Looking for a City

When we moved to Kansas City from Florida over 20 years ago after my then husband's job was eliminated, we had the choice of three different cities where he could transfer within the same company ... Washington, D.C., Oklahoma City or Kansas City. I don't remember exactly how or why we decided to come to Kansas City, but I do recall that at least in part, it was the closest city to our home in Tennessee. I've often thought about how it must have been within God's plan to bring us to the Midwest, and I've wondered what path our lives would have taken had we not come here. Two of my three children met their future spouses here; some of my most precious friendships have been forged here; and most important of all, the kids and I all came to know the Lord here.

One of the greatest challenges after we had decided that we were coming to Kansas City was deciding which part of the city we wanted to live in. We knew nothing about the town or the suburbs that surrounded it, but we had three small children and knew we needed to live somewhere safe that had good schools. Thankfully, we had a great real estate agent who steered us in the perfect direction, and time has proven that it was the right choice. My children and I built a life here on the outskirts of Kansas City ... a life filled with love and relationships and laughter, with some trials and heartache mixed in along the way.

I've only lived in three states in my 51 plus years of life ... guess I could never be accused of being a nomad. I'm not sure why, but it seemed like a much bigger deal when we moved to Kansas than when we moved to Florida, perhaps because for the first time in my life, I wasn't going to be living in the South. Though our home in Ft. Lauderdale was considerably farther away in miles and hours to drive than Kansas City, it felt like I was much farther from home when we moved here.

Though it feels like home here in the Midwest for the most part, lately I've found myself wishing I could just pack the dogs in the car and drive until I found a little city or town where I would like to live. I think it has more to do with my state of mind than it does with really wanting to move ... it's the whole running away feeling that sweeps over me so often now that spurs my desire to find a place to simply check out of the daily grind. Unrealistic, I know, but a girl can dream, I suppose.

I downloaded some new music onto my iPod last night and was listening to it this morning as I walked. I stopped dead in my tracks when a song titled "Looking for a City" began to play. As happens quite frequently when I'm out on my beloved trail, the tears that rolled down my cheeks hit the pavement as I started walking again. As clearly as if He were walking beside me, God began to speak to my spirit through the words of the song. You see, there's only one city that I need to be looking for ... the city that God has designed for me to spend eternity in ... I should be hoping and longing and looking for the city where the streets are paved with gold. The cares of this life are so temporary when I view them in the context of the eternal home that is waiting for me. As I crossed the final bridge toward home this morning, I whispered a prayer that God would make me content while I wait ... content while I'm looking for a city.

"Looking for a city where we'll never die
There the sainted millions never say goodbye
Where we'll meet our Savior
And our loved ones, too
Come oh Holy Spirit
All our hopes renew."

Time Will Tell

One of my strongest memories of my maternal grandmother involves a clock ... yes, a clock. Granny had a clock that hung on the wall above her fireplace, a large box-style clock that chimed every hour, the number of chimes corresponding to the time of day it was. I've spoken before about Granny being a short, stout woman with thick, snow-white hair crowning her head, and it still causes me to smile that her last name was Waddle. She did indeed waddle when she walked. Each night, my short little granny would push her old green ottoman to the front of the fireplace and climb up on it to wind the clock. There was a little wand that she used to wind the gears on one side that made the clock tick and the gears on the other side that made the clock chime. And each time she went through her clock-winding routine, I would ask her if the clock would tick and chime forever. Her reply was always the same, "Time will tell, won't it now, child? Time will tell."

I've been thinking about time a lot lately ... how slowly or quickly it passes, how much time is involved in accomplishing certain tasks, how the way I spend my time is sometimes my choice while at other times it's not, and how when it is within my power to choose how to divide my time why I make the choices that I do. Lots of people complain about not having enough time to do all they need to do, and yet, they manage to find time for things they want to do. I'm guilty of that myself ... telling someone I can't help out with a project or I don't have time to meet them for lunch or I'm too busy to serve at church. And even as the words come out of my mouth, I'm mentally planning time to accomplish a task that's important to me or meet someone else for dinner or go shopping on a Sunday morning.

How I spend my time really does tell a lot about who and what are important to me, and I hope that if I haven't learned anything else in my 51 plus years of life I've learned to make time for the people I love. I hope I've come to understand that none of us have the guarantee of our next breath or another moment of life and that it is only by God's grace that I wake each morning and greet another day.

I can't help but think of the last six weeks of my mom's life when she moved here to Kansas City. It was a challenge to keep up with everything in my life ... working full-time, being a single mom to two teenagers still at home and my oldest in college, and doing everything I needed to do to take care of Mom, including seeing her every day, taking her to doctor's appointments, doing her laundry, and cooking all of her meals. Had Mom lived for many more years, I would have gladly accepted the responsibility of caring for her even though it would have taken up a great deal of my time. I would not take back one second of the time I spent with her, not one second ... not one second. In fact, I'd give everything I own to have one more hour just to sit and talk to her, to listen to her stories, to see her little eyes squeeze shut when she laughed, to wrap my arms around her and tell her one more time how very much I loved her. I never fully understood the importance of those moments until she was gone, and her unexpected death forever changed the way I view spending time with the people I love.

Granny's clock hangs in my small family room now, and each time I look at it on the wall, I think about Granny standing on her green ottoman going through her nightly winding routine. It hasn't ticked or chimed in many years, and to have it repaired is quite expensive. But it doesn't matter to me that it doesn't work anymore ... it doesn't matter at all. What matters is that it's a reminder to me ... a reminder of the legacy of my family, a reminder of how fleeting time can be, a reminder to make time to listen and laugh and love. Granny was right all those years ago ... time really will tell.

I Remember

Maybe it's my age or maybe it's my current state of mind, but I've been walking down memory lane a great deal lately as those of you who read this blog regularly know. Memories are powerful parts of the heart and mind, I believe ... some are sweet and tender, and some are painful and haunting. I consider one blessed who has more positive memories than negative, because there are times when good memories go a long way toward helping a person through a dark and lonely night.

I've written a lot about my family in this blog ... my children, my siblings, my parents, my grandparents ... because those memories and the relationships I had or currently have with them are part of what makes me who I am. I've been asked more than a few times why I never write about my marriage in this blog, because those years also served to shape the woman I am today. I've been asked if I've erased those memories from my mind, and the answer is no, of course I haven't. But I won't be writing about them in this blog, or anywhere else for that matter ... I simply won't.

Tonight, however, I am going to write a bit about my former father-in-law because he's been on my heart through the night last night and all day today. He suffered a heart attack earlier this week and underwent extensive heart bypass surgery yesterday. I remember well from my dad's heart surgery what a difficult and life-changing event that particular surgery is, especially for someone at Mr. Johnson's age. He and I had our differences during the years that I was married to his son, but after our divorce, he always treated me with respect and dignity. I've done a lot of remembering concerning him today ... and my own dad as well.

As I'm sure most of you have realized by now, my dad was a huge influence in my life ... and the memories I have of him continue to impact me even today. I remember so many things about Daddy, some small and some big. I remember him tossing a softball with me in the evenings when he came home from work. I remember him bringing home puppies in boxes. I remember him putting a worm on my hook for me. I remember him singing or humming or whistling ... a lot. I remember him swimming in the ocean when we were on vacation. I remember him praying. I remember him reading his Bible. I remember him giving his coat to someone in need. I remember him telling me he loved me. I remember him holding my children when they were babies. I remember him in the hospital room with me when I was in labor with Matt. I remember him at the back of the church in his tuxedo on my wedding day. I remember him talking about Jesus and how much he loved him. I remember him as he drew his final few breaths.

My former father-in-law was a minister his whole life, pastoring mainly small Nazarene churches in the South. I always called him Mr. Johnson ... never Dad or Willard .... always Mr. Johnson. I think it was a respect thing for me; for some reason, it seemed wrong not to call him Mr. Johnson. I remember a funny story he told at our rehearsal dinner. I remember how much he loved opening gifts on his birthday and Christmas. I remember that he often shed tears as he preached, especially when he talked about Jesus. I remember some quite heated arguments concerning the business he and my ex-husband owned together. I remember that he went for a long walk every single day. I remember that he didn't eat meat and that he loved pinto beans and cornbread. I remember how worn his Bible was. I remember the times he came to sit with me at the hospital in the last days of Daddy's life. I remember a tender and sweet conversation with him at Matt and Becca's wedding. I remember phone calls from him to my kids after my divorce and how he would always ask to talk to me, too. I remember that despite any disagreements we had, I always knew that he loved the Lord with all his heart.

So tonight, I remember ... I remember my father, and I remember my former father-in-law. I'm praying for you, Mr. Johnson ... for a full and fast recovery, for God's healing hand upon you. And I'm praying for all of your family as well ... I remember how much they all love you.

 

Just Like God

Many years ago, shortly after my oldest son Matt was born, I made some promises to my firstborn that some might consider rather weird in light of the fact that Matt was barely more than a newborn when I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom and uttered the following words. "I promise that I will hug you a lot. I promise I will hold your hand a lot. I promise I will say 'I love you' a lot. I promise, little boy, that we will never part or say goodbye without you knowing how much you mean to me. I promise that to you with all my heart." And when Brad and Meghann were born, I stood in front of the same mirror and made the same promises to the two of them. I know I've failed miserably at holding true to my words at times over the last 27 years, but I'd like to believe that I've kept those promises way more than I've broken them. And even though they are all adults now, I try to always end my visits with them with hugs and to close every phone conversation with a heartfelt "I love you."

Last night as I was reading through some news feeds on the Internet, my attention was drawn to an article about the drastic rise in suicides over the last 10 years in middle-aged single women, an almost 50% increase. I am, after all, middle-aged, single and a woman, hence the reason the article garnered my interest. The article offered up several possible causes for the dramatic shift in the numbers, including pain, sleeplessness and depression that are more often treated with medications now than in the past, which has led to easier access to intentional overdosing on those prescription meds. The article also discussed the effects of long-term illness, new diagnosis of an illness and the effect of hormonal shifts experienced from the onset of menopause. All of the information in the article was interesting, but one particular quote leapt off the page at me.

"Women of this age group are divorced, separated or single at unprecedented rates, and they frequently have no human contact outside of work and the Internet. Frequently, the wide social safety net and companionship of peers and family members is entirely absent, especially if the woman is viewed as infirm or tarnished in some way. Since human psychology evolved in an essentially tribal environment, we are ill-adapted to withstand the social alienation of our modern, urban, self-absorbed mass culture." Whoa, I thought, as I read the lines several times. Just last week, I responded to an email from a friend, whose husband had given me a hug a few days before, with the following words: "You tell him for me ... he had no idea how much I needed that hug today, how alone I am right now, how I sometimes go for weeks with no human touch."

Needless to say, my encounter with Russell on the street yesterday afternoon (read yesterday's blog if you don't know who Russell is) lingered in my heart through the night and has taken up residence in my mind today as well. And as I read the words "no human contact" in the article last night, I thought of Russell's hand in mine ... his dirty, worn, battered hand ... a hand that quite possibly has not been touched by another human in months, perhaps even years. I didn't sleep well last night, thinking about the article I had read, thinking about Russell, thinking about so many things. It was just before daybreak as I lay on my back with Julie's head and paws across my legs and Ollie's nose tucked under my side that something dawned on me ... something big.

You see ... God didn't send me to touch Russell yesterday, He sent Russell to touch me. God knew the words I typed in my email ... He knew. And He chose to use the most unlikely of people to touch me ... a man with one hand and two wooden legs. It's just like God, you know, to take those the world has tossed aside and use them in a mighty, powerful and beautiful way.

Yesterday, Russell said he thought I was an angel ... you are the angel, Russell ... you are truly the angel.

I Met a Man

The office of the company I work for is in downtown Kansas City, well actually, it's kind of on the fringe of the core of downtown. But it's downtown in the sense that on a pretty regular basis, there are homeless folks walking the street in front of our building. Or climbing into the dumpster in our parking lot. Or standing under the overhang at our front door. I've written before about my friend Sam who was homeless until his son found him and took him to live with him. I've talked about how my heart is drawn to those folks in part because of the example my dad set in helping the homeless men who gathered in the railroad yard where he worked. Today, though ... today, I met a man like none I've ever met.

Someone I work with saw him first and caused me to notice him ... across the street, trying to find shade from the intense heat, sitting in a wheelchair. I stood at the window and watched him as he mopped his forehead and drank from a tattered cup. I stood at the window and watched as he placed a piece of cardboard behind his back. I stood at the window and watched as he tipped his head back and looked toward the sky. I stood and watched, and then I made a decision. I went into the kitchen in my office and filled a garbage bag with ice. I grabbed a 6-pack of bottled water. I walked across the street. 

As I approached the man, he said, "You gonna talk to me?" 

"I am," I said, "if that's OK with you. It's awfully hot out here ... I brought you some ice and some water."

"Why, thank you," he said gently as I noticed that he was missing all the fingers on one hand, that his skin was leathery and worn, that his clothes were tattered and dirty ... that he had two wooden legs ... wooden legs that had two different shoes attached to them.

"You're quite welcome, sir," I said. "I thought the ice and water might help you out in this heat. It's really a scorcher today."

"August will be hotter, girl," he said with a grin crossing his face. "August in Kansas City is always hot."

"Well, I'm ready for it to cool off a bit myself," I said. "You got somewhere to sleep tonight? It's way too hot for you to sleep outside."

"Oh, yeah," he said, "I always find a place to sleep. Always find a place to lay this old body down at night."

"You got a place inside to sleep tonight?" I asked, hoping that my concern for him wasn't pouring through my voice the way it was coursing through my heart and mind. This guy is old, I thought ... this guy is too old to be out here on the streets.

"I was in the war, you know ... that's how I lost my legs and my fingers. Had to amputate 'em cause they was so shot up," he said with a note of sadness in his voice.

"So you're a veteran?" I asked.

"Yes, maam, I sure am," he said. "I sure am. I love this country and I love God, too."

Feeling the tears springing to my eyes, I said, "I've got to go back to work. You sure you have somewhere to get in out of this heat tonight, my friend?"

"Yes maam," he replied. "God bless you for the ice and the water ... God bless you."

"God bless you, too, sir," I said as I turned and headed back across the street to my office ... my air-conditioned office ... my ergonomic chair ... my lunchbox filled with snacks ... my pink Vitamin Water perched on my desk. Trying to settle back into my spot in the corner of the building, I couldn't stop thinking about the man. I should have asked him his name, I thought ... I should take him the food I have left in my lunchbox. So I gathered up what I had left ... some peanut butter packets, some applesauce and a couple of pieces of cheese, and headed down the stairs toward the front door. I stopped and asked a couple of gals if they had any snacks they wouldn't mind giving the man, and they generously gave what they had. I placed everything into a plastic bag and crossed the busy street once again.

"Hello again," I called out as I approached the ragged, tattered gentleman. "I brought you some food. I'm worried about you, sir ... it's terribly hot. I brought you some food."

"Well, hello," he said as his eyes filled with tears. "You brought me food, too? Ice and water and food?"

"I did," I said and I showed him what I had in the bag, asking him to promise me that he would eat the can of vegetable soup and some crackers for dinner. "There's even a little bag of chocolate candy in here for you. You'll have to eat that up in a hurry so it doesn't melt out in the heat. Promise me you'll eat this soup for dinner tonight?"

"I promise," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "It will be like eating in a fancy restaurant ... a feast fit for a king! This food will last me three weeks or more. Thank you, maam, thank you."

"What's your name?" I asked. "My name is Terrie."

"My name's Russell," he replied with his gentle and kind voice. "I think you must be an angel from the Lord."

"Oh, no, Russell," I said as I shook my head. "I'm no angel, my friend. I just want to make sure you're OK for today. And if I see you out here tomorrow, I'll bring you some more ice. I'll bring some extra food from home, too, so that you'll have some more to eat. I've got to go back to work, but you eat this food and find a cool place to sleep tonight, OK?"

"Yes maam, I will, I will. God bless you, maam ... God bless you," he said.

"And may God bless you, Russell. Would it be alright if I shook your hand before I go?" I asked.

"My hand is dirty, maam, but I would be pleased to shake your hand if you don't mind the dirt," the kind old man gently replied. "You are the first person in a while who has talked to me, you know ... people don't see me mostly and that's OK ... I'm not much to see anymore."

Emotion tore through my heart as I took Russell's hand in mine and placed my other hand over his. "Russell," I said, my voice cracking as I struggled not to cry in front of him. "I am truly honored to shake your hand today, sir, truly and deeply honored."

I watched Russell from my office window as he slowly wheeled himself with one hand down the sidewalk. I watched and wondered where he was going. I watched from my window next to my desk as tears rolled down my cheeks. I watched a man whose only earthly possessions were contained in plastic bags that hung from his rusted, wobbly wheelchair. I watched a man who lost his legs fighting for my freedom. I watched a man who has nowhere to live. I watched a man who demonstrated more honor and dignity in our two short conversations than I could ever begin to possess.

Today, I met a man ... today, I met a man like none I've ever met. Be safe tonight, Russell, be safe.

The Goat Wrangler

If I ever doubt that God has a sense of humor, all I have to do is think about my son Brad. The very thought of my middle kid makes me know to the core of my being that God indeed must have a funny bone since I believe that Bradley, along with all the rest of humanity, is made in His image and likeness. And the thing about Brad is that he doesn't try to be funny, he just says and does things that although they seem normal or serious to him are actually quite hilarious to those of us on the outside of his creative brain looking in. Trust me, I could relate countless stories to back up my premise concerning my son, but in all fairness to you the reader and to Brad who is the fodder for this post, I've chosen one simple but eloquent example of the innate comedic nature of my son.

Those of you who read this blog regularly know that I originally hail from the hills of Tennessee, born and bred, as my Southern compatriots will completely understand. Almost every year for the last 20 plus years, we've traveled home to Tennessee to spend a week or so with family, and one of my children's favorite things to do while we were there was to visit my sister's farm just outside of town. It's a beautiful piece of property with rolling hills, two barns and a creek that runs on the back side of the land. Down through the years, my sister has had horses, cows, goats, ducks and cats on the farm ... at one point, she even thought about getting a couple of ostriches. She's like my dad when it comes to animals and farming ... she loves them both with all her heart.

On one particular visit home when it was just Brad and Meghann and me, one of my sister's goats had injured its foot and needed some ... as my sis would say ... some "homemade doctorin'" that involved Brad and Meghann attempting to hold the goat while my sister applied medicine and a bandage to the animal's wounded appendage. It only took one or two attempts for Meghann with the smelly, twisting, bucking beast for her to decide that she wanted no part of holding that crazy goat, and I must say, I agreed with her ... I wanted no part of it either. Brad and my sister, however, were of one mind about the process, and that goat stood no chance against the two of them. It took a few tries and a couple of tumbles in the dirt, but Brad eventually got the goat in a death grip and held on for his life while Sis did her doctoring. When it was over and Brad released the goat, with a look of pride on his beaming face, he shouted, "Look what I did! I wrangled me a goat ... yep, this city boy wrangled a goat!"

Now while watching Brad tussle with the goat was funny in and of itself, what he did a couple of months later in regard to his experience still causes me to chuckle even now several years later. Needing to obtain a new part-time job, Brad asked me to look over his resume for him before he began submitting it to potential employers. Brad's a great writer, but one line on his list of previous "jobs" made me laugh until tears rolled down my face. There, in black and white, were these words: "Experienced goat wrangler." When I suggested to Brad that he had really only sort of wrangled one goat in his entire life and that it might not be a sought-after job skill, he said with all the seriousness he could muster, "It doesn't matter, Mom ... I have experience wrangling a goat."

And that's been Brad's take on life from the time he was a little guy ... see the potential story in every event or circumstance you experience and tell that story in the best way you can. It's part of what makes him a great filmmaker. It's part of what makes him a great son, a great friend, a great man. And it's definitely what makes him an experienced goat wrangler.

Love you, kiddo ... thanks for all the times you've made me smile.

B 7. I 19. N 42. G 50. O 63. BINGO.

My dad taught Sunday School for many, many years ... he taught little kids; he taught high-schoolers; he taught young adults; he taught married couples ... he taught a lot of Sunday School in his day. Daddy's last stint as a teacher before he got sick and had to stop was for elderly gentlemen; the youngest guy in the class was 80 years old. While Daddy enjoyed each age he taught, I think those older fellows held an extra-special place in his heart. He was in his mid-60s when he had to give up teaching because he could no longer remember how to read, and I often heard him say, "I sure do miss my old men's Sunday School class ... I sure do miss those old boys ... I sure do." In addition to teaching the older men in Sunday School, Daddy would often attend the monthly senior citizen Bingo games that were held in the family life center at church. I can remember him coming home and talking about how serious the old folks were about playing Bingo. I can close my eyes and see the twinkle in his eye and the grin on his face as he talked about his elderly friends.

I have a friend who works at a local retirement home coordinating and facilitating activities for the residents there, and Thursday nights are Bingo nights. There are several folks there who need a little extra help to play, so volunteers come each week to do just that ... help those who need help. And from time to time, my friend will ask me to come be a helper, and there's never been a time when I went to help that I wasn't touched or moved in some way by one of the residents. So when my friend said she could use my help last week, I was glad to lend a hand.

Last Thursday, I was paired with a sweet and gentle lady, a lady I've helped before. Her trembling hands and the puzzled look in her eyes remind me very much of my dad, and perhaps that is part of why I like it when I get to help her. She asks me over and over what my name is, and if I'm going to help her play. Each time I tell her my name, she repeats it ... and then a few minutes later, she asks again and I tell her and she repeats it. I tell her the letters and numbers that are called, point them out to her, and she slides the plastic covering over the number. When she gets a Bingo, I tell her to raise her hand and point to the numbers as she reads them aloud to confirm that she has won a game. Then I help her choose a prize from the prize cart another volunteer brings to each resident who gets a Bingo.

It sounds simple and relatively unimportant, doesn't it? Not so much, my friends, not so much. As I sat there last Thursday evening looking around the room, I couldn't help but think that if I were to live to be old, I would probably spend my final days in a similar place. I wondered how many of the residents in the activity room have no one who visits them, no one who loves them, no one other than the staff of the facility who knows if they live or die. I wondered if they sometimes wish to be done with this life, if they long to go on to their heavenly home. I wondered about the stories of their lives ... where they had been, what they had done, whom they had loved. I wondered, and I wondered, and I wondered some more.

My attention was drawn back to the lady I was helping when she asked, "Did I get anything?" When I said, "Not yet," she nodded her head as if she understood what I was saying. A few minutes later when she got her second Bingo of the night, she again asked for a stuffed dog from the prize cart. I said, "Are you sure you want another dog?" and she replied, "I like dogs." "Me, too," I said as I chose a brown and white Beanie Baby dog to accompany the white one she had won earlier. "I like dogs, too," I said, with emotion causing my voice to crack. A kindred spirit, I thought, a kindred spirit who likes dogs. 

So here's the thing ... the reason I said earlier that being there last Thursday to help with Bingo wasn't simple and unimportant at all ... I feel like I don't fit or connect or belong with anyone anymore. And yet ... on Thursday night, I fit, even if only for a moment, with a sweet little lady who likes dogs. A sweet little lady who said, "I like you," when I brought her walker to her when the games were finished. A sweet little lady who will never know how much those three small words meant to me or how long it's been since I felt words like that were spoken to me without the person speaking them doing so out of a sense of duty or obligation. I went there to help, but instead ... a sweet little lady managed to touch my soul.

Bingo. Bingo. Bingo.

Lifting Holy Hands

For the last couple of weeks, I've been going for physical therapy on my shoulder. It's sure not the most fun I've had in my life, but my shoulder does seem to be improving somewhat. Each time I go, the therapist has me perform a series of exercises and sends me home with printed instructions outlining the schedule she wants me to follow until my next appointment. For many of the movements of my shoulder while I'm at her office, rather than me moving my arm, the therapist moves it for me. And each time, she says, "Just relax, Terrie, and let me move and lift your arm ... remember, you're injured, and I'm not. Let me do the hard part for you ... relax and let me do the work ... rest ... relax ... let me help you." As I left my appointment on Monday, I couldn't stop thinking about her words and the way she lifted my arm above my head time and time again. She was patient and kind, never tiring in holding my arm up and never stopping in her encouragement to me to press on through the pain.

Turning into my driveway, I began to think about the story in Exodus 17 about Joshua fighting against the Amalekites. Moses and his two friends, Aaron and Hur, went to the top of the hill to watch the battle as God had commanded. As long as Moses kept his arms lifted, Joshua and the Israelites were winning, but whenever Moses lowered his arms, the Amalekites were winning. Listen to what verses 12 and 13 say: "When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up—one on one side, one on the other—so that his hands remained steady till sunset. So Joshua overcame the Amalekite army with the sword." When Moses got tired, when his arms started hurting, when he was weak, when he could no longer stand ... his friends helped him find a place to rest and held his arms up for him ... they helped him follow God's instructions and commandments when he couldn't do it on his own ... they stayed by his side until the battle was won.

It's hard for me to do what the therapist asks of me ... to relax and let go, to let her lift my arm. It's hard for me to admit that I can't raise my arm over my head by myself. It's hard for me to agree that I need her to do the hard part for me. And yet, my shoulder hurts and I need the physical therapy so that hopefully, the pain will ease and I'll again have strength in my arm and the ability to move as I once did. Standing at my kitchen sink drinking a glass of water, it struck me ... there are probably people who are holding up the arms of my heart and soul and mind ... people who are lifting me up in prayer and asking God to protect me from the sadness that has left me weary and hurting, weak and lonely, treading water in the darkest and deepest sea of my life. And just as I need my arm raised by the therapist, I need my heart held up by those of you whom I haven't managed to drive away by my silent and distant mood.

Last night as I was walking, I was listening to some of the old Southern gospel tunes that I mentioned a few posts ago, and I'd like to close with the lyrics to one of those songs. I'd also like to say thank you to those of you who haven't completely given up on me or run away from me ... thank you for holding up my arms ... and my heart.

"I had gone till I just couldn't go anymore
My faith had walked right out the door.
I thought there was just no way I could ever be free.
Someone looked at me with love and concern
And you started to let your prayer wheel turn.
Glory hallelujah, somebody touched God for me.

Somebody touched God when I was down
Picked me up and turned me around.
Then went to the throne of God to intercede.
When I was sinking deep in despair
My brothers and my sisters held me up in prayer.
When I was weak, somebody touched God for me.

Now God told Moses if you want to win
Keep your hands in the air till the very end
But he got so tired, he thought he was facing defeat.
So with one on the left and another on the right
They held up his hands till the end of the fight.
Intercessory prayer helped win the victory.

Somebody touched God when I was down
Picked me up and turned me around.
Then went to the throne of God to intercede.
When I was sinking deep in despair
My brothers and my sisters held me up in prayer.
When I was weak, somebody touched God for me.

When I was hurt, somebody touched God
And all alone, somebody touched God
Somebody touched God and took me to the cross
They called my name, and He heard their cry
When I was weak, somebody touched God for me.
Somebody touched God for me."

Homesick for You

When I was in college, I spent a summer attending school in Guadalajara, Mexico. I lived with an older couple, Guillermo and Carmen, incredibly sweet folks who each year opened their home and their hearts to students from the United States. It was the summer before my senior year at The University of Tennessee, and I had really never been away from home very much ... even during my times of raucous and wild living, I always hung around pretty close to home. I remember how excited I was to get away from Chattanooga when the day finally arrived for me to climb on the airplane and start my adventure ... away from home, away from rules, away from everyone. I also, remember, however, the feeling in the pit of stomach only two or three days later when I was so homesick I thought I would die. I missed my friends; I missed my job; I missed my dog; I missed American food; I even missed my family. I would have given anything to be able to go home. I made it through the summer, but that time away made me realize just how important and special home really was.

I've been homesick more than a few times since I moved away from my family and the little town of Red Bank, Tennessee, over 20 years ago, but that missing feeling has always passed pretty quickly as I've recognized that my home is now more in Kansas than in Tennessee. I'm not sure why, but lately ... lately, I've been homesick more than I can ever remember being. Perhaps it's because my family was here for Meghann and Barrett's wedding ... perhaps it's because my friend from Tennessee visited me for several days over the 4th of July weekend ... perhaps it's because of the deep sadness that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my soul. I don't know why, but I know I'm missing my family and the hills of Tennessee in a big way.

Tonight as I was driving home from work in the billion degree heat, I started thinking about the trips I've made back home over the years. I thought about the time the kids and I went without telling anyone we were coming ... I will always remember the look on my mom's face when she opened her front door and the four of us were standing on her porch smiling broadly. I thought about the trip I made home at the end of Daddy's life, knowing I was going there to stay until he passed away. I thought about the many trips my three children and I made to Chattanooga for Thanksgiving and the mountains of food our family consumed. I thought about the trip Meghann and I made for my nephew's commissioning ceremony when he was deployed to Iraq. I thought about my most recent trip home almost two years ago. Two years, I thought, has it really been almost two years since I made that trip? No wonder I'm so homesick ... I need a good old dose of Southern love and hospitality.

The more I thought about going home, my thoughts began to shift and I began to think about heaven. I wonder, I said to the air in the car, if God wants me to long for heaven the way I long for the mountains of Tennessee. It's so easy to get caught up in the daily events of life that I forget that this world ... Kansas or Tennessee ... is truly not my home. People often ask me where home is because of my slight ... yes, slight ... Southern accent, and when they do, I often say that I miss home. It struck me tonight that I should be homesick for heaven, and I should be sharing the hope of my heavenly home with those around me every day.

Help me to remember, Lord, when I'm homesick for an earthly place ... help me to remember that my real home, the only home that matters, is the home You have waiting for me. Make me homesick for You, Lord ... homesick for You.

The Semi-naked Treadmill

When my children and I moved from the house my ex-husband and I purchased when we first moved to Kansas City, we moved into a much, much smaller home. It was important to me, however, that even though the square footage was much less, we would still have four bedrooms so that each one of my kids would have their own space. My house is a story and a half ... a main level with two bedrooms, a bath, a family room and an eat-in kitchen; and an upper level with two bedrooms and a bath. As is true with most homes, we discovered a few quirks in our then 30-something-year-old house, not the least of which was that the upper two bedrooms are always hotter in the summer and colder in the winter than the rest of the house ... significantly hotter and colder, in fact.

A few months ago, some dear friends of mine gave me their old treadmill because they got a new one. I used to go walk at the mall near my house when the weather didn't allow me to walk outside, but now I can just jet upstairs to my treadmill and hoof away. The only problem is that it's hot here in Kansas City ... really hot ... so the bedroom that holds the treadmill is much hotter than the main level of the house where I reside most of the time. After a couple of nights of walking on the treadmill and soaking my clothes completely through with the sweat that was pouring from every pore on my body, I got a brilliant idea. Climbing the stairs and feeling the change in temperature about halfway to the top, I decided that I could strip down to my ... well ... my undies and my walking shoes for my hour or so of exercise on the treadmill. There's no one around to see me, unless of course you count my dogs Julie and Ollie, but I really don't think they care.

Last night as I walked in my semi-naked state on the treadmill, a thought popped into my head. If I die while I'm walking, someone is going to find me half naked on this treadmill and think I'm a crazy woman. And my next thoughts were ... So would that be the most embarrassing thing ever? Would the newspapers read "Woman found dead in her underwear on her treadmill surrounded by her dogs"? Would my children ever be able to live down the fact that their mom really was that crazy? 

As I contemplated stopping my walk and putting my shorts and t-shirt back on just in case I did bite the dust on the treadmill, I felt the now familiar nudging in my heart that God had something He wanted me to learn and understand and absorb. Everyone else in this world may see the clothes I wear on my body, but God sees the real me, the naked me, if you will. Others may see a smile on my face, but God sees my aching heart ... others may see a confident spirit, but God sees my overwhelming fear ... others may see strength or achievement, but God sees my weakness and pride.

It seems fitting to end this post with some verses from Psalm 139 in God's Word, verses that have taken on a whole new meaning to me over the last year ... He sees me ... He knows me ... He loves me.

"O LORD, You have searched me and known me.
You know when I sit down and when I rise up;
You understand my thought from afar.
You scrutinize my path and my lying down,
And are intimately acquainted with all my ways.
Even before there is a word on my tongue,
Behold, O LORD, You know it all.
You have enclosed me behind and before,
And laid Your hand upon me.
Such knowledge is too wonderful for me;
It is too high, I cannot attain to it.

Where can I go from Your Spirit?
Or where can I flee from Your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, You are there;
If I make my bed in Sheol, behold, You are there.
If I take the wings of the dawn,
If I dwell in the remotest part of the sea,
Even there Your hand will lead me,
And Your right hand will lay hold of me.
If I say, 'Surely the darkness will overwhelm me,
And the light around me will be night,'
Even the darkness is not dark to You,
And the night is as bright as the day.
Darkness and light are alike to You.

Search me, O God, and know my heart;
Try me and know my anxious thoughts; 
And see if there be any hurtful way in me,
And lead me in the everlasting way."

Look For Me

The house we first lived in when we moved to Kansas City had a formal dining room with a huge window that almost filled one whole wall from floor to ceiling. It was beautiful, but it was also a bear to keep clean with three little kiddos in the house. It's funny how much your perspective changes as you age ... if I could do it again, I'd treasure every little fingerprint I ever removed from that window. My children were young when we first came here to live ... Matt was five; Brad was three; and Meg was a little over a year old. Occasionally, I would run errands alone and leave the three of them at home with their dad ... not often, but once in a while I simply needed to get out of the house and have a bit of time to myself. And many, many times when I returned and pulled into the driveway and pushed the button to open the garage door, I would see three little faces pressed against the dining room window, waiting and watching for me to come home. The minute they saw my van, they would clap their tiny hands, jump up and down, and shout, "Mommie's home! Mommie's home!"

I'm not sure why, but for the last month or so, I've been sort of captivated by old Southern gospel music and have even downloaded several CDs onto my iPod. Many of you may be too young to recognize the names of groups such as The Happy Goodman Family, The Oak Ridge Boys, The Blackwood Brothers, The Gaither Vocal Band or The Cathedral Quartet, but trust me ... those groups could flat out sing an old gospel song. My mom loved to watch the Gaither Homecoming series on video (musical reunions of sorts of some of those old timer vocalists), and last night I spent a couple of hours watching some clips from those videos on YouTube. It's one thing to listen to music playing in your ears, but it really got to me last night ... perhaps because I had already had such a weepy day ... to watch those older folks as they sang, most with tears streaming down their faces and many of whom have now passed away.

It struck me last night as I watched and listened to song after song just how many of their songs were about heaven. And I couldn't help but think about the heavenly choir that is singing praises to God ... a choir filled not only with those famous voices, but with voices from simple folks like my dad, too. What incredible music they must be making together ... what incredible music. I've said before in this blog that I think more about heaven now than I ever have, and as I watched the older folks sing last night, I could sense their understanding that heaven wasn't far away for them. There was no fear or trepidation in them, but rather anticipation and hope for the time they would see their Lord face to face.

As I readied myself for bed last night, one song in particular was stuck in my head ... a song titled Look For Me by The Happy Goodman Family. It's a song about heaven ... a song about looking for those you loved here on earth when you get to heaven. Snuggling into my bed next to my sleepy dogs, I couldn't help but think about my old dining room window and my kids as they watched and waited for me to come home ... their noses pressed against the window, their eyes dancing with excitement when they saw me. The odds are good that I will go to heaven before my children and grandchildren, just as my parents have preceded me in the transition from this life to the eternal. As my eyes grew heavy with sleep, I thought about heaven and wondered if there might be a big dining room window ... a window where I can watch and wait, a window where those I love are watching and waiting for me. 

"You may look for me, for I'll be there,
I'll be there, I'll be there!
You may look for me, for I'll be there!
Glory to His Name!"

Power in the Blood

My dad had a beautiful tenor voice, and for as far back as I can remember, Daddy sang in the church choir. In fact, he rarely missed a Sunday occupying his spot on the back row in the choir loft of the little Baptist church that I grew up in. And for as much as Daddy loved country music ... think Dolly and Porter and Johnny ... he loved the old gospel hymns even more. Even when his mind was ravaged with Alzheimer's disease, he could still remember the lines to some of his most favorite songs ... We'll Work 'Til Jesus Comes, How Great Thou Art, Victory in Jesus and There's Power in the Blood. I can close my eyes even now and picture Daddy laying in his hospital bed in the back room of his and Mom's house ... belting out the lyrics to his beloved hymns.

This morning, I went for my fasting blood work, and yes, someone drove me. It was a long night, and I woke up this morning crying ... you just gotta love it when you wake up crying. I suppose the only sweet part about it is that Ollie the wiener dog always tries to lick my tears when I cry, and in light of how easily I cry now, that crazy dog spends a lot of time trying to lick my face. No matter how hard I tried this morning, I couldn't control the tears ... I cried in the shower; I cried while I was waiting for my friend to come pick me up; I cried on the drive to the doctor's office; and I even made a fool of myself and cried while the gal drew my blood.

I had sort of pulled myself together as I sat in the chair waiting for the nurse to begin the procedure, watching as she lined up the collection vials on the desk to my right. Looking at the tubes that would soon hold my blood, I was completely overwhelmed with the thought that leapt into my mind. For as long as I'm alive, I'm going to be forced to do these tests. For as long as I'm alive, my blood will fill these tubes. And the tears returned. It was a rough blood draw this morning, involving several attempts to fill all the tubes that were required for the multiple tests. As the tears rolled down my cheeks, I began to think about the power that my own blood now has over my entire life. I live or die by the level of sugar in my blood. Blood, blood, blood ... my head pounded with the thought of the power in the blood ... with the thought of my dad singing ... with the thought of a baby coming ... with the thought of life or death ... blood, blood, blood.

After being escorted to the car by nurses on either side of my wobbly legs, my head swimming and my stomach churning, my friend stopped at McDonald's and got me a breakfast burrito (the only good part of fasting blood work, by the way) and took me home. She settled me on the couch before she left, and I closed my eyes in the hope that sleep would come quickly and take away my pounding headache. Eventually I did snooze for a bit, but before I did, my mind continued to pulse with the words ... power in the blood ... power in the blood ... power in the blood. God has a lesson for me in today's painful visit to the lab ... 

"Would you be free from the burden of sin?
There’s power in the blood, power in the blood;
Would you o’er evil a victory win?
There’s wonderful power in the blood.

Would you be free from your passion and pride?
There’s power in the blood, power in the blood;
Come for a cleansing to Calvary’s tide;
There’s wonderful power in the blood.

Would you be whiter, much whiter than snow?
There’s power in the blood, power in the blood;
Sin stains are lost in its life giving flow.
There’s wonderful power in the blood.

Would you do service for Jesus your King?
There’s power in the blood, power in the blood;
Would you live daily His praises to sing?
There’s wonderful power in the blood.

There is power, power, wonder working power
In the blood of the Lamb;
There is power, power, wonder working power
In the precious blood of the Lamb."

And Then There Were Three

My whole life I've heard people talk about women's intuition ... you know, the way women just seem to "know" certain things or pick up on certain emotions or anticipate certain events. And honestly, I've always believed that the concept of women having an innate sense of what's happening in the world around them is true, and especially so in regard to the mother and child relationship. Those of you who are moms know what I'm talking about ... the times that a mom knows that her children are in trouble or that something great has happened to them or that they need to talk ... a mom somehow knows what's going on with her kiddos. Well, at least I used to be that kind of mom ... the events of the last few days, however, say that I've lost my touch in regard to reading my children.

Our family gathering on Saturday evening was organized by Matt and Becca, most definitely the two planners in the family. I'm quite certain that I've written before about Matt's penchant for organization dating all the way back to his color-coordinated drawer arrangement of his tube socks or his alphabetization of the foods in my pantry. So I wasn't at all surprised when Matt and Becca began to coordinate our dinner get-together a couple of weeks in advance, thinking that they wanted us to meet Brad's new girlfriend Shelby (whom we did, by the way, and she is a lovely and charming young lady). It was the first time we had been together as a family since Meghann and Barrett's wedding a little over a month ago, and, as I'm sure you know, weddings don't lend themselves very well to laid-back, easy-going times of talking and visiting.

We had barely settled in at the table when Matt, smiling broadly with his crystal clear blue eyes dancing with glee, leaned forward and said, "We wanted all of us to get together tonight because Becca and I have something to tell you, and we wanted to tell you all together at once." As I placed my hand over my mouth and my eyes filled with tears, I looked from Matt to Becca who was grinning from ear to ear. I heard Matt say, "We're going to have a baby!" as Becca reached into her purse to retrieve the photos from their first sonogram. My hands were trembling as I took the photos from Becca's outstretched hand ... I sat at the table in the restaurant and bawled as I looked at the first pictures of my future grandchild. Technology has certainly come a long way since I was pregnant with my three kiddos ... I could see my grandbaby's nose and lips and face, and I could even see the fingers on its little hand as she (Matt is convinced that the baby is a girl) attempted to suck her tiny thumb.

So here's the thing ... I had no clue, no idea, no hint, no feeling that my son and his sweet wife were even thinking about starting a family. And here's the other thing ... they found out they were pregnant the day before Meghann and Barrett's wedding and managed to keep it a secret the entire time they were here because they didn't want to take away from their wedding day. And here's one more thing ... I'm going to be a grandma ... I so didn't see that one coming.

It's no secret to those of you who read this blog on a regular basis that the last year has been tough for me; depression combined with the daily grind of diabetes has quite literally sucked the life out of me. The last month or so has been especially hard ... and before you ask, I don't know why, it just has. I do know that I've grown weary of battling each day against the overwhelming sadness that continues to permeate my heart and soul and mind. And now ... now there's a baby coming ... now I'm going to be a grandma. A friend told me when I told her about Matt and Becca's news ... "So it seems to me that God has given you a pretty giant reason to hang on and keep fighting, Terrie ... a giant little reason."

I'm going to be a grandma ... my kid is having a kid of his own ... I so totally did not see that one coming ... wow, God ... wow. 

Transformation Time

To say that it's hot in Kansas City doesn't even begin to tell the full story of how truly hot it is here. In the 21 years I've lived here, I don't ever remember so many days in a row where it's been this hot and humid. There have been hot days, but I can't remember such a stretch of endless heat. It's so hot it's hard to breathe when I step outside, and it's so humid that within minutes of going outside, I'm quite literally soaking wet. Except early, early in the morning ... and I do mean early. I've been walking at 5:30 a.m. for the past few days, because it's the only time of day that is cool enough to be out on the trail.

Yesterday morning, I was deep in thought as I walked alone in the low light before the sun officially rose for the day. I was thinking about the day ahead ... what I needed to get done around the house; where I needed to shop for groceries; when I needed to leave to drive to Topeka to meet my children and their wife, husband and girlfriend for dinner; how I was going to gear myself up and put on my happy face for everyone I had to have contact with throughout what promised to be a very long day. I was so deep in thought, in fact, that I was sort of ... well ... wandering a bit on the trail as I walked with my hat pulled low on my forehead and my eyes planted on the path beneath my feet. And I was wandering so much that I walked right into a tree on the side of the trail ... yep, I walked smack dab head-on into a tree. Thankfully, the bill of my cap hit the bark of the tree before my face did, and I made sure that I paid better attention to where I was going for the remainder of my walk.

It never ceases to amaze me how it seems that God almost always has a lesson to teach me out on the walking trail ... and to think that not that long ago, I only went for a walk on the trail when my kids forced me to go. And now ... well, now, walking not only keeps me alive physically, there are days when I feel that my time on the trail is all that keeps me alive emotionally and mentally. After my bump into the tree yesterday morning, I decided to sit for a few minutes on a bench along the side of the trail before heading toward home. Sitting there sipping on my water bottle and telling myself how dumb it was that I didn't see the tree, I pushed my cap back a bit on my head. As I brought my hand down from my cap, a large monarch butterfly landed on the end of the bench. Watching its wings slowly move back and forth, I wondered if it was the time of year when the monarchs migrate through Kansas City. Some years, it is an amazing sight ... butterflies everywhere ... floating effortlessly along on their journey.

The butterfly was on my mind all day, and I found myself thinking about the transformation that takes place when a caterpillar becomes a butterfly ... I thought about the slow movement of the caterpillar crawling along, about the time spent wrapped in a cocoon, about the freedom of flight once the transformation is complete. As I sat at dinner last night with my children, I recognized in full that they have all gone through the transformation from children to adults. As they laughed and talked and hugged, tears filled my eyes as I thanked God that they are all so healthy and happy, and that their lives are so full.

Climbing into my car to drive home, I couldn't help but wonder what the future holds ... for me and for my sweet children. I couldn't help but breathe a prayer of protection for them ... please, Lord, watch over my kids no matter what the future holds ... keep them, Father God, in the palm of Your mighty hand and wrapped in Your eternal love. I can never thank You enough for them, Lord, never enough.





 

A Thousand Words

A picture is worth a thousand words. So two pictures are worth two thousand words, I suppose.

Julie and Ollie. Best buddies. Nuff said.

Setting Sun, Rising Moon

I've lived in Kansas for over 21 years, and it still amazes me how quickly the weather can change in the Midwest. I remember one year when a good friend from Tennessee came to spend a week with me and my kiddos, and in a 6-day time frame, we had fall-like temperatures that changed into blistering humid temps above 90 (which came with powerful thunderstorms and blaring tornado sirens). The week ended with a crazy drop in the temperature, and it was snowing when my friend left for the airport. All in one short 6-day time span. Which is why, I suppose, it didn't surprise me that following several days of dangerously high temperatures that precipitated excessive heat warnings, a cool front moved through yesterday afternoon and last night was close to perfect weatherwise.

After dinner, I played left-handed Frisbee with Julie until she was too tired to move and then I took Ollie for a long, long, long walk. I don't know who was more thankful to be out on the trail in the beautiful weather, me or my tired-of-being-in-the-house wiener dog. Ollie was so happy to be walking that he stuck out his little chest, wagged his little tail and pranced on his little paws like he was king of the world. He greeted every single person we passed, and he was especially excited to see the little kids along the trail who now know him by name. By the time we made our turn to head home, I looked at my watch and realized we had been on the trail for almost two hours.

Stopping to give Ollie a drink from his water bottle, I noticed that the sun was setting on the horizon in a beautiful display of reds and pinks. I'm not sure how long I stood by the side of the trail watching the orange ball descend behind the clouds with Ollie waiting patiently for me to start moving again. As I began to walk with Ollie trotting by my side, I remembered how my mom used to say that the sky in Kansas was so much bigger than the sky in Tennessee. Each time Mom would make that comment, I would say, "Mom, it's the same sky; it can't be bigger. It just seems bigger here because there aren't any mountains." And each time, Mom would smile and say, "It's all in how you see things ... the sky is bigger in Kansas."

It struck me as Ollie and I walked slowly toward home that there was a lesson in Mom's words that I had never taken heed of before. Life is all about perspective ... how I see things affects every piece and part of my life. Whether my sky is big or small is quite dependent on how I view it ... whether I see the openness of unobstructed fields or the confinement of seemingly unclimbable mountains ... it's all in how I see things. As we passed the elementary school that signaled we were almost home, Ollie suddenly stopped and I looked up to see two young girls approaching on their bicycles. Not wanting to take the time for Ollie to visit with them, I leaned forward and lifted him into my arms and as I did, the almost full moon rising in the sky to my left caught my eye. "Look, Ollie," I said, "look at the pretty moon." Again, I'm not sure how long I stood there gazing at the bright white sphere in the sky while I talked to my hound, but tears filled my eyes when I finally started walking toward home, speaking a prayer as I stepped.

Open my eyes and make me stop and see the setting of the sun and the rising of the moon, Lord. Let me see the world through Your eyes, Father ... keep me from seeing the mountains that seem so steep and cause me to see the open plains of Your love.

Peaceful Coexistence

My dad was a hard worker, a really hard worker. He had a physical job at the railroad, and then he worked hard around the house when he came home in the evenings. Many weekends, Daddy spent a lot of time working at the little Baptist church that he helped build ... mowing the lawn, painting, repairing plumbing ... my sweet Daddy was a hard worker for sure. But Daddy also knew and understood the importance of relaxing, too ... of taking time to just be lazy or have fun. I remember him often saying, "It's a lazy kind of night, Sam, time to take it easy for a little while." The older I get, the more I realize that my dad was a very, very smart man who had a great knack for achieving balance in life, and I recognize that I could do well to learn from him even now.

Last night was a steamy, stormy night in Kansas City, and by 8:00, I decided I needed to put away my laptop and just be lazy until bedtime rolled around. Almost as soon as I closed my computer, Julie hopped up from her snooze at my feet and found a toy and plopped it in my lap, her tail wagging furiously and her eyes begging me to play. "Want to play, big girl?" I asked her as Ollie continued to sleep next to me on the couch. I tossed the toy down the hallway, and before I could blink, Ollie had flown off the couch and he and Julie were racing to retrieve the toy. I could hear them growling and see them tugging, each with an end of the toy in their mouths, as they came down the hallway carrying the toy together ... neither willing to let the other to carry the toy alone. That scene was repeated several times over the next half-hour or so as I continued to toss the toy to my hounds until they tired and collapsed in a panting heap next to each other on the floor in front of me.

Sliding off the couch and down to the floor next to the dogs, I patted their sleeping heads and smiled at the way Julie had thrown her paw over Oliver and pulled him close to her. "You two have become such good buddies, haven't you?" I said aloud to the tired pups. Tears filled my eyes as I recalled the rocky start that Ollie and Julie had, and how I thought the two of them would never be able to get along. I thought about the first time I brought Ollie home and how ferocious Julie was with him that day. I thought about how I cried all the way home after I took him back and told the lady that Julie hated the little wiener dog. I thought about how both the lady and Oliver just wouldn't go away, and how I eventually placed J.R.'s collar around Ollie's neck and Julie decided to let him stay. I thought about J.R. and how frightened he would have been in last night's storm. I thought about how Julie laid by his side and licked his head in the final days of his life. I looked at Ollie and Julie snuggled together last night, and I cried buckets of tears.

Someone said to me after J.R. died that she found it interesting that God chose a nonspeaking companion to speak to me so deeply. As I rose to dry my tears and ready myself for bed last night, I realized that there was a lesson for me in the companionship and love that I had just witnessed between Julie and Ollie. I don't believe God means for us to be at odds with each other in this life; I believe He wants us to have a peaceful coexistence as much as it is within our ability to do so. I don't think it pleases Him when we fight and snarl and attack each other; I think He wants us to play nice together, to carry things together and drop them at our Master's feet. I think He wants us to protect each other ... to put our paws around each other and hold each other close.

My prayer as I climbed into bed (quickly joined by Julie and Ollie) last night? Make me like my dogs, Lord ... teach me to lead a life of peaceful coexistence with those you have placed along the journey with me. Teach me to love as You love, to accept as You accept, to care as You care. Give me an open heart, God ... an open heart and open paws, too.

Range of Motion

Some days just start off better than others, don't they? Some mornings, I wake up feeling rested, the dogs run right outside and do their business and come right back in, I have a good hair day, enjoy my breakfast, have time to check my email, traffic is light and I get to work a little early ... some days just begin better than others. Then there are the mornings that begin with really low blood sugar, the dogs take their sweet time outside, I'm exhausted because I've tossed and turned all night, I'm already late when I walk out the door and then it pours down rain and I sit in traffic forever ... days when I wish I would have stayed in bed. Or days like today ... when I had to get up extra early so that I could make it to my first 6:45 physical therapy appointment. Yep, I said 6:45 ... which meant I had to haul myself out of bed at 5:15. Not the grooviest way to start a Tuesday for sure.

I've never had to do physical therapy before, and I'm pretty sure that when I'm finished with the process on my shoulder, I'll never do it again. In fact, I think it should be called physical torture rather than therapy ... I had no idea what the therapist was going to do to me, and I'm already dreading going back next week. I'm also not looking forward to performing the exercises she instructed me to do each day until I return ... not once a day, mind you, but twice every single day. She kept saying that the mantra "no pain, no gain" didn't apply in my case and to only stretch until I felt pain. I didn't have the heart to tell the sweet little gal that I have pain in my shoulder with every movement.

She began my appointment with asking me a bunch of questions and then having me perform a list of tasks to determine my range of motion, using some funky little device to measure each different twist and turn. She started with my left arm, and I arrogantly said, "Well, this is a walk in the park," and proceeded to demonstrate just how far I could reach and how strong I was ... and then ... she instructed me to accomplish the same maneuvers with my right arm. My arrogance and strength quickly dissolved into grimaces of pain and weakness as I made a feeble attempt to do as she asked with my aching right shoulder and arm. Typing measurements and notes into her laptop, she said, "You certainly have a very limited range of motion with your right arm ... I can't believe you've lived with that level of pain for this long." After going through all the exercises she wants me to work on until my next appointment, she told me to lay down on the exam table and she wrapped my shoulder in a huge ice blanket ... and that icy cold blanket, my friends ... ahhh ... that blanket felt like heaven had come down and landed right on top of my old wounded wing.

I couldn't help but think about her range of motion comments as I left the rehab center and got into my car to drive to work. A very limited range of motion, I mused, as I merged onto the interstate and headed toward downtown. That young gal has no idea how true that is, I thought to myself, and not just in regard to my shoulder. My range of motion concerning life in general has become very limited over the last months ... and for all my trying and all my pondering about it, I can't determine why I feel the way I do. At a time in my life when I should be free to go wherever I desire or do whatever I want or most certainly to be myself, I feel grounded, trapped and confined. My kids are all out of the house and self-sufficient ... I should be having the time of my life and doing all the things I promised myself I would do when they were all grown and on their own. And yet ... and yet, my range of motion is very limited.

Sometimes I think God allows a lot of traffic on my drives to and from work so that He can speak to me while I'm alone in the car, and tonight's drive home was extra slow. All day the words "limited range of motion" have been swirling in my brain, and I've been trying to figure out just what God was trying to teach me through the therapist's words from this morning. As the cars slowed to a complete stop this evening, a thought jumped into my mind ... my motion in life is limited because I'm afraid to step out in faith and trust where God wants to take me. Whoa, I mused ... wonder where that thought came from ... I wonder indeed.

Limited range of motion ... speak to me, Lord ... lead me, Lord ... take me, Lord.

Lots of Shoes

There may be a lot of things my children didn't appreciate about me when they all lived under my roof ... things like making them clean their rooms or take out the trash or mow the lawn. Or consulting the "board of directors" (a couple of my closest friends) concerning some form of discipline or punishment that needed to be enacted if they misbehaved. They may have had some pretty choice words to say about their dear old mama when they were angry with me. But there is one thing about me that all three of my kids were (and still are, for that matter) grateful for beyond measure ... my skill as an editor. I was wondering a couple of days ago just how many essays, book reports, thesis papers, sermons, screen plays, scholarship applications, or a host of other written materials I've proofed and edited for my three children ... the most recent being a paper for my film boy, Bradley. A paper for one of his film classes ... a paper about the film Forrest Gump, of course.

It appears to me rather "coincidental" that within a few days of reading Brad's paper, I found myself unable to sleep last night and skipping through the channels on television trying to find something to watch. Guess what movie was on? No, really. Go ahead and guess. Well ... Forrest Gump, of course. I settled onto my couch with an ice pack on my shoulder and two sleepy hounds vying for the spot closest to me, thinking I would watch dear old Forrest until I fell asleep. Instead, I found myself awake through the 2 1/2 hours of the movie ... the dogs slept, though (and they woke well rested this morning, I might add).

It's more than a bit fascinating to me that there are certain films that no matter how many times I view them, it seems that something new or different strikes me each time ... and Forrest Gump is definitely one of those kinds of films. Perhaps it's because walking has become such a big part of my life over the last year and a half that I was immediately struck last night by a statement Forrest makes in the opening of the film. He's talking with a nurse on the bench while he waits for the bus and he says, "I bet them's comfortable shoes ... Mama always says there's an awful lot you can tell about a person by their shoes. Where they're going. Where they've been. I've worn lots of shoes."

Those lines delivered with such thought and emotion by Tom Hanks have been on my mind all day. All day, I've been thinking about my own shoes and the story they tell to others about where I've been. I, like Forrest, have worn lots of shoes. Shoes that walked through a happy childhood and a rocky adolescence. Shoes that partied their way through my college years. Shoes that spent a summer in Mexico. Shoes that stumbled and fell in the canyons of a painful marriage and a devastating divorce. Shoes that climbed the mountain of single parenthood. Shoes that finally, after 40 years, slowly trudged along the road that led to Calvary and the foot of the cross. Yep, I've worn lots of shoes alright.

I was thinking, though, as I was driving home tonight about the shoes I'm wearing now ... about where those shoes are taking me. As much as the shoes I've worn in the past have helped to make me who I am, the shoes I'm wearing now will help to make me who I will become. I recognize that I am at a place in life where I've never been ... I'm too old to be young, and I'm too young to be old. "Where are you taking me?" I asked aloud in the car as I drove. "Where am I going? I know where I've been, Lord ... I just don't know where I'm going."

There's another famous Forrest quote when Jenny shows him the clippings she has saved from his cross-country run. Another quote that's been stuck in my mind today ... "I ran a long way, for a long time." Tears filled my eyes as I turned into my driveway and watched the garage door as it slowly lifted. "I've been running a long way, Lord," I said, "a long, long way, for a long, long time." And as I walked into my house and was greeted by two happy-to-see-me hounds, I understood the lesson God was trying to teach me. He knows every pair of shoes I've ever worn, and He knows every pair I will ever wear. He knows where I've been, and He knows where I'm going. He knows when I want to run, and He knows where to find me when I do and bring me home.