Intentional Sin

When I first began penning this blog way back in 2008 ... wow, has it really been that long ago? Anyway, I never anticipated when I began writing that people would actually read the words that God was placing on my heart. I saw this blog as an online journal, almost like a diary, I suppose ... a diary that not only doesn't have a lock and key, but a diary that is open to the whole world to read and comment upon. I didn't anticipate that some of these posts would generate as many emails and messages as they do, and I certainly didn't expect that people would ask me questions about faith or God or sin, not to mention the questions I receive about diabetes, weight loss and depression. I love reading your messages, and I deeply appreciate that so many of you pop in to read these posts every day (though many days, I scratch my head in wonder as to why you do).

I knew when I started this blog that it was supposed to be real and honest, even though at times that has meant that it's been an arduous task to write about certain issues ... issues in the world or in my own life. And though it's hard at times, I feel God telling me ... commanding me, actually ... to be open and real in this forum; I feel Him telling me that writing the often gut-wrenching confessions about areas in my life where He's dealing with me is what He wants ... demands, actually ... that I do. I'm not sure why God leads me this way, not sure at all. I wouldn't be surprised, however, if humbling me and stripping away my pride is part of His ultimate purpose and plan behind some of my more revealing posts. Recently, I've been thinking a great deal about a topic that I'm sure will stir some commentary, if not outright controversy, when I hit the "publish" button. But again, the more I've mulled the issue over in my head, the more I feel God saying, "Write it."

I've been thinking about sin ... I know, not a lighthearted topic by any means. I've been thinking about the times that I've kind of stumbled into sin. You know the kinds of times I'm talking about ... times when you have an unkind or impure thought race into your mind seemingly on its own; times when you didn't speak up for what was right because you were so outnumbered or even threatened by others; times when you were weak mentally or emotionally or physically and made the wrong choice. Not intentionally meaning to sin, but yet sinning still the same. For some reason, it seems to me that those sins are easier to condone or overlook ... I don't know why, but it sure seems that those are more quickly forgiven, both by God and by others.

Here's the thing, though, the real heart of the thoughts that have been flooding my mind for the last few days on the subject of sin. What about the times when I intentionally sin? When I willingly put myself into situations where I know I'm going to fall? When I go in with my eyes wide open, knowing that my thoughts, words and deeds either are or will be sinful? What does that say about my walk with the Lord? What does that scream about my faith to those who know me? What does that do to my witness and my example to those watching me from afar? The logical and reasonable side of me says that premeditated, thought-out sin has got to be worse somehow than unplanned, caught-off-guard sin. Even our legal system has stiffer penalties for those who commit crimes in a deliberate, predetermined manner than those who break the law through crimes of instant rage or passion. But the emotional, heart side of me says that sin is sin is sin in God's eyes, and that He always forgives when I confess my sin to Him. But then the whole concept of repentance enters in ... wouldn't true repentance mean that once a person repents, they never return to that sin again?

Back to my original statements in the opening of this post ... to those of you who ask me deep, philosophical, spiritual questions, I don't know the answers to many of life's questions. I certainly don't know the answers to the concept of intentional vs. accidental sin ... or if there is even such a thing as sinning by accident. I don't know if there are some things in life that may be sin to one person and not to another. I do know that God loves me just as I am and that He has this issue on my heart for a reason ... there's something He wants me to learn ... some truth He wants me to absorb ... some change He wants to bring about in me ... He's got me thinking about it for a reason.

Now that I'm pondering it, maybe He simply wants to humble me, to cause me to admit that sometimes I struggle with following His will for me. And maybe ... maybe part of that reason is that one of you who's reading this post has the same issue on your heart as well. I don't have to know His reason ... I just have to know Him.

Tell Me a Story

I've wondered more than once just when my son Brad developed his penchant for storytelling, and I've thought from time to time that perhaps his love of stories began when I was pregnant with him. You see, I was a relentless reader to his older brother, Matt ... I was a stay-at-home mom when Matt was a little guy, and we read and read and read. And I'm not just talking children's stories ... I read Shakespeare to Matt; I read Walker Percy to Matt; I read J.D. Salinger to Matt. I'm telling you, I did some serious reading to my firstborn, and I can't help but think that some of that reading transferred itself to Bradley when he was in the womb.

Brad would tell you that his gift of telling stories came from the first women in his life ... his mom and his granny. When Brad was young, whenever my mom would come to visit, she would tell Brad story after story at bedtime. Often, she would fall asleep in the middle of a story, and Brad would wake her and say, "Granny, finish the story." Brad has heard me tell stories his entire life, and I've even been known to write a tale or two from time to time. Wherever it came from and whenever it started, Brad has a love and a gift for telling stories ... especially a story from the heart that he can capture on film.

Yesterday, Brad and two other young men drove to Joplin, Missouri, to meet a producer and director from a large company in Los Angeles ... Brad's mentor in film who lives here in Kansas City was contacted about a very special project in Joplin, and he immediately thought of Brad. The company was looking for a director of photography who could truly tell the story of the destruction the town experienced a few weeks ago when it was devastated by one of the most powerful tornadoes on record, and of the tremendous need that now exists there. The footage that Brad is filming will be made into two television commercials to promote a huge benefit concert for the people of Joplin that is scheduled to take place in Kansas City later this summer.

Brad called me last night after he had spent the day scouting locations and planning shots with the folks from L.A., and I could hear the emotion in his voice as he described what he had seen that day ... destroyed homes and businesses, people's lives torn apart, devastation on a scale that he has never seen in his young life. I could hear the weight of the responsibility he felt to tell the people's story. I could hear the desire of his heart to treat this project with honor and respect. I could hear my little boy in his grown-up voice saying, "I'm going to tell a story, Mom ... a story like I've never told before."

Tomorrow, Brad will film interviews with people who live in Joplin, people who survived ... some with nothing more than the clothes they had on their backs on that fateful Sunday afternoon. Tomorrow, Brad will listen to stories ... stories that I'm certain will touch him, stories that will hurt his heart, stories that quite possibly will change his view of life forever. Tomorrow, Brad will hold a camera in his hands and hear those stories through his lens ... tomorrow, his eyes will focus on the people of Joplin,  and his heart will beat to tell their story.

I have no doubt that I will weep when I see the finished result of Brad's three days in Joplin. I have no doubt that this mother's heart will thank God for the gift He's given my son. Honor those folks well, Bradley ... honor them well.

Hitting the Road

A couple of Thanksgivings ago, I took off on a solo road trip to see my family in Tennessee. Well, solo in the human department ... I had three wiener dogs with me as traveling companions. And quite honestly, they may have been the best traveling buddies I've ever had. We stopped when I wanted to stop; we listened to the music I wanted to listen to; we kept the temperature in the car as hot or cold as I wanted it to be. It was the first time I had ever driven to Tennessee alone, and it was an awesome road trip ... completely and totally awesome.

As wonderful as my solo driving experience was, my visit to the place of my roots that year was one for the record books in many ways. I stayed in a hotel for an entire week, ate out for every meal, spent a ton of time with my family, swam in the hotel pool every day, went for long walks with the dogs at a nearby park, enjoyed the warmth of November in Tennessee, and reconnected with several friends from my youth that I had not seen in many years. I had received my diabetes diagnosis only a month earlier, so it was good for me to spend time with people who loved me deeply and offered a ton of encouragement for me to work hard to get healthy. Looking back now, I realize that the first couple of months after being diagnosed were extremely critical in my attempt to get my diabetes under control, and my trip home may well have been a pivotal turning point in my determination to stay strong and keep on trying.

I haven't traveled back to Tennessee since that trip, but I intend to go this year, probably over Thanksgiving once again. I've been missing home a lot lately ... not sure why really, but I miss my family and friends from there a great deal right now. In fact, I had a real crying jag about it last weekend, sitting out on my deck sobbing my heart out over being alone and missing my home. I've lived away for 21 years, so it is more than a bit perplexing to me as to why I'm feeling so homesick at this point in my life.

Last night, I ventured out to take Ollie for a short walk, the first one since my shoulder fiasco of last week. We were walking slowly, or at least I was walking slowly ... the wild wiener dog was very excited to be out on the trail again and was running back and forth like a crazed furry maniac. We had been walking for about 10 minutes when my phone rang and I saw that it was an old friend from Tennessee whom I hadn't talked to in quite a long while. After chatting for a bit, she told me that she was coming to St. Louis this week to attend a seminar for her job and asked if I would like to drive over for the weekend and hang out. We discussed the logistics of the trip, and I told her if my shoulder would cooperate, I'd plan on seeing her Friday evening.

Walking outside to play a little left-handed Frisbee with Julie after I got home from walking Ollie, my mind kept chanting over and over ... road trip, road trip, road trip ... I'd really like to take a road trip, and even more, I'd like to spend some time with my friend. It would be almost like going home, I thought to myself ... a little taste of home anyway, and I'd only have to travel four hours. I woke early this morning with less pain in my shoulder than I've had for the last several days, still painful, but at least approaching the level that it was before the cortisone injection. I couldn't get back to sleep, though, so here I sit at the keyboard at an hour when I should be snoozing ... thinking about home and road trips and friends and stuff ... big life stuff, I suppose.

Sometimes I can't help but wonder about things that just seem to come from nowhere ... things I don't expect or anticipate. Sometimes I think God puts situations along my path to help me see who I really am and what I'm made of ... or maybe Who I'm made of is more accurate. Sometimes it's easier to hear God out on the open road ... away from the distractions of everyday life.

Maybe hitting the road this weekend is just what this old gal needs ... maybe indeed.

 

If I Could Choose

My niece and her husband own a successful restaurant in Chattanooga ... a place with great Southern-style cooking and an atmosphere that is homey and comfortable. There's even a train that runs on a track above the main dining area, and every single time I go home for a visit, I eat most of my meals at Country Place. In addition to managing the busy restaurant, Mike is also a part-time referee for high school basketball games ... not because he needs the money, but because he loves refereeing and loves the kids. I've often thought that being a ref for any sport would be a hard job, perhaps because I so often question myself these days when it comes to making choices and decisions. To have to make all those quick calls in a game and then to handle people being upset if they didn't agree with your decision ... too much stress for me for sure.

I've been thinking a lot lately about decisions and choices, and I can't help but wonder how many decisions I've made in my 51 plus years of life ... some good, some not so much. Perhaps part of the reason the whole decision-making idea is on my mind is because today would have been my 30th wedding anniversary. Most years since my divorce, today just slips by as any other day, but this year, it seems to have some deep meaning for some reason ... nothing I can put my finger on, but it's sure made me think about choices I've made and decisions I've come to over the years.

This morning I was awakened by the sounds of a thunderstorm ... fierce winds and loud thunder accompanied by flashes of lightning and torrential rain. Julie and Ollie were snuggled in next to me sleeping soundly, Julie's head and front paws across my feet and Ollie's furry little head underneath my pillow. Those of you who frequent this blog know that I don't care much for storms, and as the winds howled this morning, I found myself thinking that if I could choose, there would never be another thunderstorm ... in the mornings or any other time. And that one thought started my mind tumbling down the path of a plethora of "If I could choose" avenues.

If I could choose, I would live half of the year on the beach and the other half in the mountains. If I could choose, I would be a writer. If I could choose, no one would ever harm an innocent child or a helpless animal. If I could choose, not one person would ever be hungry or cold or lonely or hurt. If I could choose, I would be happy. If I could choose, all people would be loved and accepted and cherished. If I could choose, I wouldn't have diabetes and I would eat ice cream six times a day. If I could choose, depression would never exist. If I could choose, I would follow my heart and love with true abandon. If I could choose, I wouldn't care about practicality or gas prices and I'd drive a Jeep Wrangler with the top down in the rain. If I could choose, those I love would stay forever.

The word stay in my litany of "If I could choose" thoughts gave me cause to step from that path and wander for a bit down a side trail... the trail of eternity, and I quietly recognized that none of us can choose to avoid passing from this earthly life to the eternal. A person may choose to leave this life, but one can never choose to stay here forever. As the storm outside began to grow quiet, so did the "If I could choose" thoughts that had raced through my mind only seconds before as I realized that I've already made the most important choice of my life ... the choice to follow Christ.

The Dog Lady

"Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me." I'm sure all of us remember that rhyme from childhood, and many of us have probably chanted it at some point in our lives. I've often wondered where the rhyme originated, and I've also wondered if the person who originally coined the lines actually believed the second part. The truth is that words can and do hurt ... a lot at times. In fact, I personally would prefer to take a physical beating any day over a verbal one. Physical wounds heal, but hurtful words can linger forever in the depths of a person's heart and soul. I still remember words that have been hurled at me over the years ... "stupid" ... "ugly" ... "fat" ... "stutterer" ... "lazy." I've been labeled many times in my lifetime, and trust me, words most certainly can hurt deeply. As much as words can hurt, they can also heal and restore and encourage and build up. Though I've been tagged with hurtful names down through the years, I've also been on the receiving end of more than a few kind, loving and caring monikers as well.

I haven't been out on the walking trail in several days because of the reaction I had to the cortisone injection in my shoulder last week ... I have done well to move from my bed to the couch due to the intense pain. My lack of walking also means that Ollie the wiener dog hasn't gotten to walk either, and he was bouncing off the walls (or off of Julie, as the case may be) this morning. After an hour or so of him harassing Julie (who likes to wake up and eat and then nap for a while before she's ready to play), my big dog gazed at me with a soulful "Do something with him," look. Deciding that I could hurt as easily sitting across the street at the playground as I could trying to get comfortable at home, I managed to hook Ollie's leash to his collar, hold it in my left hand and walk across the street to the picnic tables next to the playground.

Ollie's leash is a retractable one that extends for 25 feet, so I was able to sit at a picnic table and let him run around exploring and looking for food that had been dropped on the ground. We had been there for about 15 minutes when I heard a little boy's excited voice saying, "Daddy, Daddy! It's the dog lady, Daddy! She's back! Can we go say hi?" All it took was the nod of his father's head, and the little guy ran as fast as he could to get to me and Ollie. I stood up because I didn't want him to touch my shoulder, and he wrapped his little arms around my waist and hugged me tightly. "Where have you been, dog lady? Me and my daddy have been looking for you ... I missed you and Oliver Chance." By this time, the little boy's father had arrived, and I explained that my shoulder was hurt and I had to take some time off from walking. The boy's sweet eyes looked into mine as he asked, "But you're back now? You're going to be walking again? You and Oliver?" I told the little boy that I hoped to be out walking again before too long, and he said, "That's good ... I miss you, dog lady." Then with another hug for me and some kisses for Oliver, the little boy and his dad went along on their walk, the little guy turning and waving at me until they were out of sight.

The little boy and his dad couldn't see, but tears filled my eyes as they began to walk away, and they will never know how deeply their short visit this morning touched me. Thoughts poured through my mind as quickly as the tears streamed down my face. So many times over the last months, I've wondered if anyone would miss me if I was gone ... so many times, I've wondered if anyone would even notice if I simply ran away from home and never came back. Those very thoughts, that questioning, filled my mind even last night as I laid in bed contemplating a return visit to the emergency room to try to get some relief from my pain, and I rose this morning feeling more alone than I ever have before. And then ... a little boy and his dad ... a little boy who doesn't know me at all ... wrapped his arms around me and said, "I miss you, dog lady."

As I stood to slowly walk across the street with Ollie, I thought about the labels I've been tagged with down through the years ... and I decided that I'm more than OK with being the "dog lady" to the people, old and young alike, whom I've met out on my trail. My trail, I thought ... my trail that has become such a big part of my life ... my trail that found me because of the needs and the wounds of another furry friend.

The dog lady ... the dog lady ... yep, I'm definitely OK with that.

Paging Dr. Carter

Allow me to begin this post by asking that you forgive any typos that may appear since I'm heavily medicated and I'm typing with one hand, and my left hand at that.

One of my favorite television shows was ER, and my favorite character on that show was Dr. John Carter played by Noah Wyle. When the show began, John Carter was a medical student, and over the years that the show ran, he made it through his residency and became a doctor. One of the things that fascinated me about Dr. Carter's character was that he came from an extremely wealthy family and didn't need to work ... he could have spent his life jet-setting around the globe and living a life that most people only dream of living. But instead, he chose to become a doctor and even spent a stint of time serving in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. Dr. John Carter's character was stabbed and became addicted to prescription drugs, got married and lost his first child, took over the family estate when his grandmother passed away and battled cancer. I told you ... he was my favorite character, and I was sad when he left the show.

For those of you who have messaged me to ask why there's been no blog for the last few days, here's the deal. My visit to the orthopedic surgeon on Wednesday ended with a cortisone injection deep into my shoulder, along with a couple of numbing agents so that I wouldn't have pain from the shot for a few hours. Because of where my rotator cuff is torn and because I have diabetes, the surgeon wants to try to avoid surgery if at all possible. I went on to work, but as the afternoon wore on, the pain returned and to say it was intense is an understatement. By the time I got in my car to drive home from downtown, waves of nausea were sweeping over me and my head was pounding. I finally got home after having to pull over a couple of times, washed down some pain medication, put ice packs on my shoulder and climbed into bed with the hounds by my side.

I'll spare you the details of the remainder of the evening, but eventually, a friend arrived and took me to the emergency room of our local hospital. I can't recall much about the time I was at the hospital, but I do remember an IV with some heavy-duty medications. It's funny what drugs do to your mind, and I suppose I should ask my friend just what I did say while I was being infused with morphine and valium ... or maybe I don't want to know. At any rate, I remember thinking as I was laying in the hospital bed ... they need to page Dr. Carter ... I need Dr. John Carter ... he could make my pain go away. I hope I didn't say that out loud in the ER ... I really hope I didn't. And I guess I didn't or they probably would have admitted me to the psychiatric ward.

I've spent the last two days in agonizing pain ... I just thought my shoulder hurt before the injection, but now I'd give anything to have my original pain level back. Funny how one's perspective can change so quickly, huh? I've been thinking all day (at least during the times I've been able to form some rational thoughts) about perspective ... about how different my perspective about life is now than it was a year or so ago. Depression has changed so much about me ... it's altered the very core of me in many ways. My shoulder isn't all that hurts; in fact, the pain in my shoulder is minor compared to the aching within my heart and soul. And for as much as I want my shoulder pain to subside, I so much more want my heart and soul to heal.

Now that God has me contemplating the concept of perspective, I wonder ... I wonder if that is part of His plan for me ... to cause me to see things in a different light, to feel in a way I never have before, to find strength in Him on a whole new level. Maybe I don't need Dr. John Carter after all ... maybe I need the Great Physician.

Double Jeopardy

My love for crime shows dates back many years ... many, many years ... to the days of watching Starsky and Hutch or Charlie's Angels on television. For a while I thought I would become a detective until I realized that I would actually have to have contact with the bad guys. That's when I decided that an English major was more my speed than a degree in criminal justice. Through all my years of crime show watching, one legal concept has always sparked my curiosity ... a protective provision called double jeopardy.

Being tried twice for the same offense is prohibited by the 5th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution. The Double Jeopardy Clause protects against three distinct abuses: (1) a second prosecution for the same offense after acquittal; (2) a second prosecution for the same offense after conviction; and (3) multiple punishments for the same offense. I find it more than a bit interesting that the founding fathers of our nation found it necessary to include a requirement in our Constitution that says a person can only be tried for an offense one time, whether they are guilty or innocent, and that their punishment must be handed down once and for all at the time of their conviction.

I've had the whole double jeopardy thing on my mind for a while, perhaps because I have a friend who just can't seem to overcome her past no matter what she does. She's not a criminal, not a fugitive, not a threat to society. She is, however, being tried over and over in the court of public opinion for a choice that she made in her life many years ago ... a choice that, curiously, some folks condemn and others applaud. My friend has a generous and loving heart ... a really generous and loving heart, in fact ... and yet her acceptance by others is often tempered by decisions she made and things that occurred in her past.

I received a letter from my friend a few days ago (yes, an actual hand-written letter in the mail) telling me that she was moving from her hometown because she just couldn't take the judgment and condemnation from so many who live there any longer. I wept as I read her words ... "I stayed here to take care of my parents, but now that they are gone, I've made the decision to leave. I'm 53 years old, and I can't stand to live this way for the rest of my life. I'm going to move far away and change my name and pray that no one ever finds me. I'm certain that no one will miss me. The only way they will notice I'm gone is that they won't be able to stare at me when I walk down the street or try to attend church or shop at the grocery store. They will still talk about me, I'm sure, but at least I won't have to hear it. All I ever wanted was to be loved and accepted, but I guess that was too much to ask for. Maybe things will be different in a new place."

Even as I type the words from my friend's letter, I am struck again with the fact that men who built the foundation of our country centuries ago felt the need to write into the most basic and important document on which our government was established the provision of the Double Jeopardy Clause ... protection for those accused of committing a crime ... accused being the key word in that phrase. I think a lot of us should take a cue from our country's founding fathers when it comes to words or actions from the past, our own or the pasts of others.

And I'm grateful ... beyond grateful, in fact ... that God has a far-reaching Double Jeopardy Clause in place when it comes to my relationship with Him. Once I'm acquitted through the blood of Jesus Christ, I'm acquitted forever. His forgiveness covers all of my sins, and He doesn't put me on trial for them over and over again. My sentencing was declared on the day Christ died for me ... life everlasting.

Fear and Loathing

My Granny, my mom's mom, Bessie Mae Waddle, was a strong woman who lived through a plethora of tough times in her life. She was a large woman, at least during the years that I knew her, with a crop of snow-white hair crowning her head and a pair of little black spectacles perched on her often crinkled-up nose. In my really young years, I remember Granny waving a rolling pin at my Granddad and saying, "Jim, don't you be telling tales on me now," when Granddad would start to recount stories about Granny chasing a fox away from her hens with a broom, churning butter using an old wooden churn or scraping up enough food to feed her family of five when times were lean. I don't ever remember Granny being afraid of anything or anyone ... until my Granddad passed away when I was eight years old.

I remember well the trip to Somerset, Kentucky, for Granddad's funeral, and I remember Granny coming back home to Tennessee to stay with us for a while after the death of her husband of over 60 years. That visit began a routine of Granny coming and spending several months each year with us, most often beginning in the fall and lasting until spring. Granny would spend the days at our house alone while Mom and Dad worked and I attended school. It was one afternoon when I came home from school that I first detected a note of fear in my Granny.

I had a key to the basement door and would enter the house there and then head upstairs to the door that led to the kitchen. Though the kitchen door had a lock and a chain on it, we never locked it because it was inside the house. But on that particular day, the door was locked and I had to pound on it to get Granny to let me in (because she had substantial difficulty hearing). When I finally convinced her that it was me, I heard the lock on the doorknob click ... but then I also heard the security chain slide from the top of the door as well. I asked Granny why the door was locked and if something had frightened her, and true to form for her, she said, "Why, no, I'm not afraid ... I don't know how that door got locked." It didn't take many days of me coming home to find the door locked and chained for me to realize that Granny was just plain old scared of being home alone, and I'm certain that she was angry with herself for being so afraid.

Being divorced for many years has meant that I've spent a lot of time alone, and for the most part, it doesn't bother me to be or go or do alone, and I'm certainly not afraid or frightened during my time alone (unless, of course, you count the times when I'm home alone at night and the tornado sirens are blaring). But over the last few weeks, I've begun to recognize a shift in my feelings about being alone and my level of fear concerning certain things in my life. This week in particular is a tough one in the alone and fear department ... I have to see an orthopedic surgeon on Wednesday about my shoulder, and I'm fearful of going alone, of what he's going to tell me must be done to ease my pain, of taking in all the information and then making the correct decision. And yet, there is also the part of me that won't ask anyone to go with me because it makes me angry that I'm so afraid. Hence the title of this post ... fear and loathing. It's quite odd to me how those two emotions so often seem to go hand-in-hand in my life ... being so afraid and yet at the same time detesting that fear in myself.

A few days ago when a friend suggested to me that God has a lesson for me in my shoulder pain, I sarcastically said, "Oh, yeah? And just what might that be?" Without missing a beat, she replied, "Perhaps He wants you to learn to accept help from others, to admit that you can't do it alone, to trust Him no matter what He brings your way."

Hmmm ... hmmm ... hmmm.

Hawk Watch

My friend Debbie is a bird person ... she feeds them, she watches them, she knows all the different kinds. Many times when I'm on the phone with her, she'll tell me what kind of bird she sees in her back yard. For as much as Debbie is a bird person, I have never been fascinated or captivated by any winged creatures. Now having said that, I find it more than interesting that over the last year or so, God has consistently directed my attention to the fowl part of His creation in order to teach me some huge lessons ... you who are avid readers of this blog will probably recall several previous posts regarding some of those feathery encounters.

For the last several weeks, walkers, bikers and runners along the trail have stopped and looked up into a certain tree that sits very near the path. It's a tallish pine tree of some sort, and it has become home to a family of red-tailed hawks (someone told me that's what they were ... I would have never known on my own). Those of us who frequent the trail on an almost daily basis have watched as a male and female hawk built a large nest in the top of the tree. Then we watched as the male would swoop down to capture prey which he would carry to the nest atop the tree to feed his mate. And most recently, we have watched as the three young hawks that were hatched in the nest began to make their way out to perch on the surrounding branches of the pine tree.

I went for a very early morning walk today, leaving Ollie at home snuggled in my bed with his big buddy Julie. We were awake a lot last night because of stormy weather, so the hounds were extra sleepy this morning. I, on the other hand, woke up early with a throbbing shoulder and decided I might as well go for a walk to take my mind off of the pain. The tree with the hawk family isn't far from where I get on the path to begin my walk, and this morning, I heard them before I saw them ... even with my headphones on and my music blaring in my ears. The three young hawks were sitting on two branches, two on a lower branch and one on a branch above his siblings. I stood there for several minutes gazing upward, wondering what they were squawking so loudly about and wishing I had my camera. I eventually moved on and walked for about an hour, and I was surprised to see the hawks in exactly the same spot when I passed the tree on my way home.

Finding my dogs still snoozing, I grabbed my camera and headed back over to the trail to snap some pictures of the young chirpers as they sat in the tree. Several people stopped to gaze at the hawks and to ask if I was getting good shots of them. Deciding that I had enough pictures to choose from, I turned to head back home, anxious to load the photos of the hawks onto my computer. As I walked, I kept thinking about the hawks ... those little baby hawks didn't care at all that I was taking pictures of them; they didn't care that other people were stopping to watch them; they didn't care about anything except maintaining their balance on the branches of the tree that held their home. They weren't trying to impress me or anyone else ... they were simply being what God made them to be ... baby red-tailed hawks sitting in a tree in Kansas on a Sunday morning in June.

My feathered lesson of the day? The truth God wanted me to glean this morning? I need to be who He made me to be ... I need to stop focusing on what others see in me and train my heart and my eyes on Him and Him alone ... I need to rest in His plan and purpose for my life ... I need to sit on the branch of His love and be who He made me to be.

Against the Wind

When I was a kid and a windy day came along, my dad would tell me to grab my kite and hop in the car. He would drive me over to a big open field next to Chickamauga Lake, and we would fly my kite for hours. Daddy would get the kite airborne and then hand off the string to me, and I can remember to this day the feeling of my Snoopy kite tugging against the tether of the string as it climbed higher and higher into the sky. I can also remember Daddy popping open cans of grape soda when we returned to the car and talking to me about our adventure of the day. 

One thing you can pretty much be assured of when you live in Kansas is that there is wind, at times stronger than others, but it's rare that the air here is just completely still. When it's scorching hot out here on the plains, the wind is always a welcome respite ... but when it's bitter cold in the winter, the same wind is absolutely bone-chilling. I pay more attention to the wind now, I think, because of my nightly walks. I love nights when the wind is behind me because it seems to sort of push me along ... I walk faster with the wind behind me. But there are some nights when I'm walking against the wind, and those nights ... those nights, it seems like my walk takes twice as long and that every step is hard.

A week or so ago, I had one of those forever walks ... the wind was intense, and I found it odd that I walked against the wind both on my way down the trail and on my way back. Usually, if I fight the wind in one direction, I walk with it behind me in the other direction. By the time I finally got home that night, I was exhausted and my normal one-hour walk had taken almost two hours to complete.

I couldn't help but think as I was trudging along that evening that my walk that particular night was yet another lesson from God ... another truth that He imparted to me on my beloved walking trail. Tears filled my eyes as I thought of times in my life when I try so hard to walk against the wind ... times when I struggle against the gust of God's plan and purpose for me ... times when I strain to be the person that others expect me to be rather than allowing God's will to be the breeze that pushes me along the path He has put before me.

I've said many times in this blog that it's the simple things ... the things that seem so minor ... those are the very things that God so often uses in such monumental ways in my life. I wouldn't have thought that He would take something as simple as a windy night in Kansas to make me ponder how much He loves me ... to contemplate how much He wants me to walk with Him.

Thank You, Lord for the wind of Your love ... thank You.    

Curtain Call

One of the things I've always longed for is musical talent, and it's one part of my creative brain that, well, is pretty much nonexistent. Mom insisted that I take piano lessons when I was young, but it didn't take long for the teacher to realize that piano wasn't my strength. Then I tried the guitar ... not too good at that either. I can play a relatively decent conga drum, but that's about it in the music department for me. I can't sing or dance either ... I'm just not musically inclined. But my three children ... now that's a different story altogether.

All three of my kiddos possess an abundance of musical talent, each one of them gifted in their own right. Meghann has a beautiful voice, and my sons both play a mean guitar. Matt, however, is the only one of the three of them who spent a few years playing the viola in the local youth symphony. He became involved in symphony classes in elementary school, and because of the encouragement of a wonderful teacher, Matt became quite a gifted viola player. I enjoyed the choir concerts and musicals that all three kids participated in, but I truly loved the symphony concerts. It always amazed me that those were kids playing ... their talent was absolutely amazing, and I would often close my eyes as I listened to them play.

Tonight one of our local news stations aired a story about the Kansas City Symphony's final concert that will take place in the venue where they have played for many years. The symphony isn't disbanding; they are moving to a new, bigger better building and will continue to fill Kansas City with their beautiful music. The story was titled "Curtain Call," and as I watched, I couldn't help but remember Matt's final symphony concert and the tears that filled my eyes as the seniors in the group took the last bow of their high school careers. Several of those kids went on to major in music in college and to play in symphonies across the nation. Some of them are now teachers or attorneys or business people, and Matt will soon complete his Ph.D. in marriage and family therapy. To those kids, their final symphony curtain call in high school was only the beginning of the rest of their lives.

As I cooked dinner tonight, I couldn't get the curtain call idea ... both the final show of the Kansas City Symphony at the place they have come to know so well, and the last performance of the youth symphony that Matt was a member of ... out of my mind. And I couldn't help but think about the fact that one day we will all have a final curtain call, a day when God will say, "You're done, child, you're done. You've participated in your last earthly performance." And I couldn't help but think about heaven ... a new, bigger better place ... the beginning of eternity.

I'm going to head out for a walk ... I think I'll listen to a bit of symphony music tonight and spend some time with the Conductor of the universe.





 

Pound Puppies

Way back in the 1980s, Tonka introduced a line of stuffed animals called Pound Puppies, plush little hounds with floppy ears and droopy eyes. Each came in its own little carrying case (or kennel, I suppose) and brought with it an adoption certificate. They came in all sorts of colors and shapes, and each one had a heart-shaped emblem near its tail that sported a "PP" logo with a little dog peeking around it. They were cute toys ... stinkin' cute; in fact, they were so stinkin' cute that over a 5-year period, they generated sales of $300 million in 35 different countries.

I've written in this blog before about how much my dad loved dogs and how we always had a canine buddy around our house as I was growing up. As Dad became more and more ill with Alzheimer's and Parkinson's diseases, Mom struggled with the decision of finding a better home for their dog Rocky ... a home where the owners would have time to spend with Rocky and give him the attention he needed and deserved. When one of Dad's friends who lived on a large farm said that he would like to take Rocky to live with him and his wife, Mom agreed and Rocky lived out his final years running the wide open fields of Jim's farm.

Even though Daddy's mind had no grasp of reality or time, he somehow knew that he loved dogs and would constantly ask for a dog to be placed in his lap. One day when I was home for a visit, I was out running errands for Mom and was at Walmart when I had a thought. I headed for the toy section and began to look for a stuffed dog for Daddy and settled on a giant-sized gray Pound Puppy named Buford. I took it home to Daddy and placed it in the hospital bed next to him ... and for years, my sweet old daddy would pat that Pound Puppy on the head and say, "Now that's a good dog, Rocky, a good dog, old boy." The $15.00 I spent on that stuffed dog may well have been the best $15.00 I've ever spent in my life.

I've had a lot of real-life pound puppies over the years, dogs that I rescued from various shelters or dog adoption groups. And I've noticed something about those hounds ... they are good dogs, grateful dogs, loving dogs, loyal dogs, sweet dogs. My son Matt and daughter-in-law Becca have served as foster parents for wiener dogs for several years, and I've lost count of how many pups have passed through their home. Becca and I were talking a few evenings ago about dogs that have suffered abuse (the pup currently with them has a severely damaged paw from an old injury that was never cared for), and she said something that I've often thought over the years. The dogs who have suffered the most, the ones who have been through the most, the ones who have been abused the most ... those are the dogs who appreciate love and kindness and care the deepest. Those dogs know how awful life can be ... those dogs know what it feels like to be hurt ... those dogs know what it's like to be hungry and cold. And those dogs thrive when they experience true love and concern from a human who cares for them.

I haven't been able to get my conversation with Becca off my mind, or perhaps it's more accurate to say that I haven't been able to get the very basic concept we discussed off my mind. I think there's a huge truth to be gleaned, and I should learn a lesson from the rescued dogs. Hurting and wounded people are like those dogs ... the ones who've been through the toughest times are the ones who need others the most, and they are often the ones who appreciate true love and concern the deepest. They are the ones who thrive when someone offers them a place to belong, a place that is safe and where they are able to trust without fear, a place without pain or suffering or hunger or cold.

Hmmm ... now that I think about it, I think I have Daddy's Pound Puppy somewhere ... seems like a good night to see if I can find Buford in the basement and bring him upstairs with me and Julie and Ollie ... a good night indeed to find an old friend and bring him home.

Fine and Dandy

It really didn't surprise me when my son Brad decided to pursue a career in film. You see, that boy of mine has always loved movies. From the time he was a little guy, he was fascinated with the whole concept of films ... what began as watching movies evolved over time to a desire to make movies of his own, hence his decision to attend film school. One of the rather funny components of Brad's love affair with film is that he can quote countless movie lines ... word for word, even mimicking the voices of the actors who spoke the words in the original film. One of his favorite movies of all time is Forrest Gump, and trust me, he practically has every bit of dialogue from the film memorized. 

Brad has varied through the years as to which Forrest line he would quote for days or weeks on end ... I've often wondered if Brad's quote choice corresponded in some way to events that were taking place in his own life at the time. While different lines would come and go over the years, there was one in particular that Brad said more often than the others, and I sometimes thought that perhaps he didn't even realize how often he repeated the words. The first time that Jenny and Forrest meet on the school bus, Jenny asks Forrest what is wrong with his legs because he's wearing metal braces on them. Forrest's reply was, "Nothing at all, thank you. My legs are just fine and dandy."

Brad's been on my mind a lot over the last week or so, and when I think about Brad, I can't help but think about how he's always been the one of my three children who tried his best not to let me see when he was hurting ... consistently wanting to be strong, self-sufficient and independent. Brad's always been careful about the people he allowed himself to get close to, about how much of himself he was willing to let others see ... especially when it came to what he saw in himself as weakness or disappointment or failure. Perhaps guarded is the best word to use concerning Brad's willingness to let others in ... and perhaps that's a response that he learned from his mama. Yep, I've been guarded when it came to letting others in to the deepest parts of my heart, possibly because I've been wounded in the past by others whom I thought I could trust.

Brad, like me, has a code word answer when things in his life aren't going well and someone asks how he is ... "I'm fine." Those who know us well know that if we say we're fine, that means that we aren't really fine at all. If life is going well and all is as it should be, our answer is, without fail, "I'm great!" or "I'm good!" The "I'm fine" response generally is an attempt to cover how we really are ... hurting, scared, lonely, sick, exhausted ... or a multitude of other not-so-wonderful emotions or feelings.

The older I become, the more I think that most people want to hear a pat answer when they ask how you are ... it's uncomfortable to hear that someone is fighting a chronic disease or struggling in their job or having relationship issues or trying to overcome depression or grieving the death of a loved one. And the older I become, the more convinced I am ... or perhaps the more convicted I am ... that we need to be real with each other, that we need to be open and honest, that we need to stop hiding behind "fine and dandy" and speak the truth.

It seems fitting to end this post with another Forrest Gump quote, one that I've heard my Bradley say a gazillion times ... "That's all I have to say about that."

Greener Grass

I'll never forget the first time my dad let me drive his riding lawn mower by myself, the Snapper Comet ... quite possibly the coolest riding lawn mower ever made. For months, Daddy had me ride in his lap while he mowed, teaching me how to use the clutch and the gears, what height was best for different parts of the yard, how to engage the cutting blade, and so on. There were times when I thought I would never be allowed to drive the mower on my own, and I was young enough to think that mowing the lawn was actually "fun." The day finally came, however, when Daddy handed me the keys to the mower and said, "She's all yours, Sam ... do a good job and I'll give you $5.00."

The first few times I mowed, I was meticulous at the task, taking great care to painstakingly make sure that every blade of grass was cut to the best of my ability. It wasn't long, though, until I began to try and find ways to decrease my mowing time (like slamming Dad's beloved mower into the highest gear and taking corners at breakneck speed ... well, breakneck speed for a riding lawn mower anyway) so that I could be done with the yard and move on to spending time with my friends. I quickly learned that mowing was more work than it was fun, even with the riding mower.

I've mowed a lot of yards since those early days of my youth, at my own homes and also at Mom and Dad's when I would travel back to Chattanooga for visits. It's funny to me that the smell of freshly cut grass, no matter where I am or whose grass is being cut, that smell always takes me back home to the house at the top of Ormand Drive in the small town of Red Bank, Tennessee. I can see Mom and Dad sitting on the back porch ... Mom in her white pants and little white shoes, and Dad in his suspenders with his ever-present hat perched atop his patch of white hair. I can see them wave at me as I make pass after pass on the mower ... I can taste the cold sweet tea Daddy always gave me to drink when I was finished mowing.

When I was young, I always dreamed of moving away from Red Bank, of seeing the world, of becoming a famous writer, of falling in love and living happily ever after. I always thought the grass would be much greener if I could get away from the little town of my birth ... if I could just move away, my life would somehow be so much better. Most of the dreams I had when I was young never came true, but I did move away from Tennessee and have since lived in Florida and Kansas. I traveled to Mexico when I was in college, and I've seen the Rocky Mountains of Colorado more than a time or two. And oddly enough, the older I've gotten, the more I realize that the grass was the greenest at the very place I came from. I never realized back then just what I had in my own back yard ... a loving family, lifelong friends, roots ... green, green grass ... the greenest I've ever seen.

Perhaps I'm feeling nostalgic tonight because tomorrow will mark six years since Mom passed away. Perhaps I'm feeling homesick tonight because my brother and sister and nephew, niece and great-niece were here for Meghann's wedding and kept telling me that I need to move home. Perhaps I'm feeling alone and vulnerable tonight because I may be facing surgery on my shoulder and can't figure out who will take care of me. Perhaps the grass really is greener back home. Or perhaps ... just perhaps ... God is teaching me once again ... to be content ... content in where He leads me, content in what He calls me to do, content in all circumstances of life.

I'm listening, Lord ... teach away ... teach away.

Hot Nor Cold

For most of my life, I've been more of a winter person than a summer one; I always would have much preferred to be cold than hot. My theory was always that I could layer my clothing to warm up in the winter, but I could only remove a certain amount of clothing to cool off in the summer (at least if I didn't want to get arrested anyway). I'm sure that part of my cold weather temperatures preference had more than a little to do with the fact that I had ... well ... plenty of "insulation" with all the extra weight I was carrying around.

This last winter in Kansas City was cold, really cold, and we had a lot of snow. And it was my first winter with over 100 pounds less of me on my 50-something-year-old bones. I knew early on in the frigid season that I was in trouble ... by late October, I was freezing cold all the time. I wore cold compression long underwear under my clothes; I cranked up the heat in my house; I took hot baths in the evenings; I sat in front of the fireplace at work; I put extra blankets on my bed. And I was still cold ... I just could not get warm no matter what I did. It didn't take long at all for me to decide that I was no longer a winter person ... I found myself wishing every day for hot weather to arrive so that I could be warm again. And now that summer is here, I've found that my internal temperature gauge has definitely changed with my weight loss and drop in blood sugar levels. I never seem to get hot anymore; I'm warm, but never really hot. And I've decided that I would much rather be warm than cold.

For the last few days ... OK, weeks ... OK, months ... I've been alternating heat and ice packs on my aching shoulder in an attempt to relieve the pain. Which it turns out, by the way, is caused by a torn rotator cuff and an impinged nerve. I suppose I'm glad to know that I'm not crazy, at least when it comes to my shoulder pain anyway. I'm not, however, at all glad that I have to go see an orthopedic surgeon next week, not glad at all. At any rate, in all the months I've been trying to nurse my shoulder along with heat and ice, I noticed something ... I couldn't tell if the heat or the ice helped the pain. I wanted to believe that one of them would ease my pain, so much so that I kept up the regimen even though neither seemed to help much.

Today as I sat at my desk at work with the hot pack from the microwave perched on top of my shoulder, I began to think about what God's Word says about being neither hot nor cold. Actually, the Bible uses the word lukewarm in the context of discussing people who aren't hot or cold, and what God says in the verse from Revelation leaves no room for misunderstanding how He feels about those folks. "So, because you are lukewarm - neither hot nor cold - I am about to spit you out of My mouth." Whoa, dude ... that's intense ... getting spit out of God's mouth ... really intense.

As so often happens when my mind heads in a certain direction, I thought about being neither hot nor cold in God's eyes all the way home tonight. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized how easy it is for me to be lukewarm when it comes to my faith. Instead of bravely sharing my faith with people I meet, I tuck my head down and move along. Instead of speaking up when people use inappropriate language in my presence, I sit feeling uncomfortable but saying nothing. Instead of sacrificing my time and my heart for others in need, I live in my own world focusing on my own life.

My prayer tonight is a simple one to say but super hard to live ... keep me from being lukewarm, Lord, in my love for You, in my commitment to Your Word, in my service to Your children. Keep me from being lukewarm, Lord, keep me from being lukewarm.

Inside Out

When my children were in elementary school, they thoroughly enjoyed the special "dress up" days at school. There were pajama days, backwards clothes days, fancy shoelaces days, and their all-time favorite, inside out day. I never understood why, but each one of my kiddos loved the days when they were allowed to wear their clothing inside out. There was something extra fun for them about it; again, I never understood why, but inside out days brought pure joy to my daughter and sons.

Last week, the pain in my shoulder was so intense that I finally caved in and let my doctor schedule me for a scan. Chatting with the technician before she slid me inside the tube, I asked about the difference between the scan and a regular x-ray. "Basically," she said, "the scan shows us if there is anything going on in the soft tissue of your shoulder ... it's kind of like an inside out view of your ligaments and tendons." Laying inside the huge machine and trying to breathe normally and not move, my mind centered in on the words of the tech ... an inside out view ... and I began to think about the radiologist who would interpret the results of the interior photos of my shoulder. I couldn't help but think that I wouldn't want that job, especially when the x-rays or scans showed that the person had a serious or life-threatening condition.

The more I thought about the concept of seeing things from the inside out, the more I began to think about my heart and how God is the only One who truly knows what is inside of me. I've had a few friends down through the years whom I've allowed to see pretty far inside, but God really is the only One who sees all of me. And perhaps the key word in that statement about my friends is "allowed" ... while I choose how much I confide in others, God knows me ... every single part of me ... from the inside out. When I play like I am strong, God knows how weak I am. When I wear a mask of self-sufficiency, God knows how much I need help. When I pretend that I'm in control, God knows that I'm just barely hanging on. He knows me ... every single part of me ... from the inside out.

And here's the thing about God seeing me from the inside out ... He loves me anyway. He never runs away just because what He sees in me isn't very pretty. He never stops showering me with grace just because who I really am doesn't deserve it. He never tells me I'm too much effort just because sometimes it takes a long while for me to change. He never gives up on me just because the inside of me doesn't always match the outside of me. He never runs ... He never stops ... He never gives up. He always sees me from the inside out, and He loves me anyway.

Inside out, Lord, inside out ... thank you for seeing me from the inside out and still loving me, still wanting me, still calling me.

Liquid Love

Earlier this year, a couple of friends of mine sold pretty much everything they owned, raised support money, quit their jobs, and headed to Africa to become full-time missionaries. What began as two-week missions trips with their church for several years eventually evolved into God leading them to take some major steps of faith and be willing to follow Him wherever He took them. Each month, these friends publish a newsletter that they mail to supporters, family and friends, and each month, they give me the honor of having the first read of that newsletter so that I can check their copy for errors. And almost each time I read their words, tears flow down my cheeks as I recognize that they are doing some truly awesome work for the Kingdom.

The most recent newsletter I edited for my friends talked about water ... the lack of it, the need to purify it, the lifesaving gift of it. As I read, I couldn't help but think of how much I take water for granted ... all I have to do is turn on the faucet or grab a bottle from the fridge. As I've written so often in this blog, I don't think God brings anything into my life by accident but that everything is part of His plan for me ... and many, many times, He has a lesson He wants me to learn, a truth He wants to impart to me. So I don't believe it was any sort of accident or coincidence that a couple of nights after I read my friends' newsletter about water, I had a water encounter of my own out on the walking trail.

Ollie and I have been walking later at night because it's been so hot and humid out here on the Plains (not as hot as back home in my beloved Tennessee, though ... bless my family and friends' hearts), and I've been sure to tank up on water each evening before we head out. I carry a bottle of water along with me for Ollie, and we stop at a water fountain (complete with a little fountain down near the ground for the canine walkers) to grab an extra drink along the way. But one night this past week, we were a good distance from home when I realized that I had forgotten to bring Ollie's water. He was panting and walking slowly, and was obviously in need of some fluid in a hurry. Wondering how I was going to carry my 20-pound wiener dog the mile and a half back home with my injured shoulder, I was about to kneel down and pick him up when a woman and two teenagers approached us on their bicycles.

As much as I don't believe things happen by chance, I'm also not one to see a miracle around every corner either. But those folks on those bikes ... they were nothing short of at least a little miracle. Stopping next to Ollie and me, the woman reached into a bag she had around her shoulder and pulled out ... yep, a bottle of water. "You and your pup look like you could use some cold water," she said, smiling broadly. "We just happen to have some extra bottles here if you'd like one." Looking at the two young people with her, my eyes brimmed with tears as I reached for the bottle and stooped over to pour some into my hand for Ollie. "Thank you so much," I said, trying to blink away the emotion that was washing over me as Ollie gulped the cold water from my palm. "I forgot to bring his water tonight, and I was wondering how I was going to get him all the way home without a drink," I said. Assuring me that it was their pleasure to help us, the three waved and continued their ride along the trail.

Finishing our walk after stopping a couple of more times for Ollie to take a drink from my hand, I thought about the kindness of the strangers I had just met ... and I thought about my friends in Africa. I thought about God's Word that talks about offering a cup of cold water in His name. The gift of cold, clean water ... to a gray-haired gal and her dog in Kansas ... to men and women and children on the other side of the world. Tears once again filled my eyes as I recognized the scope and enormity of God's far-reaching power ... He knows my thirst, your thirst, the thirst of all humanity.

"And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones who is my disciple, truly I tell you, that person will certainly not lose their reward.” Matthew 10:42

A Night Off

Being an editor for an advertising agency means that I read copy all day, and some days, I read more copy than any one human should ever read in a 10-hour workday ... yes, a 10-hour workday. On those days when the copy that comes across my desk is simply monumental ... like today, for example ... my brain is just plain old tired when I get home. I spent a good part of my day today reading a technical manual for a cattle drug ... I know ... sounds like fun to you, I'm sure. Trust me, not so much. And tonight, due to the brain drain from the tech reading, and due to the aching of my shoulder ... I am quite possibly as tired mentally and physically as I ever remember being. That being said, cut me a little slack if this usual grammar guru makes a mistake or two in this post.

For the last 21 months, I have rarely missed a night of walking ... I've walked in lousy weather; I've walked when I didn't feel well; I've walked and I've walked and I've walked. And for the rare days that I am forced to skip walking, I feel guilty for not walking. If anyone would have told me a couple of years ago that I would experience any kind of feeling about not exercising for a day, I would have howled with laughter. My idea back then of exercise in the evenings after I got home from work was walking back and forth from the couch to the refrigerator and shoveling food into my mouth. But tonight ... tonight, I am not going to walk. Tonight, I am tired and taking the night off.

Even as I type those words ... taking the night off ... guilt is washing over me, and I'm already mentally beating myself up for being a slacker and wanting to take a hot bath and go to bed. I can't help but wonder why I feel that way ... what underlying psychological meaning that has in regard to the person I've become. Now that I think about it, I realize that guilt seems to be a part of me now on many levels ... guilty when I'm not a good friend, guilty when I make mistakes at work, guilty when my heart is heavy, guilty when I can't help those who need my help. And while there is a part of me that feels the need to delve deeply into the source of that permeating guilt, there is a bigger part of me tonight that is screaming that my brain is fried and my body is wiped.

So, tonight ... tonight, I am done with thinking for the day. Tonight ... tonight, I am done with moving my body for the day. Tonight ... tonight, I am taking the night off. So sleep well, friends, and stay safe ... there's a tub of hot water, a cozy bed and two sleepy hounds calling my name. Tonight, I am taking the night off.

 

Lone Wolf

Being a good patient when I'm sick has never been a strong point in my character; in fact, I'm usually a whiny, weepy mess when I'm ill, and I've always felt terrible for the people who were stuck with the unfortunate task of caring for me during the times when I'm under the weather. Perhaps in part because I am such a pain when I'm sick, I always try to weather the storm without asking for anyone's help ... hmmm ... now that I think about it, I try to weather most storms, ill or well, without asking for help, quite possibly another flaw of character on my part. Ahhh ... as I often do, I digress ... back to my original premise of being an annoying heap of "big baby" when I'm sick, and especially so if I happen to have a high fever.

For as far back as I can remember, an odd thing happens to me when my body temperature rises ... I see wolves outside the door to my house. If my temp climbs above 100 degrees, I begin to see wolves creeping around my door. They never get in the house, which is a good thing I suppose, but there is always a group of them snarling and growling at me as they try to find a way in. And there is without fail always one particular wolf which my fever-crazed mind focuses on ... a large snow-white beast who is obviously the leader of the pack. He stands away from the group of gray and brown wolves, seeming to direct the efforts of the others as they try to reach me while remaining poised and in control as he stands alone.

Now I'm sure some of you are thinking ... that's it, she's gone over the edge, and maybe you are right. I have no idea why the wolf hallucination occurs only when I have a high fever, but anyone who has ever cared for me when I've been sick with a fever knows about "Terrie's wolf thing" because I talk about the wolves as my temperature climbs. Just ask my sister or my children, and they will tell you ... I see wolves when I have a fever.

I've been thinking for the last week or so about the wolves that inhabit my mind when I am ill, and in particular about the lone wolf ... the large white animal who stands apart from the group. And all week, I've been thinking ... the lone wolf is me. For years, I've taken care of my "pack," raising my three children alone, helping to care for my parents as they aged, being responsible financially for my family. In my 51 years, I've never lived completely away from my pack ... I've always had family of some sort in the same town, if not actually in the same house.

My sons have been out of the house for several years ... Matt and Becca live a couple of hours away, and Brad lives about 45 minutes from me. Meghann has lived on her own for the last couple of years, 10 minutes or so away from my house. But last week, she moved to the town where her new hubby Barrett pastors a church ... a little over an hour from here. I don't know why, but there seems to be a huge finality to Meg moving out of the town I live in, perhaps because she is the last of my kiddos to do so ... or perhaps because she is the youngest. I think I've always handled my children leaving the nest pretty well, but knowing that I have absolutely no family in the town I live in has sort of freaked me out over the last week. I'm the lone wolf ... I even have the same snow-white hair.

Tonight, I have no wise words with which to close this post ... no "so here's the thing" revelations or insights. I think I may need to ponder my lone wolf feelings for a bit, figure out where I belong now, pray that God will soothe my lonely heart. Or maybe ... maybe I should go outside and howl at the moon.

As the Deer

One of my most favorite things to do when I go back to Chattanooga to visit my family is to spend some time out on my sister's 40-acre farm. She lives in town, but she owns this beautiful farm about a half-hour away from her house, and I do mean beautiful. It's got rolling hills, two barns, a creek and several fenced-in places for animals. Down through the years, Sis has had cows, horses, goats, chickens ... and she's always said that someday she would have a couple of ostriches. In all the times I've been to my sister's farm, though, I've never once seen any deer. She assures me that she's seen them many times on her land, but I haven't seen even one in all the visits I've made there.

Last Saturday morning, Ollie and I went for a very early walk to beat the heat and because I had a speaking engagement that evening. We took our time and kind of sauntered along, both of us enjoying the coolness of the morning air. I was somewhat surprised at the number of people we passed considering that it was before 6:30 a.m. on a Saturday, but I suppose they were trying to get a workout in as well before the temperature began to climb. For all the people we saw on the first leg of our walk, as we drew closer to home, we found ourselves completely alone on the trail. As we crossed the street by the elementary school ... that's when I saw them ... two deer in the field by the small playground.

Amazingly, Ollie didn't make a sound as I stood transfixed watching the frolicking animals. It was almost as if they were playing a game, running back and forth, starting and stopping, chasing each other. They were playing so hard, in fact, that they would bump into each other, stop and look at one another, and then take off again ... it reminded me of the way Julie and Ollie play together. As the deer moved through the field, Ollie and I moved along the trail ... slowly, so as not to frighten the fast-footed beasts of the field. When we were almost to the wooden bridge that sits above the creek, we stopped and watched as the two deer jumped into the water and began to drink. I'm not sure how long we stood there watching as the creatures lapped up the water and eventually ran into the woods, but as we did, time seemed to stand still for those few moments.

Crossing the bridge to head toward home, I knew that God had a purpose in allowing me and Ollie to cross paths with part of His awesome creation that morning. Psalm 42:1 pulsed in my mind with each step I took ... "As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for You, my God." Just as the deer we had just witnessed quenching their thirst in the water of the creek, God desires that I quench my thirst in Him. And here's the thing ... those deer didn't look for a bunch of other ways to soothe their parched throats ... they went straight to the water where they knew to drink ... and drink deeply until they were filled.

Please help me, Lord, to pant for You as the deer pants for the water ... help me to go straight to the stream of You ... to the only true and living water ... to know that the only place to quench my thirst is in You. As the deer, Lord ... as the deer.

When I'm Gone

Funerals in the South are quite different from funerals in the Midwest. Funerals in the South are more like reunions of family and friends ... reunions that can quite literally last for days. I don't ever remember going to a one-hour visitation for someone who had passed away followed immediately by the funeral for said person until I moved to Kansas. Back home, visitations start in the early afternoon and often last until the wee hours, moving from the funeral home (or funeral "parlor" as a lot of Southerners still call it) to a restaurant or someone's house. And more often than not, there are multiple visitation times over several days, a long funeral and then a graveside service as well. I'm telling you, funerals in the South are a really, really, really big deal.

Yesterday, I went to a visitation for a gal that I used to work with many years ago. I'm sorry to say that I had lost touch with her over the last few years and didn't even know that she was sick. Another former co-worker called to tell me of Stef's passing and ask if I would go with her to the visitation. The second we walked through the door of the room where Stef's family and friends had gathered, I knew that this visitation was different than most I've been to, both here and back home. As we made our way to the front of the room to pay our respects, we were approached by a young man in his early 20s, smiling broadly and extending his hand.

"Hi," he said, "my name is Kevin, and Stef was my mom. She wanted you to have this and to know that she lived life to the fullest." My eyes brimmed with tears as I took the folded piece of paper he handed to me, watching as he made his way to each person who entered the room. We spoke to Stef's husband for a few moments, and I was taken aback by his calm and accepting manner concerning Stef's passing. I wondered that there didn't seem to be a hint or trace of anger or bitterness in him ... even though Stef had only been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer three months earlier. As I gave him a hug and turned to leave, he touched my arm and said, "Be sure you read that," he said, pointing to the paper in my hand. "She wanted you to know that she lived life to the fullest."

I said goodbye to my friend and climbed into my car, still holding the folded piece of paper in my hand. Starting my car, I thought, "I'll look at that later; it's probably just some poem or something." But before I put my car in reverse, I found myself unable to keep from opening the paper and reading the contents. Tears fell onto my lap as Stef's words ... her own words in her own handwriting ... leapt off the page and made their way straight into my heart. "When you're gone, will it matter?" Her handwritten words were followed by a printed note from her husband Paul that read, "Stef wrote this note for you. Each note is different, and each note is handwritten by her. She wanted you to know that she lived life to the fullest, and that our God is ever faithful. Blessings upon you, Paul, Stef and Kevin."

My friend called me later last night to tell me what her note said ... "Be unforgettable." She had spoken with some other people who attended the visitation and received their own notes. As she told me what some of those notes said, I realized that there was a definite theme in Stef's encouraging lines ... live a life that counts for something, a life that is lived to the fullest, a life that is true and real and pure ... a life that matters and makes a difference. And all day, I haven't been able to get her words on the note I received out of my head; in fact, I've carried the folded piece of paper in my pocket all day.

The notes were passed out randomly, and because they were folded, Stef's son didn't know what each one said ... he simply handed them out as people came into the room. And yet, all day today, I've felt as though I was meant to get the specific note that I did ... and all day today, I've wondered about Stef's question. "When you're gone, will it matter?" The more I've pondered on her words, the more I've questioned them ... what did she mean when she said "it"? Will it matter that my house was clean or my yard was mowed? Will it matter the kind of car I drove or the name brand of my clothes? Will it matter what my job was or how much money I earned? Will it matter that I loved others? Will it matter that I listened when someone needed to talk? Will it matter that I served with a heart that sought nothing in return? Will it matter that I was an example to everyone I met of the power of God's saving grace, of the life-changing gift of His forgiveness, of the way His love can soften even the greatest sinner's soul?

My prayer is that I live each day in a way that matters ... that I never take one second for granted ... that when I'm gone, what mattered to me will be what matters to my Lord.

"When you're gone, will it matter?

 

Upon This Rock

One of my favorite things about being an editor is when I get to research the meanings of words or phrases to determine if they are used in the accurate context and with the most correct definition. Sometimes I spend a great deal of time performing that research, and quite often I am surprised at the information I uncover. For example, do you know the definitive difference between a rock and a stone? Neither did I until I started looking into it.

Let me back up for a moment and explain why I spent a couple of hours this afternoon reading about rocks and stones. I was exhausted when I got home late last night from my speaking engagement, and my shoulder was throbbing like crazy. I took care of my doggies, took a pain pill and hit the sack. The medication took the edge off of my pain enough that I was able to sleep for a few hours, but then I woke up in the wee hours of the morning hurting again. I got up and soaked in the tub for a while, put some ice on the achy spot, walked the floor for a bit and then decided to take another pill hoping it would give me some relief. I went back to bed and woke up about 10 this morning ... even the dogs slept in today; perhaps they knew I needed the extra sleep.

I had a late breakfast and since I had missed church, I grabbed my Bible and my iPod and headed over to the creek behind the walking trail. Choosing my favorite spot on some rocks close to the water, I spent an hour or so listening to worship music and reading from God's Word. As I stood to head home, my attention was drawn to the large rocks on the side of the creek. I began to think about Jesus' words to Peter in Matthew 16 ... "And I say also unto thee, that thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it." And that's when I started wondering about why Jesus called Peter a rock and what the difference was between a rock and a stone.

The more I read about rocks and stones, the more fascinated I was with Jesus' choice in comparing Peter to a rock. Rocks are hard materials that are found on the earth's crust, either above or below the surface. Rocks are large and heavy, and they cannot be carried in one person's hand. Rocks are normally immovable, requiring great effort to transport them from one place to another. Jesus knew that Peter would eventually deny Him three times, but He also knew that Peter would be the founder of the church ... that He was to be the rock upon which the church would have its beginnings ... made from tough materials and not easily moved. Wow ... upon this rock I will build my church ... wow.

As if that weren't enough insight for me for one day, get this ... rocks are made up of stones, and stones are small pieces of rock. Stones are easily transported and carried in a person's hand. Stones hold the same strength as rocks, but because they are smaller in size, they can be used in many ways. Again ... wow. It amazes me how God ties everything together in His Word, how one small word can carry such significant meaning. Peter was the rock the church was built upon, but he was also the rock that was made up of all the stones ... and the stones were all small pieces of the rock.

I think maybe there was a reason I slept in this morning, and I think the reason goes far beyond me needing some extra rest. I think God wanted to speak to me this morning, one on one ... I think He wanted to make me think about what I'm part of and what I'm made of. I think He wanted me to remember where I came from and to wonder where I'm going. I think He wanted me to ... I think He just wanted me.

Front and Center

The first time I was asked to be the keynote speaker for a group was over 10 years ago. I remember how terrified I was, to the point of getting sick in the restroom just before I went on stage. I also remember how as soon as I finished speaking that evening, I knew that was what God was calling me to do ... I knew it as much as I've ever known anything in my life. I may work full-time as an editor for an ad agency, but my calling ... the ultimate reason why God put me on this earth ... is to be a speaker and a writer.

Please don't misunderstand what I'm saying ... my speaking and my writing have never had anything to do with me and everything to do with God. He gives the voice and the words, and I am nothing more than a vessel for His use. I know and understand that now, but that hasn't always been the case. It didn't take long for me to get over the fear I had when I spoke the first time; in fact, as more and more speaking engagements came along, I became arrogant and self-promoting. I was filled with pride in my own abilities, and I took all the credit rather than giving it to Whom it truly belonged.

I haven't spoken much over the last year, partly due to my health issues and the doctors not wanting me to travel. But I've also turned down many requests because my heart wasn't where it should be, and deep down inside, I knew it. Those of you who have been reading along as I've penned my recent life journey know that God has been working on me, dealing with me, stripping me of "me," altering my path and challenging everything I believed to be true about my faith, my soul, myself. I've described the place where God currently has me as a desert ... a vast, dry, hot, empty desert ... and I've struggled to understand why I am here. And though there are many things I don't understand and though I have a multitude of "whys," I know that part of His reason is to teach me humility ... to make me know to the core of my being that I am nothing ... nothing ... and He is everything.

Tonight, I will walk onto a stage and speak to a large group of women for the first time in many months. The fear that I felt the first time I stood before a group pales in comparison to the sheer terror that has possessed me for the last week whenever I have thought about tonight's event. I believe, however, that God is teaching me even through my fear ... or perhaps He is teaching me because of my fear. I know that I cannot step onto that stage tonight without Him. For as sure as I was all those years ago of my calling, now I find myself questioning where God is taking me or what He wants me to do. I don't understand why over the last month I've received a plethora of speaking requests at a time when I feel that my spirit is waning, my soul is wounded and my heart is weary. But I do know, as much as I've ever known anything, that tonight has nothing to do with me and everything to do with Him.

My prayer for the evening is that only God will be front and center tonight, that the women present will hear only His voice, that only He will be honored and glorified.