I Am Woman

There are several blogs I follow, including a marvelous one written by a gal I formerly worked with at the company where I'm currently employed. While I write from a faith-based perspective and I know that many of my readers are from a faith-based background ... that's not her type of writing. Occasionally, her choice of words can be ... oh ... rather salty. Sometimes she writes about hard and painful things. Almost always, she writes about her young children in a way that brings memories of my own three when they were but littles themselves. But in every single one of her blog posts, she makes at least one statement that stops me in my tracks and causes me to think deeply and search my own heart and mind for what I myself believe in and hold onto. And her post yesterday was no different ... words that leapt off the page at me and screamed, "This is so, so, so, so true! Pay attention to this, Terrie, pay attention!"

"I find that the grittiest pieces I write resonate the most with others. There are parts I'd like to share, but I don't, because I'm afraid. Because my story has always been too shrouded in privacy and fear. Each day I get better. But I must continue to circumvent the fear to be able to write the story well. Sometimes what we think of as the 'grittiest' may well be the most universal." 

I'd like to have a nickel for every time I've said that it's the most controversial, the most painful, the most revealing thoughts and emotions that pour out of me and land on the pages of my own blog posts ... that it is those posts that garner the largest readership and the most commentary, both positive and negative alike. My writer friend is very correct in saying that it's the grit of daily life that we can all relate to and identify with ... it's the sharing of real-life stories, the good, the bad and the ugly, that draws us all together and makes us realize that we are not as alone as we so often feel that we are. And so, in the spirit of unity and realness, I offer up a bit of grittiness for all of you today with the following revelation ... I detest, loathe and despise having to go to the doctor for any type of "woman" issue. I'll bet more than one or two of you can relate to that statement, and to my male readers (and yes, I know there are plenty of you) ... sorry guys ... really ... sorry for this post.

I never like going to the doctor, never ever, which is probably a good part of the reason why my diabetes remained undiagnosed for so many years, but I especially dislike going to the doctor now, perhaps because I have had to go so much and to so many different ones in the last couple of years. And I completely hate having to go to the doctor when there is something wrong ... well ... something wrong with me in the female department. Perhaps it stems from being so overweight for many years or perhaps it's due to living alone for such a long time, but I don't like anyone to see me without my clothes on ... there, I've said it ... I have a thing about taking my clothes off in front of another person. So yesterday when I had to finally break down and admit that I had an issue that wasn't going to remedy itself on its own, I grumbled all the way to my doctor's office that I was going to be forced to disrobe once I got there. And sure enough, that's the first thing Kristin made me do when she came into the room, even though I pleaded with her to find a way to work around my shorts ... heck, I changed into floppy basketball shorts before I went for that very reason.

My experience yesterday wasn't at all pleasant, and it was topped off with the most painful injection of an antibiotic I have ever received. In fact, the pain was incredibly intense for the remainder of the evening, through the night and most of the day today, coupled with pain from the issue that had taken me to the doctor in the first place, and it didn't begin to ease off until this evening. When I was up at 2:00 a.m. soaking in a hot tub of water (with my two dogs keeping watch over me by the side of the tub, I might add ... yep, my dogs are the only creatures on earth who see me naked every single day) ... I began thinking about what my friend had written in her blog ... about the grittiest parts of life resonating the most with others. It struck me that if I close myself off from others and don't share the tough times ... if I try to cover up the grit and only show the glitter, it's like going to the doctor and fighting against taking off my clothes so that the doctor can do what she needs to do to make me well. I also couldn't help but think that it's in the grit of life that God shines the brightest, that He is able to do His greatest work, that His love reaches the farthest, that He calls His children to help each other the most.

So here's to sharing the grittiest of the grit of life ... to being open, honest, real and transparent from beginning to end ... to walking through the muck and the mire together ... to thinking less of myself and more of others.

"Bear one another's burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ. For if anyone thinks he is something when he is nothing, he deceives himself." Galatians 6:2-3


 

Cat Got My Tongue

When I was a kid, Mom, Dad and I would travel each summer to the little town of Gordon, Georgia, to spend some time with Daddy's rather large family ... he had 13 brothers and sisters, and at least back then, Daddy was the only one who didn't live in Gordon. I have so many fond memories of those visits ... staying at my Uncle Harrell and Aunt Louise's house and riding horses on the dirt roads around their place with my cousin Ted. I can close my eyes and see their house and the sandy Georgia dirt where Daddy always parked his car. I can see my Uncle W.C. and Aunt Richie's house directly across from Uncle Harrell and Aunt Louise's, and I can smell the sugar cookies Aunt Richie always baked for me when we arrived. I remember biscuits and gravy and grits and bacon and sausage for breakfast, served, of course, with homemade butter and jam ... my Aunt Louise and Aunt Richie were, in my opinion, the best cooks ever.

Along with those fun visits, though, always came an event that made me nervous and anxious ... every single time we went there, the whole family would get together, all of Daddy's brothers and sisters ... well, the ones who were still living ... and their whole families and the children of their families and in some cases, the children of their families. I don't even know what level of cousin that made those folks to me, but I do know that I was beyond intimidated as a child when they would pepper me with questions and ask me to recall all of their names. I would hide behind Daddy's legs and wouldn't speak at all, and invariably I would hear the following words over and over and over ... "Whatsa matter, Terrie? Cat got your tongue?"

I never thought much about it back then, but now that my job involves reading words all day, I began to wonder about that phrase and where it originated. So I did what any good researcher does ... I Googled it and discovered that, much to my surprise, the phrase dates back to the mid-nineteenth century. In those days, it was most often used to address a child who was shy around adults or one who refused to answer a parent's questions after being caught in an act of mischief. Over the years, it has become a common phrase used among adults and its meaning is somewhat different ... it's a question asked of someone who is either 1) rendered speechless and the one asking the question wishes to emphasize the questionee's inability to speak, or 2) not speaking when the person asking the "cat" question thinks the questionee should be. It struck me as I read the present-day contexts of the question that they are kind of ... well ... kind of ... well ... snotty is really the only word that comes to mind. I mean think about it, if a person is rendered speechless for some reason, should someone else draw that to everyone's attention? And is it really the questioner's place to determine that a person should be speaking when they aren't? I mean seriously ... really?

The whole cat getting my tongue thing is on my mind because lately I've had more than one person pop the cat question to me. I'm more quiet than I used to be, except when it comes to putting words on paper I suppose, and there are days now ... lots of them, in fact ... when I simply have nothing to say. There are days when I am rendered speechless, when the effort of communication takes more energy than I can muster, when I am painfully aware of how futile and unimportant my words really are. There are days when it doesn't matter if someone else thinks I should be talking more or talking like I used to ... there are days when I ... just ... can't.

So I guess that means there are days when the cat most definitely has got my tongue, and maybe that's not such a bad thing. Maybe it's time for me to be more quiet ... to listen more and talk less. Maybe I talked way too much for way too long ... maybe I needed the muzzle of depression to silence me and make me pay more attention to what God is saying. Maybe the cat should keep my tongue and I should keep quiet.

"You have held my eyelids open; I am so troubled that I cannot speak." Psalm 77:4 

"If I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but do not have love, I have become a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal." 1 Corinthians 13:1 

"Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in Your sight, O Lord, my rock and my Redeemer." Psalm 19:14

Crossing the Line

In the first years that I was married, my then husband owned a photography company and we traveled every weekend to shoot, sell or deliver family portraits. I have no idea how many miles we drove in our old blue van, but I'm sure it was thousands. For the first couple of years, at least one of us was in college, so we would often leave town late on Friday evening and drive through the night to reach our destination. We would then work all day on Saturday and Sunday, and drive through the night again to get home in time to be in class on Monday morning. Sometimes when I think about those trips and those years, I wonder how I was able to physically do what I did back then. I think about how it never bothered me to drive for hours and hours on back country roads in the dead of night. I never thought about a deer darting out into the path of our van ... never thought about having a flat tire out in the middle of nowhere ... never thought about another car crossing the center line and hitting us. Maybe the reason for my nonchalance on those lonely nighttime drives was my youth ... I simply didn't know enough about the dangers that were all around me to possess the level of concern that I should have.

Last Friday evening, I left after work to drive to Coffeyville, Kansas, for a speaking engagement on Saturday morning in the nearby little town of Edna. It was a beautiful fall evening, cool and sunny, and by the time I got on the road, a magnificent sunset was beginning to grace the prairie. After 30 minutes or so, I turned off of the interstate onto a two-lane highway that cut through the rolling hills of farmland. I wish I had my camera, I thought, this is absolutely spectacular. Cows roamed across the open fields, and occasionally I would drive past a large farmhouse or a giant barn. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, however, I found myself hoping that the two-lane part of my drive would end before it got completely dark. Little did I know at the time that my entire drive ... all three hours of it ... would be on two-lane highways, and it's probably a good thing I didn't know before I hopped in my car to begin my journey because I'm sure I would have been completely freaked out.

It's amazing how dark it gets away from the city ... no street lights, no glow of businesses in the distance, no light whatsoever save the cars zooming past me only a few feet away from my own car. My admiration for the beauty of the land around me quickly dissolved into a desire to reach my destination quickly so that I could end the nerve-wracking drive. As the minutes rolled into hours on the two-lane road, I found myself thinking about all those drives on similar highways so many years ago. I found myself frightened by how deserted the road was. I found myself pondering how easily a car could cross the center line. I can't see very well at night ... thanks to diabetes, I have a halo effect around lights that makes night driving somewhat challenging ... and each time I would meet an oncoming car, the headlights would almost blind me. I gripped the steering wheel and focused on the white line on the right side of the road rather than the bright lights coming toward me while I chanted, "Don't cross the line ... don't cross the line ... stay where you belong."

I've come to the conclusion that life is one big teaching field for God ... He's always trying to get my attention and teach me a lesson. The farther I drove, the more I thought about line crossing and how many times in my life I've crossed lines that I shouldn't have ... lines of thought, lines of speech, lines of behavior ... I've crossed lots of lines in my life, and every single time without fail, it's had a bad outcome. As I thought about how many times I've either wandered over or deliberately driven across the lines that God has placed along the way to keep me safe, I couldn't help but think about how much easier it is to cross the lines when I'm surrounded by darkness. When I'm traveling in the light, it's easier to see where I'm supposed to be and where the lines on the road are.

Driving home on Saturday, God's deep truths from the night before were still pounding deeply in my heart and mind. It was another beautiful fall day, but in the light of day, the road that had terrified me the night before didn't frighten me at all. In fact, I had the windows down and the sunroof open, and had music from my iPod blasting through the speakers in the car. This is a breeze, I thought as I cruised down the two-lane road once again. I don't know what I was so afraid of last night ... it's just another road. And that's when it happened ... God smacked me right in the head to make sure the lesson from the previous night was securely planted in my heart. No ... really ... smacked me in the head. Well, actually, He stung me in the head. All of a sudden, without warning, I felt something hit my forehead right between my eyebrows ... and it hurt, a lot. I fought my initial impulse to slam on the brakes and slowed down and pulled over on the side of the road ... no shoulder, I might add, I had to pull into the grass to get my car off the highway. I looked in the mirror certain that I would see blood gushing down my face, but all I saw was a small red spot. What in the world hit me? And how could that little spot make my head feel like it's on fire and like someone sliced me with a knife?

I'll spare you the details, but after getting back on the road and driving about five minutes holding napkins with ice from my lunch box on my aching head, I had to make another sudden exit off the road and it was then that I realized what had happened just minutes before. A large bee of some sort had flown in my window and stung me on the forehead ... I knew it was a bee because my second stop was precipitated by said bee landing on the front of my shirt while I was driving, and I'm sure he intended to sting me again. Don't laugh, I could see it in his buggy bee eyes ... he was going to sting me again. When I finally made sure there were no more bees in my car and got back on the road, you can be sure that I drove the remainder of the way home with all the windows up and the sunroof securely closed.

So here's the thing ... I had been concerned about me or someone else crossing the line on the road in the dark the night before. And then, right in the middle of the day when I least expected it, I crossed the line both times the bee entered my world. Had another car been traveling toward me ... well, you can figure that one out yourself. And God's lesson? Day or night, darkness or light, I have to be vigilant about line crossing ... I have to stay focused on Him because I never know when a bee may fly in and sting me. I'd say God had more in mind than me speaking last weekend ... I'd say He intended for me to listen to Him in a big, big way.

Itsy Bitsy Spider

If I close my eyes, I can still picture the sweet little hands and fingers of my three children when they were toddlers ... chubby, pink, clumsy at times. I remember teaching them to tie their shoes with those hands and fingers, teaching them to count with those hands and fingers, teaching them to snap with those hands and fingers as well as a multitude of other tidbits of knowledge I imparted to my little ones as they grew. I also remember teaching each one of them to sing the song Itsy Bitsy Spider, complete with all the motions ... you know what I'm talking about, you know you do. It's odd how a quirky little song like that can become almost universal over time ... the words, the tune and the motions known to children and parents everywhere.

I suppose I never really thought about the words to the song back then, but earlier this summer I couldn't seem to get the simple lyrics out of my mind for a couple of reasons. Now for some reason unknown to me, they are stuck in my head once again ... which, of course, makes me wonder if God is trying to tell me something ... the whole need to repeat lessons to me over and over until I finally get what He wants me to learn thing, you know.

"The itsy bitsy spider crawled up the water spout.

Down came the rain, and washed the spider out.

Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain,

and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again."

Now the reason the song was on my mind earlier in the summer was because I had a bite on my thigh that wouldn't heal. I showed it to a couple of gals at work who immediately freaked out and said I had to call my doctor. I called my doctor, and she said I had to come into her office. I went into her office, and she said it was definitely a bug bite ... she wasn't sure what kind of bite, but it was definitely a bug bite ... duh ... I already knew it was some sort of bug bite. She wrote me prescriptions for antibiotic cream and meds, and after a couple of weeks, the bite finally healed. And then a couple of weeks later, I got another bite, and I had to go through the same process all over again. Hence the reason the itsy bitsy spider tune began to play in my head. But the more I hummed the little song, the more I started thinking about crawling up the spout, getting washed out by the rain, the sun returning to shine and tackling the spout again.

I don't have any bug bites on the outside of my body right now ... I do, however, have more than just a few bites on the inside of my heart and my mind, bites that, for whatever the reason might be, aren't healing. And perhaps that's why the spider song has returned to my mind once again ... and here's where I think God has two lessons for me that are beginning to take root in my heart and mind.

Lesson # 1: Those little bites earlier in the summer seemed small when I first noticed them, and I thought they would just heal on their own. But they didn't. The poison from the bites spread and would have eventually made me very ill had I not seen the doctor and started on the right course of medicine to help me heal. Sometimes it's the things that seem so unimportant when we first see them ... it's those things that can eventually poison our hearts and minds and render us sick and ineffective. 

Lesson # 2: Spout climbing is hard work. You climb and climb and climb, and then a torrential downpour comes, washes all your oomph away and leaves you flipped over on your back in the middle of a big fat mud puddle. But eventually, if you wait it out and hold on and believe, the sun will come back out and you can start your climb again. I think the key word there is if ... if you are strong enough and can hold on long enough and don't give up ... the sun will come out again. 

Proverbs 11:19 says, "He who is steadfast in righteousness will attain to life, and he who pursues evil will bring about his own death." Suck out all the poison, Lord, and dry up all the rain ... let Your Son shine.

A Mighty Battle

The house I grew up in was at the top of a hill, and it had a massive yard with several huge oak trees, a couple of walnut trees and a chestnut tree. One of the oak trees held a rope swing that Daddy made for me when I was young, and I remember gathering walnuts in buckets for Mom when they would fall from the walnut trees. I've got a lot of "tree" memories from my youth, not the least of which involves the tree house my brother Jerry built for me and his young sons. But some of my most vivid memories concerning the trees in the years of my youth took place beneath the large chestnut tree that resided in the side lot of Mom and Dad's yard.

For those of you who aren't familiar with chestnuts, they grow inside of burrs ... burrs that are covered with prickly spikes that are as sharp as needles. While I am sure that there are all sorts of proper ways to remove chestnuts from their burrs, my friends and I would simply smash them with our feet (with shoes on, of course) and remove the nuts. As the chestnuts ripened, the burrs would turn from green to brown and fall from the trees, most of the time splitting open and releasing the nuts within. And here's where my vivid memory comes in ... when the burrs began to fall, my friends would gather at my house for chestnut burr battles. We had some massive wars throwing the burrs at each other, and more than a few times, we would leave the battleground of Mom and Dad's yard wounded and bleeding where the spikes of the burrs had stuck into our skin ... and we would leave talking about how much fun we had ... taking great delight in the mighty battles we had fought.

When I was in Kentucky visiting my brother and sister-in-law a couple of weeks ago, my sister-in-law gave me a devotional book titled Jesus Calling. It's an awesome little book ... each day has thoughts written as if Jesus were speaking directly to the reader, followed by several Scriptures pertaining to each day's lesson. It's been more than interesting to me that every day's message thus far has so perfectly been exactly what I needed to think about for that particular day. The day my sis-in-law gave me the book was the day I was leaving my family to head back to Kansas City, and the deep feelings of loneliness had started washing over me that morning when I woke up ... I truly did not want to leave my family and go back to my lonely life. I opened the little book when I stopped to get gas, and this is what I read ... "Once you have trusted Me as your Savior, I never distance Myself from you ... no matter what you may lose in this life, you can never lose your relationship with me." Oh, yeah, you can rest assured that the tears flowed when I read those words.

Last week, someone told me that she didn't believe that God wanted me to stay in the place I have been in for the last year or so, and that she continues to believe that there is something else that is causing depression to refuse to relinquish its grip on my soul ... and her words have made me ponder some things over the last few days. I've told myself again and again over the last months that God had a plan and a purpose for having me where I am ... and to think about the possibility that He doesn't ... well, that thought knocked the wind out of me. But the more I thought about my friend's words, the more I wondered what is going on in my head. And the more I wondered what is going on in my head ... the more I wondered what ... is ... going ... on ... in ... my ... head. And then I picked up the little book ... Jesus Calling ... and this is what I read ... "There is a mighty battle going on for control of your mind. Heaven and earth intersect in your mind; the tugs of both spheres influence your thinking ... stay in continual communication with Me whenever you walk through the wastelands of this world ... stay alert, recognizing the battle being waged against your mind." As I read those words, I couldn't help but think about how many times I've said that I'm tired of fighting, that I don't understand this place ... this desert, this wasteland, that I don't have the strength to face another day.

Hmmm ... there's a verse in Ephesians ... "For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places." A mighty battle ... a mighty battle, indeed.

Heaven is Everything

Sometimes I wonder how many times my dad said the following words to me ... "Your word is your bond; never break a promise or go back on your word. If you say you'll do something, do it. If you say you'll be somewhere, be there. If you say you'll give something, give it. Always keep your promises ... your word is your bond." So this afternoon, I went to visit a certain resident at the retirement home because I told my friend who works there that I would. I didn't want to go today ... I didn't want to leave my house ... I didn't want to interact with anyone. But I said I would go this weekend, and the weekend was almost over. So I went to see the sweet little 100-year-old lady I wrote about a few weeks ago ... you remember her ... the lady who quoted verse after verse to me from God's Word.

She was in her bed when I entered her room, and at first I thought she was asleep. But as I stood there trying to decide what to do, she opened her eyes and said, "Well, hello there." I sat in her wheelchair by the side of her bed and asked how she was doing, and when I finally looked at my watch, I realized I had been chatting with her for an hour and a half. She began our conversation by talking about growing up on a farm, and I told her about spending time on my sister's farm when I was in Tennessee a week or so ago. She talked about riding horses and told me she preferred riding with a saddle than without, which made me laugh out loud. And then all of a sudden, she abruptly changed the subject and said, "You know ... heaven is everything."

Thinking perhaps I had misunderstood her, I asked her to repeat what she had said, and she replied, "Heaven is everything. Everything you could ever imagine. I think Jesus is a young man in heaven, and I think God is an older fellow. I don't think much about the streets of gold and those kinds of things, but I do think about Jesus. And I think there will be horses in heaven because the Bible says that Jesus will come back riding on a white horse. There's a Bible in my bottom drawer there if you want to read about it. You'll find it in the book of Revelation. I think if I knew this was my last day on earth, I would want to spend every minute of it in the Bible. We need to dig into it, like digging into dirt with a shovel." I'm sure my mouth was hanging open as I listened to this dear saint talk about heaven and God's Word. When I finally spoke, I said, "I think about heaven a lot more than I used to ... and I wonder about it a lot ... what it will be like there ... if we'll know each other ... if there will be animals there ... how incredible it will be to see Jesus ... yep, I think about heaven a lot more than I used to." Listening intently to me as I spoke, the sweet lady patted my hand and said, "That's because you're closer to being there than you were before."

Yesterday when I was at Walmart, I bought the book Heaven is for Real. I'm sure that many of you have read it or at least know the story ... if you haven't, you should. I laid on my couch last night and read the whole book, completely fascinated with some of the details the little boy related about his view of heaven. Only God knows if the little guy's story is true or not, but I know that I was deeply touched by the simplicity of his belief in a real and literal heaven. The thing that struck me most about the book, however, was the overwhelming message of the love of Jesus for little children and those who believe in Him. First the book last night and then my friend at the retirement home today ... God definitely has me thinking about heaven in a big way.

God has a way of putting the icing on the cake when He has a truth that He wants to be sure I understand. As I walked toward the exit of the retirement facility, I noticed a woman sitting on the couch near the door. I've seen her sitting on that couch every single time I've gone to help with Bingo ... she's there when I come in, and she's there when I leave. In fact, I asked my friend who works there about the woman last Thursday night ... I asked if she always sat by the door and my friend said that she did. I always say hello to her, and she always greets me in return but I've never stopped and talked to her. But today, I noticed that she was reading her Bible, so I stopped and asked what she was reading. Forty-five minutes later, I told her I had to go home ... I bet you can't guess what she talked about ... yep, she talked about heaven. Somehow I don't think it was coincidence at all that in less than 24 hours, God had chosen three times to cause me to ponder the reality of heaven. I also don't think it was coincidence that as I stooped to shake her hand and tell her my name, she looked deep into my eyes and said, "This Book can heal you, you know, if you dig into it."

I managed to get in my car before the sobbing came, and I'm not sure how long I sat in the parking lot crying my heart out and talking to God with my hands gripping the steering wheel. Tonight, I can't get heaven off my mind, and I've spent a good part of the evening reading my Bible. Not a bad way to spend a Sunday, I think, friends ... not a bad way at all.

Dead Mouse Walking

My next-door neighbors in the house I previously lived in are true salt-of-the-earth wonderful people ... Cindy and Perry ... they are from Arkansas, and they are two of the kindest, gentlest, most faithful friends anyone could ever ask for. Cindy and my friend Becky bought and made all of the bouquets and flower arrangements for Meghann and Barrett's wedding, and Perry read Scripture at the ceremony. Cindy and Perry stood by me through my long and difficult divorce. Perry taught my sons how to shave, and Cindy made us dinner when I was sick. They prayed with me when life was tough, and they laughed with me when life was funny. As much as I love both of them, there was one certain incident that sealed Perry's place in my heart forever.

I am terrified of mice, and snakes, too, for that matter ... and raccoons in my garage, but that's a story for another post. And even though my former house was relatively new and in a nice subdivision, more than a time or two, a mouse would get in the house and cause this old gal to nearly have heart failure. I was usually able to catch them in a trap and have my sons take care of them for me, but there was this one mouse ... Mighty Mouse ... that I couldn't catch. He was a brave little sucker, scampering across the living room or kitchen floor right in front of me. It was a Saturday, and I was beyond the end of my rope with Mr. Mighty Mouse, so I called Perry and asked if he would come over and try to catch the mouse before I just packed myself and my kids up and moved out. He laughed and said he would be right over, and it didn't take him very long to catch Mr. MM with a broom and a dustpan ... yep, you read right ... a broom and a dustpan. Now you understand why that event earned the ultimate level of respect from me for Perry ... seriously, he caught an uncatchable mouse with a broom and a dustpan.

It's a cool, rainy, gray day here in Kansas City, and after lunch I took advantage of a break in the falling drops and set out for a walk with Oliver the wiener dog. I was deep in thought and kind of sauntering along letting Ollie take his time as he explored the trail and the grass and the trees. As we made our turn to head toward home, I shivered as I walked into the cold wind. I stopped to zip up my hoodie, and Ollie stopped behind me waiting for me as I struggled to get the zipper to move. Finally my jacket was zipped, and I began to walk again tugging on Ollie's leash as I moved. Thinking he was coming along, I walked until his leash suddenly snapped tight. I turned around to see why Ollie was stopped and saw that he had something in his mouth, and as I walked to him, he came trotting toward me with his tail wagging furiously and a spring in his step. "What do have, buddy?" I asked my hound. "What's in your mouth?" Almost as soon as the words left my lips, I realized what it was ... yep, Ollie the wiener dog was strutting his stuff with a dead mouse in his little mouth.

I'm sure if anyone saw what happened next, they would have thought I had truly gone off the deep end. I began screaming, "Drop it, Ollie! Drop it! Ewww, Ollie, ddddrrrroooopppp it!!!!" Ollie stood with a perplexed look on his face, certainly wondering why I was so upset when he had found such a wonderful prize. "Oliver Chance Johnson," I shouted as my stomach began to rise into my throat. "Drop it right now! Drop it, drop it, drop it!" And then I clapped my hands and said it again, and finally, my little dog laid the mouse on the sidewalk ... right in front of my feet. Lovely, lovely, lovely. I dragged Ollie into the grass away from the rodent, and I gave him a very stern lecture about not picking up dead things. Oh I know you're thinking he didn't understand me, but I assure you he understood every part of my lengthy reprimand because as we began to walk, Ollie's tail was tucked between his legs as I kept his leash locked so that he couldn't wander from my side.

I've been even bluer than usual for the last few days, and I was so disgusted by the whole mouse in the mouth event that I sarcastically said aloud, "So, God, is that Your grand trail lesson for me today? My dog walking with a dead mouse in his mouth? If that's Your lesson for me, thanks, but no thanks. You can keep it." As quickly as I spoke, I knew there was indeed a lesson, and I knew it was a big one. Here's the thing ... that mouse didn't know or care that he was being carried along in the mouth of a dog. He didn't know or care that there were sharp teeth wrapped around his body. He was dead ... he was a dead mouse walking. Oh man, I thought as those now familiar tears once again sprung to my eyes. I'm a dead mouse walking ... that's your lesson for me, God ... I'm a dead mouse walking. The dogs of depression and fear and sin have been walking down the trail of life with me in their mouths ... sapping the life from me ... for, as a friend told me last week, a long time ... too long, in fact.

Dead mouse walking ... dead mouse walking ... I'm going to have to think about that for a while, God. And by the way ... I take back what I said about You keeping Your lesson ... thank You for not giving up on me just yet ... thank You for Your breath of life today.

Are You Listening?

My three children are close in age ... three years between Matt and Brad, and 17 months between Brad and Meghann. And to those of you who are parents of multiple children who were born close together, you will totally relate to my next statement. Sometimes when they were young, my kiddos would all talk at the same time and clamor for my attention and without fail, one of them would eventually shout, "Mommie, wisten to me ... wisten to me!!!" I think back on those years, and I wonder sometimes if I gave my children the individualized attention they each needed ... and if I didn't, kiddos, I'm sorry and I hope you know it wasn't for lack of trying. I hope that at least most of the time when one of you said, "Mommie, wisten to me," I listened.

I've been thinking about listening a lot lately ... listening to God, listening to family, listening to friends, listening to doctors. Tonight when I took Ollie for a walk, I realized as we crossed the street to head for the trail that I hadn't picked up my iPod off the kitchen table. It was chilly and gray out, and I knew that it would get dark quickly so I decided not to go back home to get it. The wind was rustling in the trees as we came to the trail, and I stopped and listened to the sound of the leaves as they swayed in the breeze. As we walked by the creek, I noticed the sound of the water as it flowed over the rocks. When cars would pass on the street, I was aware of the different sounds each car made as it zoomed by. As Ollie trotted by my side, I heard the click of his nails on the paved walkway. It was as we made the turn to come home that I realized that tonight's walk was very different ... I was listening ... really listening ... to the sounds all around me. It struck me in a big way that it was relatively deserted on the trail tonight, and yet I was hearing things I hadn't heard for a long, long time.

As we walked, I began to think about how many times lately I've wanted to shout, "Somebody listen to me ... please listen to me!" I thought about how often I've wished for someone to hear my heart and try to understand how I feel ... not to fix me or heal me or judge me or do anything for me ... just to listen and try to understand. I wondered how many times I've failed to listen to the people in my life who need me to hear their hearts and to understand how they feel. Tears filled my eyes and coursed down my cheeks as I thought of how much God wants me to listen to Him, to hear His heart, to understand His love for me. My tears fell like rain as I acknowledged that God wants to listen to me ... that He always wants to hear my heart and understand how I feel.

I know I've said it before, but God lives on my walking trail, friends. I don't know why He seems to choose so often to speak to me out on the path as I walk ... perhaps it's because that's where He can best have my undivided attention, where His voice rises above the clamor of life, where He and I can just simply talk, where He can share His heart with me and I can share mine with Him. Perhaps it's because He wants me to know that He is with me as I walk along the path of life, that I'm not alone wherever that path may lead. Perhaps it's because He simply wants me to listen ... to listen and understand that He is the beginning, the middle and the end of my trail.

Bridges of Love

It's hard to believe that autumn is almost here, and I'm more convinced every day that time passes more quickly the older I get. It seems like only yesterday it was the beginning of another year, and now it's almost the end of that same year. With fall comes football and falling leaves and lots of traffic near the high school around the corner from my house. With fall comes pumpkins and apple cider and children dressing in costumes and asking for candy at my front door. And with fall comes Awana at church on Wednesday nights and me saying yes when asked if I would be a listener again this year for little kids to recite Bible verses.

Last night was the first night for me to go listen because I was out of town last week, and honestly, all day yesterday I dreaded having to go. I haven't been involved at church for quite a while ... I slip in and slip out on Sunday mornings and rarely have any interaction with anyone there, and when I do, I usually end up in tears and things get really awkward really fast. So, I was more than stressed yesterday wondering how I was going to get through the evening ... but ... but ... but ... I love those little kids, and I kept telling myself that it was for them. I slipped in the back door just in time for the kiddos to head into their rooms, breathing a sigh of relief that I didn't encounter any adults as I ducked into the first room to begin my listening duties. The leaders were busy with the children, so other than a nodded hello, all I had to do was listen to the kids and sign my name when they completed a verse. This will work, I thought as I headed to the next room ... I can duck in and listen to the kiddos and duck out ... this will work just fine. 

I thought about beginning this post by promising that it would be the last bridges one ... but in light of God's repeated presentation of the bridges lesson to me, I decided that perhaps I shouldn't make such a bold statement. It was as I walked into the room to listen to the last group of kiddos recite verses last night that He put before me what may be the most important bridge lesson He's shown me yet. A sweet little girl saw me come in the door and jumped out of her seat, ran over to me and wrapped her tiny arms around my waist. "Oh, Miss Terrie, I've missed you so much! Where have you been? I haven't seen you in a really, really, really long time!" I hugged her and told her I had missed her, too, and asked if she had a good summer. She let go of my waist and I held both of my hands up for her to high-five them, something I had done last year each night as the kids came in or left the rooms. And that's when God decided I was the one who needed to learn something last night.

Instead of slapping my hands, the girl grabbed them and raised our hands over her little head and said, "Look, Miss Terrie, it's a bridge ... my Daddy says when we do this, it's a bridge of love ... it's a bridge ... I love you, Miss Terrie, I really do." I'm sure I stood there like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car, stunned by the glow of God's love and truth in this little child. I managed to finish listening to the kids, but by the time I got to my car, tears were streaming down my cheeks. I was sobbing as I drove home, and I kept repeating the words the little girl had spoken ... a bridge of love, a bridge of love, a bridge of love. For all the times I've felt unworthy and unloved and unwanted, a little child made me think about the bridges of love that God has extended to me over the years. She made me think about the ultimate bridge of love, the sacrifice of God's Son ... His one and only Son Who stretched out His arms to be nailed to a cross ... His one and only Son Who says every day, "This is how much I love you, Terrie ... this is my bridge of love to you."

"And He called a child to Himself and set him before them, and said, 'Truly I say to you, unless you are converted and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever then humbles himself as this child, he is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever receives one such child in My name receives Me; but whoever causes one of these little ones who believe in Me to stumble, it would be better for him to have a heavy millstone hung around his neck, and to be drowned in the depth of the sea.'" Matthew 18: 2-6

Bridges of Wood

So obviously, I can't get the bridge lesson off of my mind, hence post number two about bridges. Bear with me, though, God is teaching me some important things ... and maybe He's got a lesson for someone else who is traversing a bridge or two of their own. All I know is that last night out on the trail, God used a couple of wooden bridges to get my attention yet again. He knows me pretty well, I suppose, because He often recognizes that I need to be presented with what He wants me to learn more than once and in more than one setting. And then there are times when He knows that He needs to hit me over the head with the lesson ... like with bridges and bridges and more bridges.

There are two wooden bridges Ollie and I walk across each night as we make our way along the walking trail ... we walk across them on our way down the trail and on our way back home. That means we cross the bridges four times each evening. Remember yesterday's post when I said I don't like to walk or drive across bridges? These two bridges creak a bit when we walk on them, not bad, but they creak nonetheless, and it always creeps me out. It didn't take long after little Ollie became my walking buddy for me to notice something about him when we walked on the wooden bridges ... he absolutely loves them. Part of his obvious affection for the bridges is that he takes great delight in peeing on the metal posts on both ends of the bridges, and he is sure to pee on those posts every single time we walk. Of course, as I've mentioned before, Ollie is a pee-er, though ... he stops and hikes his leg and pees on just about every tree or rock or bush we pass. And yet again ... I digress ... back to my little hound's love of the wooden bridges.

Early on, Ollie would pee on the post when we came to the bridge, and then he would take off running across the bridge until he reached the end of his leash and it stopped him. I would walk at my normal pace behind him, and when the leash stopped him, he would turn around and look at me and wait for me to get closer and then he would run again until he reached the post at the other end of the bridge where he would stop and ... well, you know. Several weeks ago, something came over me when Ollie started to scamper across the planks of wood beneath his little paws, and I ran after him shouting, "Let's race, buddy ... come on, let's race!" Ollie took off in front of me and then he stopped and ran back toward me and then turned and ran ahead of me again. It made me smile to see my little hound running back and forth, so my spur-of-the-moment race challenge to him quickly became a nightly thing. Now, when we come to the bridges, Ollie pees and then he looks at me with his tail wagging like crazy waiting for me to race with him. And we've incorporated something new recently ... we start and stop and he runs back toward me and we start and stop and he barks nonstop as he plays with me on the bridges. 

It was really nice out last night, so Ollie and I walked a little longer than we normally do, sort of sauntering along, taking our time and enjoying the hint of fall in the air. By the time we approached the first bridge on our way back home, the light was fading and I picked up my pace a bit so that we could get home before it was completely dark outside. Rounding the curve in the trail that meant we were close to the bridge, I thought ... No chasing this time because it's getting dark. Ollie won't notice in the dark that we're at the bridge; he'll just walk and not want to play our game. Wrong. The minute he saw the bridge, he ran ahead of me and did his business and stood with his tail wagging in anticipation of our now routine time of play. I tugged on his leash and said, "Come on, buddy, it's too late. We'll play chase tomorrow night." Wrong again. My little wiener dog stood with his feet firmly planted at the end of the bridge refusing to move. I couldn't help but smile at him as I turned and walked back to where he stood and shouted, "OK, little dude ... let's race!" And with that, Ollie took off barking and stopping and running back toward me and barking and running some more, and the scene was repeated again when we reached the next bridge ... in the dark, by the way.

So here's the thing, the truth that God showed me as Ollie and I made our way home last night ... bridges in life aren't necessarily worthy of my fear; in fact, they may bring me great joy in the end if I allow myself to be open and willing to step out in faith. The pain of losing my little wiener dog J.R. made me more open to giving Ollie the wiener dog a chance with me and Julie. Ollie is playful and funny and makes me smile ... and he has a pink nose. I still miss J.R. every single day, but I know that Ollie is good for me and he's like medicine for my old girl Julie. If I hadn't walked across the bridge of J.R., I would have never had reason to meet Ollie ... and had I never met Ollie, I would have missed out on some pretty fun and special moments.

So here's to bridge crossing and running and playing and barking and laughing ... here's to a God Who knows the path He has laid out for me ... here's to walking with Him every step of the way.

Bridges of Steel

There were several bridges in Chattanooga that crossed the winding Tennessee river back in the years of my youth, including the Wilkes T. Thrasher Bridge (which carries cars over the Chickamauga Dam), the Walnut Street Bridge (which has now been converted into a pedestrian bridge), the Market Street Bridge (which is a type of drawbridge)  and the Olgiati Bridge (which is just a plain old four-lane bridge). The bridge a person chose to drive across was determined in large part by what part of town he or she wanted to reach ... or in my case, whichever bridge seemed less frightening to me at the time. You see, for as long as I can remember, I've been afraid of bridges. I don't like to walk across them or drive over them. I don't mind looking at them from a distance, I suppose, but even that makes my heart pound and causes sweat to break out upon my brow. Bridges, purely and simply, scare the heck out of me.

I'm not sure how many times I've made the drive to Chattanooga from Kansas City and back again over the last 20-something years, but I am certain that there are two distinct parts of the trip that always cause my mind to flood with trepidation. I loathe driving through Saint Louis because the interstate system there is so confusing and the traffic can be a nightmare if you hit the town at the wrong time. But even more than I hate Saint Louis driving, I absolutely dread the bridges I must cross on my way to my beloved South. I have no clue how many bridges there are all together, but I know that there are four bridges with massive steelwork that reaches into the sky above the pavement. Yes, I'm afraid of bridges as a whole, but those adorned with crowns of steel terrify the living socks off of me. When I see them rising on the horizon as I drive, I immediately grip the steering wheel of my car like a vise and the closer I get to them, the more I decrease my speed. I'm quite certain that people who pass me on the steel and concrete beasts are either laughing or cursing at this frightened little gray-haired gal as I creep across the objects of my fear.

I traveled a different route part of the way back to KC on my recent trip because I left from my brother's house in Kentucky rather than from Chattanooga, and I remember thinking to myself as I began driving ... Maybe going this way will eliminate some of the bridges. How great would that be if I miss a couple of them on this route? I was probably an hour or so into my drive when I saw it ... the biggest steel covered bridge I have ever seen, with three separate "humps" of steel rising into the air. "Well, that's not good," I said out loud to Ollie the wiener dog who was oblivious as he rode in his doggie car seat in the back seat of my car. "Ollie," I called out to the snoozing hound ... "Did you hear me, buddy? Not good at all. Look at the size of that bridge ... man, oh man, oh man." Fear wrapped itself through me ... not around me or beside me ... it went all the way through me to the very core of my being. I made a snap decision to pull over to the side of the interstate to try and get a grip ... oh wait, I already had a death grip on the wheel so I guess I pulled over to try and loosen up. I'm not sure how long I sat there looking at the gigantic pieces of steel, but since I'm back in KC, it's safe for you to assume that I eventually conquered the beast and drove on. I will, however, tell you that the closer I got to the triple-humped steelwork, the more rust I noticed on the giant beams ... holy, holy, holy moly.

Needless to say, after I made it across the bridge I needed to make a bathroom stop ... yep, go ahead and laugh it up on that one ... the phrase "scared the pee out of me" took on all new meaning for me last Saturday in the hills of Kentucky. Standing at the sink washing my hands, a thought made it's way into my mind and I realized God had a big lesson for me in that rusty steel bridge. By the time I got back to my car and lifted Ollie out of his seat for his own potty break, tears were streaming down my face and plopping on his little brown head. So here's the thing ... I can't tell you how many times I take a different route in life thinking it will be shorter or easier or less frightening only to discover that there is a big old triple-humped steel bridge in front of me that I must cross to reach my destination. There's no getting around it ... if I want to make it over the rivers of life ... the rivers of sadness or grief or loneliness or fear or illness or betrayal ... if I don't want to drown in the swirling, flowing waters beneath me, I have to cross the bridges one by one, hand-in-hand with my Lord. 

"Now this is what the Lord says, 'Don't be afraid, because I have saved you. I have called you by name, and you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. When you cross rivers, you will not drown. This is because I, the Lord, am your God, the Holy One of Israel, your Savior.'" Isaiah 43: 1-3.

Sweet Caroline

Little kids are the best, the absolute best, blessings in life. They are honest and real and sweet and funny. And most of the time, they smell good ... kind of like cotton candy mixed with sugar cookies and shampoo and candles. They cry easily and they laugh even easier. They play ... a lot. They don't worry about how they look or what kind of clothes they wear or what other people think about them. They pray sweet prayers, and I believe they have a direct line to God. They don't worry about when they will die or if they will get sick. They live every moment of every day and they have a true excitement about the little things in life. They see castles in the sand and gold in the sun. They love with innocence and truth. I'm telling you ... little kids are the absolute best blessings in life.

Tonight I had dinner with a family who has five children, from teenagers to little kids. The big kids impress the heck out of me with their kind and loving hearts, and I love it when they talk about what's going on in their worlds or how they feel God is leading them. I love it when one of them grills amazing chicken for dinner and when one of them says, "Are you going to eat that corn?" The little kids are generous with their hugs to me, and they crack me up with some of the things they say like "God, thank you for letting ... um ... um ... (Dad says my name) ... oh, yeah, for letting Terrie come to dinner."

Last week, I got to spend a lot of time with two of my favorite little kids in the world, my great niece who is six, and my great nephew who is four. I love those kids, and they seem to love their Aunt Terrie. I don't get to see them very often, but when I do, it's like heaven right here on earth. I love to spend time playing with them and listening to their stories and it's like medicine for my soul when Ahmed tells me how much fun I am or Caroline tells me she loves me. They are both incredibly smart, and I couldn't help but chuckle when Caroline told me that she's already reading at an upper second/early third grade level. Those kiddos touch my heart and bring me joy.

I thought a lot about Ahmed and Caroline as I drove back to Kansas City last Saturday ... I thought about the sweetness of their hearts and the innocence of their minds, and I thought about how much fun I had spending time with them. I thought about how I look forward to seeing them each time I travel to Tennessee. I thought about them growing up and wished that I lived closer to them so that I could be part of their lives. I thought about what the future may hold for them, and I wondered what kind of world they will live in when they are adults. I thought about sweet Caroline and precious Ahmed, and I thought about the unconditional love I feel when I am with them. And the more I thought about them, the more I thought about God and how much He loves every single one of His children and the unconditional love He showers down on me.

Protect those little ones, Father ... wrap them in love and watch over them, Lord. Keep them safe, and let them learn and understand who You are. Guard their hearts, God, guard them from evil and set their eyes on You. Take care of my sweet Caroline and precious Ahmed, Lord, please take care of them.

The Final Hug

Today is a day that many people in the United States will never forget, a day that 10 years ago brought terror to our nation. Thousands of people lost their lives ... thousands of families will never be the same again. As I watched interview after interview over the past week as people remembered September 11, 2001, I remembered where I was that day. I was working downtown on the 12th floor in one of the tallest buildings in Kansas City, and I had just arrived at work when the news of the attacks on the World Trade Center began to appear on the news. We all gathered in the room of our office that housed a big screen television and watched as the towers crumbled to the ground. I remember people screaming and crying, and I remember one woman who was completely distraught because her husband was in New York attending a business meeting at the World Trade Center.

When I went back to my office, the message light on my phone was flashing. As I heard my oldest son Matt's frantic message, I remembered that he was home sick from school that day. When he saw the news, he freaked out because I worked in a skyscraper in downtown KC and the media was reporting that there were several planes still unaccounted for. After I assured Matt that I was fine, one of my co-workers tapped on my door and told me about the Pentagon. Shortly after that news broke, the owner of the company I worked for closed the office and told us all to go home and be with our families. I remember hugging my children tightly as we watched the horror of the day unfold on television.

Saying goodbye to my family in Tennessee has always been hard for me, but this visit it was especially difficult. I wept and wept as I hugged my sister and my nieces ... it was without question the toughest goodbye I've experienced on any of the countless trips I've made back home. My oldest niece walked me to my car and climbed in and sat with me for a bit ... I'm sure she was trying to calm me down before I got on the interstate to head to my brother's house in Kentucky. When I finally pulled out of the parking lot of the restaurant, I could only drive a short distance before I had to pull over to the side ... I was crying so hard I couldn't see the road in front of my car. I managed to hold it together while I was at my brother and sister-in-law's house, even when I hugged and kissed them goodbye. But when I drove out of their driveway, the tears came and then the sobs and then another stop by the side of the road until I could see to drive.

As I drove back to Kansas City yesterday, one thought pounded in my brain ... all three of us, my brother, my sister and I have health issues. My brother and sister are quite a bit older than me, and they both have significant heart-related problems. My soul ached when I had to leave them ... it ached in a way it never has before as I found myself contemplating when or if we would see each other again. The feeling of homesickness flooded my mind and my heart again and again as I made the long drive back to the Midwest ... with every passing mile, I missed my family and the love I feel when I am with them.

This morning, my pastor spoke about September 11, and he shared a story about a man in one of his former congregations who passed away on a Sunday after the evening service. He talked about how he felt when he realized that his sermon was the last one the man ever heard and how we never know when it's the last conversation, the last moment, the last time we will ever have with someone. I sat there with tears streaming down my face thinking about the people who lost their lives on September 11, 2001, and I wondered about their last moments, their last words, their last hugs with the people they loved. I cried as I thought about my family and the parting hugs we shared on Friday and Saturday ... I cried as I thought about those I love ... my family, my children, my friends ... I cried as I thought of broken relationships and wounded hearts ... I cried as I thought of God's arms wrapped tightly around all those who are grieving or lonely or afraid.

Hug someone today ... listen to someone today ... talk to someone today ... my pastor is right ... you never know when it might be that person's final hug, final conversation, final time to see Jesus in you. 

Let God be God

Each time I travel to Tennessee, there are certain people I always spend some time visiting with. Like yesterday when I went to see Burley and Carl and Hazeline ... I always plan a day to visit them when I'm here. Like all the people in my family, from my sister to all my nieces and nephews and great nieces and nephews and now ... great great nephews ... holy cow, that makes me sound really old. Then there are others I may see on some trips and not on others. Like friends from high school or church. Like people I used to work with or knew from the neighborhood I grew up in. And then there are special friends that I've reconnected with on Facebook after almost 30 years ... yep, about two and a half years ago, one of my best friends from my late teenage years and I met up on Facebook and reestablished a friendship that was lost all those years ago. When I was in Chattanooga a couple of years ago, we spent some time together catching up on what had taken place in our lives during the three decades since we last saw each other. And last night, I sat down for dinner with my friend and some of her friends at a very cool Mexican restaurant.

While my friend and I have traveled different roads over the last years, there is a kinship that exists between us ... the kinship that comes from years of youthful camaraderie, the kinship that comes from the realization that life is too short to hold grudges or be unforgiving, the kinship that comes from the ties of family and the bonds of memories. I wondered when we first began to talk again after all those years if there was a plan or purpose behind the reestablishment of our friendship, if there was a reason our friendship had been restored. It wasn't long after we started talking that I began to understand that there was indeed a driving force behind those lengthy conversations ... my friend challenged me in ways that I had never been challenged before; she caused me to search deeply within and question who I was and what I believed; she made me evaluate the path I had chosen to follow in my life and to want complete honesty in my relationship with God. Though it took me a while to realize it, our renewed friendship was indeed part of God's plan to change my life in ways I never imagined.

As I drove back to the hotel last night, wave after wave of emotion swept over me as I thought about my journey of the last couple of years and about the season of life I'm currently in. I thought about all the times I've fought against God and His will for me, about all the times I've doubted His love for me, about all the times I've been chained by the fear of what others think of me. One thing I've learned this week is that I need to just let God be God, to stop trying to work everything out in my head and my heart and just let God be God, to purely and simply relinquish every ounce of pride and control I fight so hard to hold onto and just let God be God. Sometimes I think I forget that He created me in His image and for His glory. Sometimes I think I forget that He loved me long before I ever loved Him. Sometimes I think I forget that He doesn't need my help to manage my life.

I need to just let God be God ... to just trust Him, to just love Him, to just rejoice in Him, to just let God be God. And here's the thing ... if I let go of me and let God be God, I've got a feeling He'll take care of everything ... who I am, where I go, what I say, how I behave, when I finish ... I need to just let God be God.

One Day He's Coming

Some of you may remember a post I wrote a while back recounting how my dad would insist that we attend the Easter sunrise service at the local cemetery each year. The service was always held in front of a certain statue ... one of Jesus with His hands outstretched. I have several memories from those services that have stuck with me all these years, but one in particular seems to stand out. There were always trumpets ... guys who played trumpets when the preacher talked about the resurrection and the day when Christ would return. Today, I stood in front of that statue, and I remembered. 

My dad would tell me that one day the trumpet would sound announcing the return of Christ and that the dead in Christ would rise to meet Him first and then those believers who are alive will rise to meet them in the air. I remember wondering when I was a kid what that day would look like ... what it would be like when the graves would open and the saints would rise. Today, I stood in front of the graves of my parents and my brother, and I longed for that day.

 

After Mom passed away, I bought a burial plot under a tree close to where her and Daddy and Jerry were laid to rest. Today, I stood under that tree and thought ... well, I thought about a lot of things today, friends.

"For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. Then we who are alive and remain will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and so we shall always be with the Lord." 1 Thessalonians 4: 16-17

 

Redeeming Time

My niece and her husband own a restaurant in Chattanooga called Country Place ... good old-fashioned Southern cooking and good old-fashioned Southern atmosphere. I've eaten several meals there this week, including some totally incredible grilled chicken livers yesterday, and there's been a multitude of memories flooding through my mind as I've sat in a booth or at a table with my family. And we've talked a lot, as we always do when we're together, about Mom and Dad. About Mom's laughter that would cause her eyes to squeeze shut and make her look so cute. About Daddy's wonderful sense of humor and the twinkle in his eyes when he was playing a prank on one of us. And with all of those conversations, I've found myself once again thinking about the passage of time. All of us have aged ... all of us have at least some gray hair ... all of us seem to understand that this time together is precious and valuable. And all of us are thankful for the legacy that was passed along to us by Mom and Dad ... the legacy of family, the legacy of love, the legacy of faith, the legacy of laughter.

Today, my sister and I are going to visit my dear friend Burley, a woman of deep faith who has had a huge impact on my life over years, beginning when I was a rowdy and wild teenager. After our visit with Burley, we're going to visit the elderly couple who lived in the house behind my mom and dad for many years, Carl and Hazeline, two of the sweetest and most faithful people on earth. Burley and Carl and Hazeline have all experienced major health issues recently, and I know that emotion will tear through my heart when I say goodbye to them today. I know that I will treasure the time together with them, that I will soak in their words of wisdom, that I will marvel at the depth of their faith.

Yesterday morning as I was walking with Ollie around the perimeter of the hotel because of the rain, I thought once again about time and how I so easily take it for granted. I thought about how often over the last year I thought my time was over and about how I've pleaded with God to let me be done. And as I walked, He spoke to me through the music playing in my ears from my iPod. He spoke to me about life and living ... about shame and chains ... about lost days and faded time ... about open arms and all-forgiving grace. My prayer this morning is that God will burn the moments of this week deep into my soul, that He will help me to remember that it's not over ... that He redeems my time and that His grace walks in every single day.

 
"And all you wanna do is turn back time
And redeem the days you lost.
But shame keeps calling out your name
The chains refuse to fall.

But it’s not over, it’s not over
This is the moment grace walks in.
With arms wide open, arms wide open
To tell you this is not the end.
When doubt is strong and your will is weak to even believe again
That’s when grace, that’s when grace walks in."

Slowing Down

The house my sister lived in when I was growing up had a big swimming pool in the back yard, and I can't even begin to count how many hours we spent in that pool. We had an absolute blast, and every time I come to Chattanooga, my niece and nephew and I always laugh and reminisce about the fun times we had swimming and playing games in the pool. I hadn't been swimming in a long time until this trip, and yesterday I spent several hours in the hotel's indoor pool with my great nephew and great niece (we surely couldn't do anything outside thanks to tropical storm Lee). There's nothing like little kids in a pool ... it's pure unmitigated fun. We splashed and played and laughed, and they jumped into my arms; I'm telling you ... plain old fun afternoon today.

Life is slower in the South ... people don't get in a hurry to do much of anything. I usually notice it first in the stores, but the slower pace permeates every part of life here. Cashiers visit with their customers; servers in restaurants stand at the table and chat; people slow down in their cars to wave at one another. Time has a whole different meaning here ... it's something to be treasured and enjoyed and relished, especially time spent with family and friends. One of the things that I enjoy when I'm with my family or my friends in the South is the talking ... we sit around and talk for hours. Some of the conversations are serious in nature, such as the ones I've had with my sister's children concerning her health. Some of the conversations are walks down memory lane, such as the ones I'm sure will take place tonight when I have dinner with old friends from high school. Some of the conversations are funny, such as the one I had at the pool yesterday with my nephew Charlie and his wife Allison or last night with my niece Sharon and her husband Mike.

I've thought a lot about time on this trip, and I'm trying to soak in every moment that I have together with these people who are so dear to me. This trip is overflowing with meaning for me on many levels, and I'm determined to make each second count and to measure my time wisely while I am here. I'm more aware than I have ever been in my over 50 years of life that none of us are guaranteed one more breath or one more hour or one more day. I realize more each day that there are two things after my relationship with God that ultimately matter in life ... love and time, and that the two go hand-in-hand.

So here's to slowing down and taking life one moment at a time and to treasuring those moments to the fullest. Here's to swims with extra special little kids in hotel pools on rainy days and meals with family at Country Place Restaurant and rubbing the necks of horses on my sister's farm and dinners with old friends ... here's to life in the South, to family so dear and friends so faithful. Here's to slowing down and taking time to listen ... to God, to others, to my heart.

God, Me and the Wiener Dog

Apparently there are some things in life that are universal for all people ... you know, things that are the same no matter where you are. Things like going for a swim in a pool at a hotel, eating out at restaurants after church on Sundays, people being glued to the television when the weather is bad. Yesterday morning, I got up early and took Ollie for a walk in a little park not far from the hotel where I'm staying. As we walked along the path that ran around the outside of the park and playground area, I quickly received a lesson on one of those universal things ... people love wiener dogs, and people say hello to each other as they walk along trails. Just like my experience on my walking path at home in Kansas City, person after person stopped to pat Ollie on the head and chat with me. One woman, however, did more than chat, she shared a heavy burden with me and asked me to pray for her. Wow, I thought as Ollie and I began walking again, wow, wow, wow.

I must admit that there have been times over the years when I've said I would pray for someone, and I didn't always honor that promise. It's easy to quickly agree to pray, but it's not always so easy to have the discipline to follow through and actually hit my knees on behalf of another person. But yesterday morning, the sincerity in the woman's voice and the depth of need in her heart caused me to begin praying as I walked along with my little wiener dog. And as I prayed for this woman, this stranger on the trail, God began to speak to me in a strong and mighty way. It was almost as if He was walking along the gravel pathway with me ... talking to me and asking me to talk to Him. I began to sense a freedom in this prayer time with God that I'm not sure I've ever felt before, and as I prayed fervently for the woman I had met, I could feel a peace concerning her situation settling over my heart.

As Ollie and I stopped for a drink under a tree, I sensed that God was asking me to dig deeply within my soul and lay everything down at His feet. I sat on the ground beneath the massive oak tree and gathered Ollie in my arms as my tears began to fall like rain. For the first time, I talked to God about the anger I've harbored in my heart for the last months since J.R. died. I told Him I didn't understand why He took Him from me or why I was still struggling with so much grief over the little dog. I cried out to Him to take away the depression that has consumed my life for the last year. I spoke out loud to Him about the fear I have of the future complications of diabetes. I asked Him over and over to show me who He desires me to be. I wept as I begged for His forgiveness ... for my anger, for my lack of trust, for my pretense ... I wept as I pleaded for Him to lead me, to guide me, to heal me.

I'm not sure how long I sat under the tree praying, cradling Ollie and crying, but when I stood up, I knew that God was working in me, that part of the reason I felt so driven to make this trip was His desire to get me away from the routine of my everyday life so that He could speak to me. I'm as sure as I ever have been about anything in my life ... God is creating within me a new view of Him this week, a new view of others this week, a new view of me this week.

I'm ready, Lord, ready to be made new in You.

Breaker Breaker 1-9

When I was a kid, my family would go to Sarasota, Florida, every summer on vacation. My mom's boss owned a house right on the beach ... and I do mean right on the beach. He rented it to his employees for some ridiculously low price like $150 a week, and we would go for two weeks at a time. One year on our way home, our car broke down ... like totally shut down out on the highway in the middle of nowhere. Nothing Daddy tried would get the car to start (it was a bad alternator), and I remember how worried he was that his family was stranded. Back then, there was no such thing as cell phones, so we were at the mercy of whomever decided to stop to help us. As it turned out, a very nice truck driver stopped, took us to a nearby truck stop that had a repair center, called for a tow truck to pick up our car and stayed with us until we were back on the road. It was after that trip that my dad bought a citizen's band radio ... yep, from that day forward, we had a CB in the car.

I had so much fun with that radio when we traveled ... I talked to tons and tons of people while we were out on the open road. For those of you who are old enough to remember CBs, then you'll understand when I say that my handle was Little T. For my young readers, a handle was the nickname a person used when chatting with other folks on the radio. A few years ago, I was feeling nostalgic and decided to buy a CB radio of my own, thinking how much fun it would be to teach my children the joys of "Breaker breaker 1-9" and "What's your handle?" and "Looks like we got us a convoy." You can imagine my disappointment when they were less than excited with the prospect of conversing with people they didn't know as we drove down the highway. In fact, they preferred to play with their Game Boys instead.

When I was packing the car Thursday night, I decided to bring the CB along with me. I believe my children would have one word for me concerning my decision ... lame. And guess what? I brought it anyway, and yesterday I talked to some truck drivers as I drove. And guess what else? It was a blast from the past in a big way. As I got closer to my destination, my mind was flooded with memories ... memories of vacation trips with Mom and Dad, memories of spring break trips with friends, memories of many different trips with my children. And as I thought of the miles of roads I have traveled over the years, I couldn't help but wonder about the miles ahead and what they may bring.

One of the truckers I talked with yesterday asked me if I was a believer ... tears filled my eyes as I replied, "Yes, sir, yes, I am." We then talked for several minutes about Jesus, and I've gotta tell you, friends, it was totally cool ... chatting on a CB with a trucker about Jesus ... way cool. One thing he said has been stuck in my mind, and I think it may have been my lesson for the road yesterday. He said, "All you gotta do is say, 'Breaker breaker 1-9, and God will always have the line open and be ready to talk.'" Profound words of wisdom from a trucker on a CB ... who would have thought God would choose such an odd way to speak to me. But it just goes to prove that He's got lessons waiting for me around every bend and turn on the road of life.

Breaker breaker 1-9 ... this is Little T calling God ... let's talk.