think if we try harder, work harder, love harder, we can make ourselves worthy somehow ... we can cover what really lies within our hearts. The truth is that only God knows who we really are, and His mercy declares His love in spite of who we are.

I think it fitting to close with the words to the song I referred to earlier ... they are from a song by Jennifer Knapp called "Mr. Gray." Though it was written for her grandfather, the following words resonate with me and make me ponder the truth that it is only God who knows who I am ... He knows me behind the closed doors of my life, away from the light of day, beneath the masks I wear. The words make me think about showing my own hands, bleeding and wounded though they may be, to those around me. They make me search my soul and ask ... do I extend mercy to those who are in need, patiently and consistently, do I?

"If I think I can try harder, some might say that I'm smarter. But only God knows, only God knows who I am. If I show my hands, would you watch them bleed? Long enough to prove they are indeed in need of mercy ... in need of mercy. I need your mercy me ... I need your mercy, mercy me."

A Bitter Pill

When I was a kid, I had a thing about swallowing pills ... I simply could not do it. My family tried everything to get medicine that came in pill form down my throat, to the point of my sister holding me down on the bed and trying to force me to swallow. I'll spare you the details of that particular experience, but suffice it to say that it didn't go well. Eventually, when I got sick, Mom would ask the doctor to give me an injection or to prescribe any medication either in liquid or capsule form that could be opened and sprinkled on my food. I don't remember when or how, but suddenly one day, my aversion to pill swallowing changed and I could easily take pills. Funny, because now I take so many pills each day that I just throw a whole handful in at once and wash them down with a single drink.

Part of writing a blog and trying to be real and honest in that writing is that you open yourself up for lots and lots of commentary, both positive and negative alike. While most of the messages I receive are positive in nature (and I am always humbled by those, I might add), from time to time I receive a message that ... well ... that quite honestly simply hurts my heart. I pray about each blog I pen, and I try my best to follow God's leading in my writing. That is not to say in any way that my words are always the best ones or the right ones or the only ones. But this blog is a personal one, one that speaks of my own journey, my own struggles, my own thoughts. Having said that, however, I also apologize for anything I've written that may have offended or hurt any of you who read along with me.

A few days ago, I received an email from someone who has known me for many years, someone who has read this blog from the beginning. And allow me to say before I continue that I replied and asked the person's permission to talk about her message in this blog on an anonymous basis and to quote some of her words. I explained that the issue she brought up deserves to be addressed publicly and needs to be opened up to the thoughts and opinions of those of you who read. So, here goes ... please weigh in on either side ... I really do want to hear from you on this subject.

"You are a woman of faith," the email began, "and yet you write of suffering from depression. No true Christian would suffer from depression, not if their faith is strong enough. They may go through times of suffering or hurt or despair for a time, but if they believe deeply that God can heal them, they will have no need of medication ... your faith will make you whole. Taking the joy from believers is a ploy of Satan, and beating down a strong believer and making them ineffective through their feelings and emotions ... making that believer succumb to the idea of being depressed ... don't allow the evil one to have that stronghold in your heart. You don't have depression; you have a lack of faith."

I've prayed about my response ... I've prayed a ton about my response. And the following words I'm about to pen are more than just difficult for me. In the blog I wrote called "Closet Dwellers," I used the words "gut-wrenching" in relating my confession that I had been diagnosed with depression. That is actually an understatement ... admitting that I can't fix what's going on in my head and my heart, admitting that I need help, admitting that I'm not anywhere near as strong as I always thought I was ... those are among the hardest admissions I've ever made in my life. And trust me ... no one could have wrestled with the faith vs. medication issue any more than I have ... than I still am ... than perhaps I always will.

When my doctor (who is a strong Christian, by the way) first suggested that I should consider medication, I adamantly refused, saying that my faith should be strong enough to carry me through any storm. As the sad days turned into weeks, I finally agreed to take home some sample medications ... I took them home, and I sat them on my kitchen counter ... and that's where they stayed for several more weeks. On really bad days, I would stand at the counter and hold a pill in my hand ... a tiny, white, round pill. And I would war in my soul with the power that small pill had to wreak such havoc with my faith. "My faith is weak," I would say to the air ... "What's wrong with my faith?" I would ask aloud ... "I'm a failure," I would cry into my pillow. And finally, I took the pills. And I'm still taking the pills. And I'm still struggling and still wrestling with the right or wrong of it, with the connection to my faith, with the fact that the pills haven't "fixed" me yet, with the overwhelming sense of failure that engulfs me each and every day.

So, there it is, friends ... there's my response ... as openly and honestly as I can pen it ... there's my response. Some of you will continue to love me ... some of you will now judge me ... some of you will empathize with me ... some of you will write to me ... I hope that all of you will pray for me.

Can You Imagine?

Those of you who've been reading along with me as I place my thoughts and feelings and fears and sorrows and joys and ... well ... as I place my life in the words of this blog have read many things about my sweet dad. Often when I go speak to women's groups, I talk about my dad ... about his legacy, about the things he taught me, about the way he loved me. Dad really was a incredible man, and he had a faith that was as solid as a rock. If to be absent from the body means we are instantly in the presence of God, then I know beyond the shadow of any doubt that when Daddy drew his last labored breath with my sister and I by his side, he was ushered into heaven on the wings of angels.

As Daddy aged, he used to talk about heaven quite a bit, and oddly enough, even when his mind was ravaged by Alzheimer's, he continued to talk about heaven. When nothing else he said made any sense, when he didn't recognize his wife or children ... Daddy's talking and quoting scripture about heaven was always right on center. Dad was a Southern Baptist through and through, and hence, he thought very highly of Billy Graham. We always watched the Billy Graham crusades on TV and even got to attend one when he came to Chattanooga many, many years ago. It was almost a surreal experience for me when I took my own two youngest children to see Billy Graham here in Kansas City when they were in high school. As his son Franklin helped his feeble father onto the stage, the crowd erupted into a standing ovation that lasted for several minutes. I couldn't help but think about my dad and what he would have said to Brad and Meghann had he been there with us that day. Though my children initially grumbled about attending the event, they were silent as we walked to the car, recognizing that they had just witnessed an amazing chapter in Christian faith history.

The news last week that Billy Graham was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia has caused me not only to lift him and his family up in prayer, it has also caused my mind to park for a time on my sweet old Daddy. While Dad certainly enjoyed the preaching of Mr. Graham, he equally enjoyed the deep alto voice of Ethyl Waters, an African-American woman whose rendition of "His Eye is on The Sparrow" couldn't help but melt even the coldest heart. And Daddy would often say in his discussion of heaven, "I hope that God sees fit to give me just a little old shack right next door to Ethyl so I can hear her hummin' for all eternity."

Each time another icon of the faith leaves this world, such as David Wilkerson a few weeks ago (the founding pastor of Times Square Church and author of The Cross and the Switchblade), I find myself thinking about all the folks who either are already or will one day be in heaven. Can you imagine serving side by side with Mother Teresa or Dwight L. Moody? Can you imagine singing in a heavenly choir with Ethyl Waters or Mahalia Jackson? Can you imagine taking a walk down the streets of gold with Moses or Paul or Ruth? I know that in God's eyes we are all the same ... sinners saved by grace, covered by the blood of Jesus. But in my humanness, I can't help but think how awesomely cool it will be to share heaven with such pillars of the faith.

But most of all ... can you imagine what it will be like to see Jesus for the first time? Can you imagine falling down before Him in worship? Can you imagine being in the presence of the One who died for you? Can you even begin to imagine?

Is That Me?

Yesterday was cold and gray with a bitter Kansas wind that made it seem even colder and grayer. It was the perfect Sunday to stay inside and drink hot coffee and lay on the couch and watch mindless television all day. I forced myself to go to church, came home and went for a walk, and then snuggled in on my couch with my doggies tucked around me and my fleece blanket. I was more than content not to budge for the rest of the day, but then I remembered a promise I had made ... a promise to a little kid, and everyone knows that you can never break a promise to a kid. So in the late afternoon, I hauled my body off the couch, got in my car and drove to the soccer fields.

I've written in previous posts about my current state of hermitude, of it taking every ounce of energy I possess to be around people, much less having to carry on a conversation, and of how if I had a choice I would never leave the solitude of my home. As I pulled into the parking lot that held literally hundreds of cars, my first thought was, "I just want to go home." But ... I made a promise to a little girl who means the world to me ... a promise that I had to keep. I took a deep breath as I got out of my car and began to walk toward the field where her game was scheduled, thinking maybe I could just slip in behind the crowd of parents and not have to talk to anyone. As fate would have it ... no, that's not right ... as God would have it, the little gal's mom spotted me as I was walking down the path and met me and started chatting, asking me about Meghann's upcoming wedding. After a few minutes, another lady walked up and my friend became engaged in a conversation with her ... and that's when it happened ... one of those blink-of-an-eye moments that seem so small when they occur, but that in retrospect are actually quite huge.

Looking to see where my friend's youngest kiddo was, I saw him down the hill a bit kicking around a soccer ball by himself ... remember those words, by himself ... I'll come back to them in a bit. Since the game before the one I had come to watch was running late, I made a snap decision to go ask the little guy if he wanted me to kick the ball with him. His eyes lit up as he said, "Certainly!" and we spent the next half-hour or so kicking the ball back and forth. He is a great little soccer player, so he gave this old gal quite the workout. When his sister's game began, we walked up the hill to watch her play, and he said, "Terrie, that was fun!" So much fun for him that before the girls' game ended, he coaxed me into kicking the ball with him on the sidelines, with him stating that we were going to take turns "defending the trash can" as the goal.

The enormity of that hour and a half didn't strike me until I was driving home, and it didn't completely wash over me until I was sitting on my couch eating dinner. When I looked down the hill and saw the little boy playing alone, my natural instinct was to go offer to play with him. Why? Because I love him, and it made me sad to see him kicking the ball all by himself. Tears dripped onto my plate as I realized how by myself I am now, how I work and walk and eat and drive and live by myself ... and ... and ... and ... how rarely I play anymore. With each bite of food I tried to choke down, the tears poured from my eyes. 

As I stood to take my plate into the kitchen, I realized something else ... I had laughed while I kicked the soccer ball. I didn't just grin or smile or chuckle a little ... I flat out laughed out loud. Quite honestly, I can't remember the last time I laughed. Standing at my sink, one thought flooded my mind ... today at the soccer field was a fleeting moment, a glimpse, a flicker of who I used to be ... carefree, laughing, happy, enjoying the simplicity of the moment and a little child's contagious spirit of fun. Until the last year of my life, I always felt that was who I was ... a person of caring, a person of service, a person of laughter, a person of spontaneity, a person of strength, a person of giving. Most days now, I have no idea who I am, where I'm going, what I'm supposed to be doing. But yesterday on the soccer field, I felt like me again ... if only for a little while, I felt like me ... no somberness, no sadness, no sobbing ... for a little while ... I laughed.

So here's to little girls and boys ... kiddos who share a little bit of their hearts with an old gray-haired gal, kiddos who don't stop inviting, kiddos who keep on hugging, kiddos who don't see the scars or the pain or the sadness, kiddos who find the laughter. Here's to kiddos who love ... and kick soccer balls.

Rudolph's Red Nose

Yes, I'm aware that it is May and not December, and yes, this post involves the famous television classic, Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. I've always loved Christmas stories, and Rudolph will forever be one of my favorites. I can remember laying on the floor on a giant red and black pillow in front of a roaring fire in Mom and Dad's basement watching little Rudolph and his glowing red nose. And when I had children of my own, the tradition of Rudolph watching was carried on and passed along to my kiddos.

I'm quite certain that most of you who are reading know the story of Rudolph, but just in case ... Rudolph is a lovable little reindeer who is teased and ridiculed because his nose is different than all the other little reindeer noses. He's treated as an outcast, and runs away from home feeling as though he will never fit in or be part of the reindeer clan. He makes some unusual friends on his journey, and eventually returns home and saves the day by using his glowing red nose to guide Santa's sleigh on a foggy Christmas Eve night.

During his travels, Rudolph and two of his friends, Yukon and Hermey, accidentally land on The Island of Misfit Toys. The island is the home of toys that no boys or girls want ... toys that have some sort of flaw ... they either don't work the same way or look like the other toys do. Rudolph sneaks off the island during the night, feeling as though he doesn't fit even on an island of misfits. Eventually Santa rescues the misfit toys, the abominable gets his tooth pulled, Rudolph falls in love ... you should watch the show ... even in the middle of summer, it's a great way to spend an hour.

As I was walking this afternoon, I found myself thinking about Rudolph ... about feeling like the only answer to your struggles is to run away. And even more, I found myself thinking about The Island of Misfit Toys ... a place for those that don't fit anywhere else. I understand how those misfit toys felt ... I completely understand. I told someone just yesterday that I don't fit anywhere anymore ... I'm too old to be young, and I'm too young to be old. I don't have grandchildren, so I don't fit with those who are grandparents. I'm not married, so I don't fit with those who are couples. My children are grown and out on their own, so I don't fit with those who still have kids at home. My list could go on ... I just simply don't fit anymore. And the hard part ... the really hard part ... is that this misfit place in my life is somewhere I've never been before ... I've always fit ... always.

So here's the thing, the lesson, what I believe God wants me to glean from my pondering about being a misfit, the reason that at the beginning of summer I'm thinking about a red-nosed reindeer and a bunch of unwanted toys on an island. Santa used Rudolph not in spite of his red nose but because of it ... Rudolph's biggest flaw became his greatest asset. Santa rescued the misfit toys from the island and found places for them to belong ... they eventually brought happiness to boys and girls and accomplished the purpose for which they were made.

I may not feel as though I fit anywhere anymore, Lord, but I know that it's when I'm at my weakest point that You are strong beyond measure. You know where I belong even when I don't ... You made me, red nose and broken parts and all. I'm a misfit, God, but I'm Your misfit ... Yours and Yours alone.

Recalculating Destination Route

I've had occasion to take a couple of road trips over the last few years with my son Matt and daughter-in-law Becca. I've got a lot of sweet memories from those trips together, not the least of which is the organized manner that any trip with Mattie entails. He has always been a "to do" and "what to pack" list maker when it comes to traveling, and always, always, always has a "schedule." Not surprising at all considering that he would alphabetize the items in the pantry when he was sick and home from school. Also not surprising that he will receive his Ph.D. at the young age of 27 ... he always has a plan. So when he, Becca and I went on our first trip together, I wasn't at all surprised that Matt had a GPS device planted firmly on the dash of the car.

For the most part, the GPS was a nice thing to have along, especially the extra little things it could do like locating certain restaurants or places of interest along our route. But there was one distinct thing about the gadget that drove me crazy ... the nasally annoying voice that would loudly announce, "Recalculating destination route, recalculating destination route," each time we would stop for gas or to sightsee or shop. It didn't take long at all for me to want to throw Matt's trusted technical toy right out the window of the car as we drove down the interstate. You'll be glad to know that I restrained myself, however, thus preserving my relationship with my son.

I'm not sure why, but I woke up this morning thinking about the GPS invention and how much it has changed the world we live in. Interestingly, though, just a couple of days ago, a warning was issued concerning not relying solely on global positioning systems for travel in the western U.S.  One phrase in that warning jumped out at me and burned itself into my brain ... "notoriously unreliable in remote locations." Hmmm ... seems to me that if you're in a remote location, that's when you need a dependable GPS the most.

Obviously, I've been thinking about the GPS thing all day, and as so often happens when something gets stuck in the caverns of my mind, God has a lesson for me to learn. To say that I'm wandering around in a remote spot right now would be the hugest understatement I've ever made. I was so sure that I knew where life was taking me ... so certain of what I was supposed to be doing ... so aware of who I was. And now ... now I'm unsure, uncertain, unaware. My destination route is being recalculated day by day and moment by moment. But ... but ... but ... for as lost as I am, for as dark as this night is ... I have the ultimate GPS, a global positioning system that is notoriously reliable in remote locations. You see, God knows where He is leading me ... He knows every step He has planned for me to take ... He knows my pain and He knows my heart. He knows me... He sees me... He loves me.

I trust you, Lord ... I trust that You know my destination and that You know the route I need to travel to get there. You're notoriously reliable in this desert, Father ... You've led many others through it before me. Be my GPS, God ... show me Your way ... show me Your way.

Blind Spot

For a few years I drove the car of my dreams, a silver Jeep Wrangler. I've never really been much of a car person ... as long as it was mechanically sound and didn't cost me a lot of money in maintenance or repairs, I didn't care what kind of car it was or what color it was or whether or not it was "cool." And then I got my Wrangler, and I fully understood what it meant to fall in love with a car. I loved everything about my Jeep (except the gas mileage) ... I loved the color, sitting up high above the road, the manual transmission, the four-wheel drive option when it snowed, and I especially loved putting the top down and feeling the wind in my hair and the sun on my face on a beautiful warm day. And quite honestly, I miss that car every day ... I know that sounds ridiculous, but I do ... I miss my beloved Wrangler.
 
I now drive a black Jeep Patriot and get double the gas mileage as I did in my Wrangler. It has power windows and remote entry, heated seats, a sunroof, lots and lots of room for hauling mulch or groceries or dogs … the perfect car for an over 50-something gal. And yet, it’s just a car to me … not a Wrangler, not a dream car, just a car. It wasn’t long after I traded in my Wrangler for the Patriot (one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done, by the way) that I noticed a huge flaw in the design of the Patriot. There are two major blind spots … spots on the right side of the car where you absolutely cannot see if there’s another car in the lane next to you. I’ve learned to make adjustments accordingly and be extremely careful before I change lanes, but when someone else drives my car, I find myself constantly reminding them about the field of vision issues.

Today as I was driving, my mind was wandering and I started to change lanes without double-checking to make sure there wasn’t another car next to me. Thankfully, the person in the lane beside me laid on his horn as I began to pull over, and I immediately tugged on the steering wheel and stayed in my lane and avoided causing an accident. As I continued driving, I couldn’t help but think about the blind spots that exist in my life … situations or circumstances that prevent me from seeing clearly, areas that demand that I check and recheck before I move or make a change. Perhaps most important of all, I’ve thought about the places in my heart and mind and soul where I simply choose to have blind spots … the places where I don’t see what God has placed around me, the things He is calling me to do, or where He wants me to go.

Here’s the thing about blind spots … they are dangerous. If I don’t pay attention, they can have serious and devastating consequences. If I’m not careful, they can wreak havoc on every part of my life. If I choose to ignore them, they can cause hurt and injury not only to me but to those around me as well.

Help me to keep my eyes and my heart open, Lord ... to look at You, to follow You … get rid of my blind spots, Lord, make me see You.

Circle the Wagons

Some of you may be surprised to learn this rather obscure fact about me, and others maybe not so much. I love to watch westerns, yep, I do. And my favorites are the old ones starring John Wayne or Henry Fonda. But I also love, love, love Sam Elliott in Tombstone, and Dances With Wolves starring Kevin Costner is my favorite movie of all time ... well, it's a three-way tie between DWW and Fried Green Tomatoes and Steel Magnolias. I don't really know why I've always been such a big fan of westerns, but I am ... there's just nothing better than a good old cowboy movie, especially on a cold snowy night or a rainy Sunday afternoon.

It seems like most of the older westerns have at least one scene in common, one bit of storyline that is depicted in almost every movie ... the circling of the wagons. I'm always amazed at how the pioneers set out and traveled such great distances and over such tough terrain (ever driven through the mountains of Colorado and tried to imagine making that trip in a covered wagon?) in the hope of securing a better future for their families. I've come to notice through my years of movie watching that there are two basic times the leader of the group of travelers calls for the wagons to be circled ... for protection and safety as the folks bed down for the night, and when the need arises to defend themselves against an attacking enemy.

More than a bit interesting to me is that the settlers of pioneer days knew and understood the value and importance of gathering their wagons into a circle ... they got the whole concept of "together, we stand; divided, we fall" in a big, huge, gigantic way. With their wagons gathered in a circle at night with a huge fire roaring in the middle of the circle, wild animals kept their distance, children didn't wander off, and there was a level of sharing and camaraderie that was impossible to achieve during the daylight hours as they traveled and attended to the tasks of the day. Drawing their wagons into a circle to fend off attacking enemies gave them the advantage of an unbroken ring of defense, offered a certain amount of camouflage for the women and children, and created an encompassing view of their attackers. Those early pioneers got it ... they really got it.

I think sometimes about the groups people travel together in today ... groups of workers in a workplace, groups of students in a school, groups of believers in a church ... and how very different their outlook on life is than that of the pioneers. The "circle the wagons" cry of days gone by has given way in many cases to an "every man for himself" mentality. The busyness of life or the pursuit of wealth or power or prestige dictates that people have little time or desire to circle their wagons with others ... whether for protection or safety or defense ... the society in which we live fosters and promotes an "I'm taking care of my own wagon, and you take care of yours" attitude.

Recently, I penned a blog called "Judgment Call" about ... go figure ... judging others. Because of some of the messages I received concerning that post, I'm sure that some who read today's entry will toss it into the same category as "Judgment Call." So ... I feel the need to offer up a disclaimer of sorts about my wagon circling musings ... this is not a post about any one group; it's not about a certain place of employment, a certain school, or a certain church. It's not about any specific person or group of people ... it's about all of us, myself included, and how much our thinking and our view of community has changed with the passing of time and the new rules of engagement of today's world.

It seems only fitting to end this post with words far wiser than any I could ever write. Words that are far more than just a suggestion that we circle our wagons ... words that are truth ... words that are living and active ... words that can change outlooks, mentalities, lives.

"Two are better than one because they have a good return for their labor. For if either of them falls, the one will lift up his companion. But woe to the one who falls when there is not another to lift him up. Furthermore, if two lie down together they keep warm, but how can one be warm alone? And if one can overpower him who is alone, two can resist him. A cord of three strands is not quickly torn apart." Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12.

Walk the Line

My sweet Daddy loved country music, and every Saturday night as I was growing up, we watched the Grand Ole Opry on television. I literally cut my teeth while listening to the music of the greats of country music ... Dolly Parton, Porter Wagoner, Charley Pride, Loretta Lynn, Tennessee Ernie Ford, and Daddy's all-time favorite ... Johnny Cash. I can close my eyes even now and picture my dad singing along to the man in black's gravelly rendition of "Daddy Sang Bass," "Ring of Fire" or "Folsum Prison Blues." I also remember what Daddy would say every time he heard Johnny Cash sing his famous song "I Walk the Line" ... "Now there's a man who understands what it means to walk the line ... a man who appreciates a second chance in life."

Last weekend, I watched the movie "Walk the Line," which chronicled some of the toughest years of Johnny Cash's life. Each time I watch the movie, two things always strike me ... just how out of control Mr. Cash's personal life became, and how much he had to guard himself against falling into those former destructive patterns once he was rescued and changed. He wasn't a perfect man for the remainder of his life, but by all accounts, he was a grateful man for the rest of his life.

I've been thinking a lot lately about walking the line ... of what it truly means to live a life that is worthy of the calling that God has placed upon me, upon each of us who claim the name of Jesus Christ as our Savior and Lord. How is that line defined? Is the line the same for all believers? Who decides where that line resides? What does God desire from me in walking the line? Should others be allowed to determine my line or judge me if my line is different from theirs? When do I step up and speak out about my attempt to walk my own line, and when do I keep silent? So many ... so very many ... questions are swirling around in my mind about the line ... finding the line, discerning the line, walking the line.

The more I've pondered the whole dilemma of walking the line ... of not crossing the line in my thoughts, words or deeds ... the more it makes me search my heart and soul in the hope of finding what is pleasing to God, finding how He desires me to live, finding the true meaning of being in the world but not of the world. Again ... so very many questions concerning this line walking part of who God calls me to be. Maybe that's just another piece of the puzzle that dictates where I currently am on my journey ... maybe that's part of why my tent is pitched in this desert ... maybe it's God's way of showing me who He desires me to be, teaching me where to plant my feet, drawing His line in the sand of my life.

Teach me to walk the line, Lord, for all the right reasons ... because I'm yours, and because You're mine ... teach me to walk the line.