Just As I Am

Each one of my three children is different from the other. There may be similarities between them in appearance, and even at times in their behavior (especially when they were young), but they are still very different. They like different foods and different colors and different animals and different movies and different people. They have different temperaments and different ways of expressing their emotions. They spend their money in different ways, and they live in different cities. They clean their places of abode differently, and they drive different makes and models of cars. Each one of my three children is different from the other, and yet I love each one of them just as he or she is. I didn't ask at the hospital when they were born if I could trade them in for different babies ... I loved them exactly how they were ... they didn't have to do one single thing to make me love them ... I loved them just as they were.

It's funny to me that I have no trouble at all in understanding my love for my children ... it was unconditional from the moment I discovered I was pregnant with each of them. My love for my children was never based on how they looked or the words they spoke or what they did ... and it still isn't. I've gone through some rough patches with each of them, but no matter what happened, my love for them never wavered or failed. So it's more than odd to me that I sometimes struggle with God loving me with a depth and passion that makes my motherly love seem meaningless in comparison. My mind knows that He loves me without reservation, but at times my heart simply can't understand why He does. And yet, the truth remains ... God loves me no matter what.

Yesterday someone asked me if I believed that God He created me just as I am and that He loves me just as I am. My answer was that of course I believe those things to be true, but her question has troubled me today as I've thought about it. I wonder what causes us as humans to come to think that anything we can do or don't do or should do can alter God's love for us. I wonder what causes us to think that God somehow made a mistake when He formed us in our mothers' wombs. I wonder how we could ever doubt God's unconditional, sacrificial love when He gave His only Son to save us. I wonder if it is others telling us we are unworthy or unacceptable or unlovable that causes us to lose faith in God's abiding love for us.

In the midst of my wondering ... in the midst of my questioning ... in the midst of my seeking, I keep returning to some verses in the book of Psalms. Verses that tell me God made every part and piece of me ... verses that tell me He knows me from the inside out ... verses that tell me He loves me just as I am.

"For you created my inmost being; You knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise You because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; Your works are wonderful, I know that full well." Psalm 139:13-14

Where's the Calgon?

There is nothing quite as soothing as a hot bath, especially when my muscles are aching or I'm bone tired or I'm freezing cold. I remember loving to take baths when I was a kid, too, and I would play with toys in the tub and stay in until my skin was shriveled. I can still hear Mom ... "Lord, help! Are you gonna stay in that tub all night? Get on out of there!" I don't know why, but I remember the tub as being one of the places where I would dream up stories that I would later write down on paper. It was as if the hot water released the creative side of my brain somehow, or perhaps the tub was simply a place of escape for me ... a place where the dirt of reality was washed away and replaced with the freshness of dreams.

I'm sure many of you remember the old Calgon commercials ... a super-stressed woman would come home at the end of a busy day, sink into the tub and proclaim, "Calgon, take me away!" And magically, all of her worries and troubles would instantly evaporate as the soothing Calgon embraced her in its watery world. As is true with many commercial lines or jingles, the Calgon words became a well-known catch phrase for "I can't take it anymore! Get me out of here!" I've often wondered how many women were beyond disappointed when the Calgon didn't make all the bad stuff in their lives go away ... seriously, some people believe those television commercials ... I work for an ad agency, trust me, people believe them.

I was thinking tonight as I climbed out of the tub how many times I've wished that Calgon really did work ... that I could pour a big old dose of it into my bath water and after I soaked for a while, all my troubles would be gone. Perhaps I've been buying the wrong bath stuff because I haven't found anything that works that way yet. No matter how long I soak, all the cares I took with me into the tub are still there when I get out. No matter how many times I chant, "Calgon, take me away!", I'm still in the same place I was when I stepped into the water.

As I sat down to type this blog, I couldn't help but think about the day I was baptized a little over 12 years ago and the way I felt when I came up out of the water. It was as if the weight of the world had been lifted from my shoulders, or perhaps I should say from my heart. My world had spiraled out of control, and my life of pretense was destroying me from the inside out. I'm certain that I would not be around today had I not met Jesus that afternoon, had I not been washed in His atoning blood and bathed in His redeeming grace.

Help me to remember, Lord, in the midst of the cares and troubles and worries of this life, Calgon can't take me anywhere ... only You can.

Reaper Road

Sometimes I wish I would have written down all of the things I've seen or experienced down through the years in my travels to speaking engagements. I remember a lot of them, but I've forgotten some as well. I won't ever forget, however, when some gals put a fake mouse in my bed at a camp where I was speaking. Or when I was asked to return there a few years later and a couple of different gals put a fake snake and a fake frog in my bed. And then there was the weekend that I spoke at a retreat center where my cabin was located on a very secluded part of the property, and my car got stuck in the mud and I didn't have a flashlight or my cell phone ... that was fun for sure. I have some special serious memories, too, like when I first baptized a woman who was present at one of the retreats ... I baptized her in the hotel pool, and it was one of the most moving experiences I've ever had. I have many memories of deep and touching conversations I've had with ladies at events who were hurting or wounded or struggling in their faith. Maybe one day I'll write an "on the road" book of some sort.

This morning, I drove down to Leroy, Kansas, to speak for their Women's Day event ... Leroy is about an hour and a half from where I live, and it was a perfect day for a road trip. As I drove into the town of Leroy, I saw something that made me laugh out loud in my car. That is just awesome, I thought, just totally awesome. On the right-hand side of the road was the town cemetery ... one of those old-fashioned, small-town cemeteries with the large tombstones atop the graves located there. Now I'm sure you're wondering why in the world I would laugh out loud when I saw the cemetery, and you're probably thinking that I have a really sick and twisted mind. But it wasn't seeing the cemetery that made me laugh ... it was the name on the street sign of the road directly across from the graveyard that made me laugh ... Reaper Road ... as in the Grim Reaper of Death. Come on ... that's just plain old stinking funny.

When I stood to speak this morning, I couldn't help myself ... I had to make a comment about the name of the road across from the cemetery, and all day I've wondered which was there first, the cemetery or Reaper Road. Thankfully, the women in the group understood why that was so funny to me, and they laughed heartily when I told them that tonight they would be the subject of my blog. Two ladies came up to me after I spoke and told me they had lived in the town of Leroy for many years, and they had never thought about the connection between the cemetery and Reaper Road ... hmmm ... maybe those of you who were thinking that I have a sick and twisted mind were more right than you know.

As I left the town of Leroy this afternoon, I smiled broadly as I once again drove by the cemetery and Reaper Road. When I reached my turn to get back on the highway, I started thinking about the Grim Reaper ... the mythological figure who comes to whisk a person away from this life. He most often is portrayed as being dressed in a long flowing black robe with his face and head covered by a massive hood, carrying a large scythe ... a figure to be dreaded and feared. And the more I thought about the Grim Reaper, the more I thought about how different the Christian perspective is concerning death and the hereafter. For those who have a personal relationship with Christ, death is merely the avenue to eternity ... an eternity with our Lord in a place that He has prepared for us, a place where I'm sure there will be no dread or fear ... and no Grim Reaper.

"When the perishable has been clothed with the imperishable, and the mortal with immortality, then the saying that is written will come true: 'Death has been swallowed up in victory. Where, O death, is your victory? Where, O death, is your sting?'" 1 Corinthians 15:54-55

Same Difference

As senior editor for an advertising agency, I read a lot of words every day ... a whole lot of words. Because of the range of clients we currently have on our roster, I read about things from cheese to parasites to rabies to taxes to surgical prep agents to propane tanks. And it never ceases to amaze me that almost every single day, somewhere within all those words resides an oxymoron or two ... or sometimes 20. An oxymoron is defined as a figure of speech that combines two normally contradictory terms. They appear in a range of contexts from inadvertent errors to deliberate puns to literary usage where the clashing terms are often carefully crafted to reveal a paradox. Examples of each of the three include: objective opinion, organized mess, deafening silence. Some oxymoron phrases take on a life of their own over the years and become an accepted part of conversation and literature, such as ... same difference.

We've been enjoying unusually warm temperatures in Kansas City for the month of October ... I mean, seriously ... 80 degrees at the end of October? I've seen it snow more than once in October in the 20 plus years that I've lived here. But, true to form for Kansas, the weather can change in a blink, and yesterday it was cold and windy. Last night after I ate dinner, I got all bundled up in my cold weather walking gear, which includes cold compression long underwear (under my jeans and sweatshirt, of course), wool socks, gloves, scarf, stocking cap and ski coat. I know ... what am I going to do when it's really, really cold outside this winter, right? As I snapped Oliver's harness across his shoulders and pulled his doggie sweater over his head, tears filled my eyes ... the sweater I put on Ollie last night was the first one I ever bought for J.R.

Walking along on the path as the sun dipped lower and lower in the sky, I couldn't help but think about how much Ollie reminds me of J.R. at times and at other times how much I see the differences between them. Same difference, I thought as I walked, same difference. Ollie is about the same size as J.R. was, although he is a bit taller and a little longer. His nose is pink, his fur is a little lighter in color and his eyes are smaller. But there are times when he cocks his head and looks at me the same way J.R. used to, with that, "I know what you're thinking" expression on his face. J.R. didn't like the cold weather at all ... I'm sure it made his back pain intensify. Ollie runs like a madman on the trail when it's brisk outside ... it's almost as if he relishes the cold temps. J.R. snuggled his head under my neck when we went to bed at night, always cuddling up close to me. Ollie burrows under the covers down near the foot of the bed, and rarely does he snuggle when we're sleeping. But ... Ollie curls up in my lap just like J.R. did when I'm sitting on the couch, and he loves cheese and Cheetos, too. He and Julie are the best of pals, and Julie mothers him much like she did J.R. Perhaps most of all, Ollie seems to love me as much as my little J.R. did ... he follows me wherever I go and his tail almost wags off when I talk to him. So much the same and yet so very different.

As I made the turn to head home, I started thinking about people and how so many of us look the same on the outside and yet are so different on the inside. We may dress the same or have the same color of hair or eyes or weigh the same or speak the same, but inside ... deep inside where it really matters, we are different. Same difference. And then I started thinking about those of us who call ourselves Christians, and I thought ... man ... there's a huge truth there, God, a huge truth. So many times, we try to "look" Christian on the outside ... to look the same as all the Christians in our little worlds, but on the inside ... deep inside where it really matters, if we admitted it or showed it or revealed it ... we're not the same at all, but instead quite different.

Same difference. Think about it, friends ... think about it.

 

Buried Alive

Just like every other Halloween season, there are tons of scary movies on television. A couple of nights ago, I was in the kitchen when I heard the tag line for one of the channels, "Join us for 24 hours of the deepest, darkest terror you've ever experienced." I filled my plate and settled in on the couch as I thought ... Why would I want to do that? Seriously ... 24 hours of scary movies? I think not. And yet, last night I couldn't sleep and in my channel surfing, I landed on a movie scene where a woman was being buried alive. And I sat there on my couch and watched the whole terrifying flick, telling myself over and over that I should change the channel or go back to bed ... but nope, I watched the entire movie.

Needless to say, I certainly didn't sleep well after watching the scary movie, and several times throughout the day, I found myself thinking about some of the scenes again. And the more I thought about the woman's ordeal in the film, I began to think about how so many people are buried alive in life. People who go through each day ... walking, talking, breathing ... people who seem to be living but in reality are buried alive. People who keep their hearts buried ... deeply hidden away ... because they fear being hurt, because they fear being judged, because they fear letting others inside, because they fear rejection, because they fear showing who they truly are.

When God first called me to be a speaker, I learned some big lessons in a hurry ... not the least of which was that I had to be somewhat ... well ... somewhat guarded as to whom I shared the deepest parts of my heart and mind with. I learned some hard truths about misplaced trust in those early years, and because of those experiences, I found myself reluctant to be completely open with many people. I had a few friends whom I would allow inside, but only a very few. With everyone else, I would only let them see the parts of me that didn't involve any risk for me. While that mode of operation protected me at times from being hurt or wounded, it also made it easy to bury things ... it made it easy for me to be buried alive.

As I drove to work this morning, a song on the CD I was listening to jumped out at me. A song that spoke of being buried ... of keeping everything inside.

"I know they'll bury me
Before they hear the whole story
Even if they do
I know they won't care to
Chalk it up to one mistake
Oh God forbid they give me grace 

I know they'll bury me
I know they'll bury me
I know they'll bury me 

Even though I got conviction
Even though I got my pride
I know they'll bury me
They'll bury me alive

Oh, I'm the one who keeps it on the inside
Locked away from judgments wrong
Oh, I'm the one who keeps it on the inside
So they leave me alone, leave me alone." 

Use the shovel of Your mighty hand, Lord, to dig me out ... to make me real ... to make me whole ... to make me trust ... to make me open ... to make me completely Yours.

Shooting Star

Every morning I wake up around 6 a.m. I don't really need an alarm, I have Julie my big old hound who has her own built-in alarm clock. And when I get up, I have a routine I follow ... every single morning. First, I go to the bathroom, then I check my blood sugar, then I take Julie and Ollie outside. We go out the door that leads into the garage and then out the side door that leads into the back yard. I have to stand in the doorway and keep an eye on Julie ... if she sees a rabbit or squirrel or raccoon or fox or cat, she jumps the fence and the chase is on ... her chasing the animal and me chasing her. It's dark now when we go outside in the mornings, really dark in fact. I normally don't pay much attention to the sky during the dogs' morning potty time ... I'm usually still trying to get fully awake. But this morning for some reason, I was looking up at the sky and I saw a shooting star. I haven't seen many shooting stars in my life, so I stood on the step to my deck gazing in wonder at the beauty of the heavens above me.

I haven't been able to get the star I saw this morning out of my mind today, and I've thought a lot about how quickly the star flashed before me. If I hadn't looked up ... if I had blinked or turned my head, I would have missed it. I had to be looking in just the right place at just the right moment to see the star streak across the sky. I realized as I was driving home tonight that life is a lot like the star I saw this morning ... it can be over in a flash, and if I'm not looking in the right place at the right moment, I will miss it.

Something else struck me tonight as I was walking ... life is really all about perspective ... the way we see things. I call what I saw this morning a shooting star, but others would call it a falling star. It's all about perspective ... was the star I saw this morning streaking across the sky in a beautiful display of light, or was it dying and sinking into the black abyss of the universe? There are so many lessons from the star of my early morning that the words to share them would fill a ton of posts in this blog. Lessons about living and dying ... lessons about watching and waiting ... lessons about accepting and appreciating the omnipotent power of God over all the universe. I don't know the science behind what I saw this morning, but I do know that today ... today, I choose to see the wonder of God's creation ... today, I choose to see the beauty of His love ... today, I choose to see the light rather than the darkness.

Messy Business

When I was first diagnosed with diabetes, I read everything I could find about the disease ... you know, the whole knowledge is power thing, I suppose. At any rate, in the course of all that reading, I stumbled upon a transcript of an interview with Mary Tyler Moore, who has type 1 diabetes (which for those of you who aren't familiar with diabetes terms, that means that she must receive regular infusions of insulin). The whole interview was great, but her answer to the question from the interviewer asking what she missed the most from her life before diabetes stuck with me. Her response was a simple one, but one loaded with meaning and significance for all of us who live with diabetes ... "I miss being able to be completely spontaneous. I have to plan every moment of my day now ... I miss being spontaneous." Man ... I can so relate to her feelings ... I can so relate. While it's gotten easier to manage my blood sugar, I still have to plan out my days around meals and medication ... and I always will. I have to consider my blood sugar levels when I go for a walk or out to dinner or to speak. I have to carry snacks and glucose pills with me wherever I go. I have to remember to take my meds when I'm away from my normal routine. I, too, miss being spontaneous.

This morning, however, I made a spontaneous decision and attended another church ... a church where I'll be speaking for their women's group in a few weeks. I've spoken for many different groups and denominations over the last decade or so, but the church I attended today was a new one for me. Within a few minutes of entering the sanctuary, I knew that the service was going to be quite different from any I've attended before ... not in a bad way ... in fact, I was immediately struck by the level of participation from the congregation, from clapping as they sang to the way they shared in communion to the lighting of various candles around the room, and by the closeness and warmth that was so obvious during their time of greeting one another. But it was the visiting minister's sermon that impacted me the most ... a sermon that God most definitely meant for me to hear this morning.

The church has been through some tough times recently, including their two primary ministers leaving the church. It's never easy for a church to have a minister resign, but to have two leave at the same time is just plain old hard. I don't know what the circumstances were that prompted the abrupt departures, but the visiting minister mentioned several times that the congregation had much to overcome and that it was vital that they keep their eyes squarely focused on Jesus and their hearts overflowing with love for one another. He spoke a lot about grieving losses in life, and more than once he said that grieving is a messy business. There were tears in the building this morning as people took the hand of the person next to them, and there were nods of agreement as the minister encouraged them. I had made it through the service without shedding a tear ... I can't remember when I last made it through a church service without crying. And then the minister told one final story ... a story about his family dog.

As he began to talk about their dog, Gizmo, saying that he passed away last year, I bit my lower lip in an attempt to hold back the tears. He talked about how he never cared for the dog and said the dog would try to bite him every chance he got. His wife, however, was crazy about Gizmo and was distraught when he died. As he talked about the depth of his wife's grief over the little dog, I knew trying not to cry was futile, and the tears began to course down my cheeks. The minister ended his message with these words (I wrote them down so I would get them right) ... "Grieving is messy business, and it's personal business. No one can tell you how to grieve or what to grieve or when it's time to stop grieving. Our job is to love one another through the grief, to stand by one another through the grief, to support one another through the grief. I didn't understand the level of my wife's grief for Gizmo ... I didn't even like the dog. But I love my wife, and I will be there for her no matter how long she needs to cry about mean old Gizmo. Stay with each other, brothers and sisters, for one day the grief will be over and you will remember the love you all shared in His name."

So here's the thing ... my heart has been heavy for a long while, and I know that I'm grieving many losses that have come over the last few years. Weekends seem to be extra hard for me for some reason ... extra hard and extra lonely. I was sitting between a man and a woman this morning whom I'd never met, in a church I had never attended, listening to a minister I had never heard. And as my tears fell, the woman stood and went to the back of the sanctuary and came back with tissues for me. The man put his arm around my shoulder, and the woman patted my hand. When the service ended, I thanked them and they hugged me and I left ... I didn't get their names, and they didn't get mine. I don't remember the name of the minister or the songs that were sung. But I know that God meant for me to be there this morning ... to hear His "messy business" message ... to know that He feels my pain and sees my hurt ... to feel His love through the kindness of two strangers ... thank You, Lord ... thank You.

Changing Directions

One summer when my kids and I were in Colorado on vacation, we saw three moose in a field by the side of Trail Ridge Road in Rocky Mountain National Park. We pulled over, along with several other cars, and watched the majestic creatures for almost an hour ... two females and a male, happily munching on grass near a beautiful mountain stream. That afternoon began my infatuation with all things moose, and I've collected quite an assortment of moosey items down through the years. Some of the items I've purchased, and others have been given to me as gifts. Anyone who knows me knows how much I love moose. My dream house would be a log cabin ... decorated, of course, with lots and lots of moose accents and accessories.

One of my favorite pieces of moose paraphernalia is a metal weather vane that rests atop a 4-foot pole in the ground next to my deck. It has a moose on the very top, and a spinning wheel with the directions of north, south, east and west attached. I bought the weather vane at a crafts fair in Arkansas ... our women's ministry from my church took a weekend trip to several crafts fairs there many years ago. That particular trip was extra profitable for me in the moose arena ... I bought the weather vane that stands in my yard, a moose key rack that is attached to a wall in my kitchen, and a gorgeous pencil drawing of a moose head that hangs behind my bed in my room. And each time I look at any of those three items, I remember how much fun we had together that weekend.

I was sitting on my deck this afternoon working on some notes for two upcoming speaking events when my moose weather vane caught my attention. The weather vane never really worked ... the wheel that in theory would spin in the wind actually inched more than it spun. It doesn't matter to me that it doesn't function as it should; I like the way it looks ... weathered and worn, and of course, with a moose standing guard on the top. As I gazed at the weather vane, I began thinking about directions ... I've never been good at determining which way was which according to the compass. When someone gives me instructions on how to get somewhere, I always ask them to define the turns by right or left rather than by north, south, east or west.

The longer I looked at the weather vane, the more I thought about directions in life and how often I've struggled to figure out which way I should be traveling. I couldn't help but think about how awesome it would be to have a weather vane for my heart ... one that never failed to point me in the right direction. And then I realized that I do ... I have the one Compass that is always accurate and true ... one that always leads me where I should go. As I stood up to go inside and fix myself some food, I was struck with a thought ... maybe it's time to change directions, maybe it's time to walk a different path, maybe it's time to make a turn and go a different way.

"May the Lord direct your hearts into the love of God and into the steadfastness of Christ." 2 Thessalonians 3:5
 

The Bears

So here's my short little blog for tonight because I'm sleepy ... I spent the evening with a sweet little 6-year-old girl while her mom and dad went on a date. She went for a walk with me and Ollie, and then played Frisbee with Julie. She ate a giant bowl of ice cream and 10 or 15 miniature Milky Ways, and drank almost a whole bottle of lemonade (nothing like filling a kid with sugar on a Friday night). We spent a couple of hours reading Berenstain Bears books that I have from when my kids were little and I would read to them. She would read a page and then I would read a page. We read the Hallow Wiener to Ollie, and she thought it was very funny to read a book to a dog.

It's been a good evening ... now I'm going to bed. And I'm pretty sure I'll dream about Mama, Papa, Brother and Sister Bear ... and that's OK with me. Little kids are the best ... the absolute best parts of God's handiwork. Good night, and sweet dreams.

The Trouble With Cars

I'm sure many of you will be able to empathize with me on this statement ... I detest having issues with my car. Even when it's something minor like the tire pressure light coming on when the weather gets cold and all I need to do is put air in my tires. That happened Monday and I took care of it ... I wasn't happy about standing in the cold trying to get the little air thingy on the little spout thingy on the tires, but I did it. And the fact that I just used the word "thingy" twice to describe putting air in my tires should tell you that I know little to nothing about car maintenance or repair. Thus you can only imagine my immeasurable joy when I went to get in my car this morning to go to work and it wouldn't start ... wouldn't even click or groan or light up or ding at me or anything ... it was just as dead as a doornail, as Mom used to say.

I spent the next hour and a half doing the following things: waking one of my neighbors to see if she could help me jump the battery (she did, in her robe and slippers on a morning when it was cold enough to see our breath inside of my garage), driving to the car shop, waiting while they installed a new battery, handing over money that I hadn't planned on spending on my stupid car, getting to work late ... truly a lovely way to start the day. I really, really, really detest having issues with my car ... really.

As I was sitting in the lobby of the car shop waiting this morning, I remembered that last night when I left church, my car was a little sluggish when I turned the key to start it. I remembered saying out loud, "Well that doesn't sound too good." But I also remembered turning the car off and on two or three times when I got home, and it started just fine. I suppose I should have paid more attention to my car's sluggish start last night ... obviously, the battery was dying and I should have noticed. Then I began to wonder if the car had been sluggish in starting for a while and I just didn't pick up on it ... I wondered how long my car's battery had been slowly losing its power.

The more I thought throughout the day about my car, the more I began to realize how much I'm like the battery. And the more I thought about how much I'm like the battery ... the more I realized how ... much ... I'm ... like ... the ... battery. And here's the thing ... for a while, the battery on my car would hold enough charge to keep my car running. But when it finally couldn't generate any power anymore, the car wouldn't turn on and I had no choice but to buy a new battery. No matter what I tried this morning, my car wouldn't start until my neighbor used her car to share its power with mine. I could have sat there all day trying to start my car under my own power, and it never would have started ... and had I driven to work after my neighbor helped me and turned the car off, it wouldn't have started at the end of the day. Nothing I could do would fix my car except getting a new battery, which gave me pause to ponder something else ... even a new battery wouldn't have caused my car to start unless it was installed correctly and the proper cables were attached.

"To this end also we pray for you always, that our God will count you worthy of your calling, and fulfill every desire for goodness and the work of faith with power, so that the name of our Lord Jesus will be glorified in you, and you in Him, according to the grace of our God and the Lord Jesus Christ." 2 Thessalonians 1:11-12

Soft Touch

A few years ago, my daughter Meghann learned how to make those fleecy, tied knots around the edges blankets, and she began making them for gifts for everyone. She made a blanket for Matt to take to college (which he still has ... a Charlie Brown one), a blanket for Brad's futon, blankets for people having babies, blankets for me, blankets for my family back in Tennessee, blankets for the mailman ... oh, wait, I think the mailman may have been the one person for whom she didn't make a blanket ... sorry, Mr. Mailman. As is true with most things in life, I suppose, the more blankets Meghann made, the more her skill improved, and the blankets she makes now are ... quite simply ... wonderful.

My daughter has made me several blankets over the years, but there is one that is my absolute favorite ... in fact, I snuggled under it on the couch last night with Ollie and Julie and fell asleep. I love the colors in the blanket, and I really love the design on the fabric ... log cabins with moose. But what I love the most about my moosey blanket is the fabric Meg used on the back side of it ... it is the softest fleece I have ever felt. She said it was some sort of baby blanket fleece, which is probably why it is so soft. It's kind of textured, almost like it's got little pockets of soft all over it. Yep, my log cabin, moosey blanket is definitely my favorite of all the blankets Meghann has made for me.

I've noticed something the last couple of Wednesday nights when I've gone to Awana to listen to the little kids ... they always want to give me a hug or a high five or hold my hand, and when they do, I can't help but notice how soft their little hands are. Granted, occasionally one of them is sticky or dirty, but still soft nonetheless. I've also noticed on the Thursdays when I go help at Bingo that the older folks at the retirement center love it when I reach out my hand to hold theirs or to pat them on the shoulder ... their hands aren't soft like the little kids' hands are, but they are certainly delicate in their own way. From young to old, I think most of us long to have that connection with another person, even if it's only for a moment.

There are times in my now solitary existence that I miss the human touch, even though on the rare occasions I actually see someone who hugs me, I have to fight to hold back the tears ... and more often than not, the tears come no matter how hard I fight. As much as I love my hounds and they love me, they can't give me a heartfelt hug or scratch my back when it itches or tuck blankets around me when I'm sick. So tonight, I went to church to listen to the kiddos ... I was barely in the door when two little kids ran up shouting my name as they wrapped their arms around me. And as I climbed in my car to come home, the tears came and I thanked God for those kids ... they have no idea what the soft touch of their hugs meant to me tonight ... no idea at all.

Knot Tying and Other Tricks

My two dogs Julie and Ollie love to play tug of war ... they love, love, love to play tug of war. They love to play the game with me, and they love to play the game with each other. I buy them a heavy, thick braided dog rope for the game, one of the extra-long, extra-tough ones with knots on both ends and in the middle that Julie can't chew through and that gives them enough length so they can both hold on with their teeth. The ropes last a pretty long time, and Julie hasn't managed to chew through one yet. But ... with all the chewing and tugging by sharp dog teeth, eventually the ropes begin to fray and they start losing strings. Those loose strings end up in two places ... scattered on my carpet and dangling from the mouths of my dogs, with the end result being me picking up the strands from the carpet or prying open one big dog mouth and one little dog mouth to retrieve the threads so that my hounds don't get choked. And the funny thing is that I perform those actions for a good long while before I finally cave in and go buy a new rope for the dogs.

Last night as I was stretched out on the floor pulling strings from Ollie's mouth, Julie trotted over and stood almost on top of me with the rope in her mouth trying to get me to play some more. "Julie, stop," I said, "I'm trying to get this stuff out of Ollie's mouth. Move, girl." Julie being Julie and thus always reluctant to stop playing, she immediately shook her head from side to side and smacked me in the face with one of the knots at the end of the rope. I rolled over and grabbed the rope and yelled, "No! Drop it!" which of course meant that she tugged with all her might, I lost my grip on Ollie's mouth, and they were quickly back into play mode. Propping myself up on my elbow to watch my two hounds going at it (my left elbow, because my right shoulder still hurts), I started thinking about tying knots in ropes and about how many times recently I've said, "I'm at the end of my rope." And every time I say those words, I think about what my dad used to say ... "When you're at the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on."

The truth is I've been tying lots and lots of knots over the last few months, trying as hard as I can to hold on to my fraying, string-shedding rope. And I decided this evening as I was walking with Ollie in the cold evening air that I'm going to have to find a different trick to keep me hanging on ... the knot in the rope thing isn't working out very well for me. So with every step I took tonight, my tears fell like rain and I prayed ... God, I need something other than the knots in the rope to hang on to ... I need You to show me the trick to making it through another day ... show me, God ... tell me, God ... I'm at the end of my rope. And with every step I took, His love surrounded me, His arms cradled me, His voice spoke to me ... Oh, my child, you don't need knots or tricks ... you don't even need to hold on to the rope at all ... because I'm holding you. I've got you, Terrie, I've got you.

I know I've said it countless times, but God really does live out on my trail, friends, He really does. It's not about me holding on to all the ropes of life at all ... it's about Him holding on to me. It's not about me trying to come up with some new trick to get through each day ... it's about trusting Him to carry me all the way. It's knowing ... really, really knowing ... that He's got me ... He's got me.






 

 

Dream On

Dreams have always fascinated me, and I can still remember certain dreams from years and years ago ... like one I had after my brother Jerry passed away. Someone was knocking on the door that led into Mom and Dad's basement, and when I opened it, Jerry was standing there with Jesus. They came into the den and told me stories about angels and heaven. I remember that dream as vividly as if it had occurred while I slept last night, and I've wondered at times over the years just what that dream actually meant. A couple of nights ago, I dreamed that I was fishing in a creek ... I had my feet dangling in the water, and Julie and Ollie were stretched out beside me when a mountain lion came out of nowhere and tried to eat us. Thank goodness I woke up before anyone got hurt, but I can still feel the sense of terror that washed over me while I was dreaming.

I'm not sure why, but I've been thinking a lot lately about a different kind of dreams ... the dreams of life ... you know what I mean ... who you will be, where you will go, what you will do ... the really big dreams of life. Perhaps it's because I'm getting close to another 50-something birthday in December. Perhaps it's because I'm closer to being done with life than I am to just beginning. Perhaps it's because I know that I've given up on ever realizing some of the dreams I used to have. Perhaps it's because my list of regrets now far outnumbers my list of dreams. Perhaps it's a combination of all of those things, but whatever the reason (or reasons), I've got dreaming on my mind.

When I was a teenager, I dreamed of becoming a professional tennis player or a newspaper columnist or a rock star. In my adult years, I dreamed of becoming a college professor or a published author or earning my master's degree or traveling the world as a speaker. The more I thought about my dreams from the past, the more I realized that somewhere along the way, all of those dreams have vanished ... whether it's due to age or health or realism or whatever ... those dreams have disappeared. And perhaps what has become an even greater revelation to me than the fact that things I once hoped for will never come to pass is acknowledging the fact that I seem to have lost my oomph for dreaming altogether.

I was thinking over the weekend about how different my life is now than it was just a year ago ... so much has changed ... who I am has changed ... where I am going has changed ... what I do each day has changed. Maybe it's time to find some new dreams to chase, to follow my heart more and my mind less, to dream on and to dream bigger than I ever have before. I know one thing for sure ... when I'm dead, I won't have the chance to dream anymore.

Maybe it is indeed time ... time to dream on.

A Dog's Heart

The first canine in my life that I remember was Lady, a beautiful collie who looked a lot like Lassie from the old television show of the same name. For as many things as I can't remember now, I remember every dog who shared their lives with me. First was Lassie the collie; Frisky the chihuahua; Cuddles the poodle; Rocky the terrier mix; Choo Choo the dachshund; Brandy the ... well, we never knew what Brandy was exactly, but she was a great dog; Coco the dachshund; Cinnamon the dachshund; Ali the Dalmatian/Lab mix; Peanut the dachshund; Julie the Lab; J.R. the dachshund; and last, but certainly not least, Oliver the dachshund. I have a plethora of sweet memories of each pup, too many to list in this post. And I also have memories of hard goodbyes with the ones who are no longer with me, whether the dogs had to eventually be re-homed because of moves or Dad's illness, or because they passed away. Yep, I've been a dog person for as long as I can remember ... I love dogs.

Those of you who are long-time readers of this blog know that Julie and Ollie are the two faithful hounds who are gracious enough to let me live with them in my little house, and yes, sometimes I think they own the house more than I do ... and I'm alright with that. This morning, I was awakened by doggie kisses ... Julie licking my arm and Oliver my chin as their tails wagged with furious happiness. I smiled as I patted their furry heads, and tears filled my eyes as I understood what they were saying to me with every kiss. "Get up, get up, get up! It's time to go potty and eat breakfast! And then it's time to play! Come on, old girl, come on and get up! We love you, we love you, we love you!"

After breakfast, I decided I should take advantage of the beautiful morning, so I tossed the ball for Julie and then took Ollie for a walk. It was when I got back home and was sitting on my deck drinking a cup of coffee and watching Julie and Ollie run and play in the yard that I started thinking about what it would be like if we humans had hearts like our dogs. You see, my dogs love me unconditionally ... no matter what I do, how I feel, what I say, the clothes I wear, the work I perform ... they love me unconditionally. My dogs are always happy to see me ... whether I've been out to the mailbox or away for days on a trip ... they always greet me with wagging tails and loads of enthusiasm. My dogs don't fuss at me or tell me I'm wrong or get mad and stop talking to me ... their greatest joy is being with me. My dogs appreciate me and the love I give them ... they care if I don't come home, and they sense when I am sick or sad or lonely. They are loyal and faithful and loving and trustworthy ... well, they are trustworthy as long as there isn't people food within paws' reach. The more I sit here typing about the hearts of my dogs, the more I realize that I would do well to have a heart like theirs ... the more I realize that God calls me to love unconditionally, to rejoice at homecomings, to guard my tongue and my temper, to pay attention to the needs of those around me.

I sat in church this morning and looked at the people sitting in the chairs around me, and I started thinking again about hearts ... about how true it is that only God knows my heart. Only He knows if my heart is filled with love for Him and love for others ... only He knows if my heart is loyal or true or faithful or loving or trustworthy. I used to think how cool it would be to get to heaven one day and hear God say, "Well done, Terrie ... you did some great things in your life." As I drove home from church, my eyes filled with tears once again as I acknowledged that's not what I dream about anymore ... now I pray that when I get to heaven, God will say, "Good girl, Terrie ... you had a dog's heart."

War of the Worlds

Sometimes I wonder how many hours of my life I've spent watching television. I used to watch television a lot ... when I was young, after I got married, when my kids were still at home. I'm not sure why my TV watching has changed so drastically over the last couple of years, but I don't watch much television any more. Take today, for example ... I didn't turn the TV on all day until I sat down to eat dinner this evening and I thought I'd catch the news. And now here I am three hours later because when I was channel surfing looking for news, I came upon the movie War of the Worlds starring Tom Cruise. Forget that I've seen the movie a dozen times, I got caught up in it and watched the entire film ... again.

My filmmaker son Bradley would tell you that my taste in movies, in his creative opinion, leaves much to be desired and yes, I'm quite sure I will have scary dreams about aliens tonight (because every time I watch War of the Worlds, I have bad dreams ... you'd think I would change the channel, huh?). And if we have thunderstorms with lightning on Monday as the weather guys are predicting, I'll be watching carefully to make sure that people-zapping tripod machines don't come up out of the ground and start frying folks. While Brad's take on my choice of films may be legitimate at times, I realized as I watched the movie this evening that God can use any medium He desires to speak to me ... all He asks of me is that I pay attention and listen.

Yes, the movie is about an alien invasion ... a war between two worlds. It is also, however, about an absent father who learns what it really means to love and protect his children, about fighting for survival, about never giving up. And tonight as the movie played out on television, I couldn't help but think about the wars that so often rage within me ... about the thoughts that invade my mind, about the sin that fights to control me, about the despair that plagues my soul. I find it more than interesting that the closing comments in the movie reference God and His creation ... the smallest bacteria He placed upon the earth became the undoing of the monster alien machines by causing their protective shields to fail, thus allowing the weapons of man to destroy them.

God really is in every detail ... every moment ... every word ... if I choose to look for Him and listen for His voice. The last line in the movie tonight? "Neither do men live or die in vain." Yep, I'm beyond certain that God has a message for me in that statement ... beyond certain. I'm going to close this post with a verse that I've quoted before ... a verse that bears repeating again and again and again, as does all of God's Word, until it is seared in my heart and mind.

"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." Ephesians 6:12

Let's Dance

Every Friday morning at work, we have an all-agency meeting. We all gather in the main conference room, and each team discusses what's happening with their clients. It's always pretty laid back, but this morning over half the office was out for a creative retreat or on client business. So instead of having a normal meeting, we watched clips from the Ellen talk show ... more specifically, we watched clips of Ellen with the two little girls from Britain who became overnight YouTube sensations when they were filmed performing "Super Bass" by Nicki Minaj. The little girls were adorable, and when Ellen surprised them by bringing out Ms. Minaj, the reactions of the girls was priceless. We all laughed and clapped, and some of us had tears in our eyes when the cameras would pan to the father of one of the little girls as he cried like a baby to see how happy his daughter was.

After the meeting ended, I went over to talk to one of the managing partners for a few minutes and as I headed toward the stairs to go back to my desk, I heard music and a couple of the gals laughing at their desks. I stuck my head around the corner to see what they were laughing about, and saw that they were watching more clips of Ellen's show ... clips of her dancing as she comes on stage or when her guests arrive. As I walked up the stairs to my desk, I was smiling ... it's hard not to smile when you see someone dance ... and one of the gals in my office was dancing while she watched the clips. And I must confess, I don't smile a lot anymore.

All day at work, I couldn't get dancing off of my mind ... I did my fair share of dancing in my early years of college. My friends and I would get together on the weekends and dance to the music of Donna Summer ... I know I'm old, and I'm willing to admit that we did the whole disco thing ... think Saturday Night Fever and the glittery disco ball. And we all absolutely loved the original Footloose movie ... yep, I did a lot of dancing back in the day. As I drove home from work this evening, I wondered how long it had been since I danced and as I said aloud in the car, "When was the last time I danced?" my eyes filled with tears as I remembered. My only post in this blog in September of 2009 was titled "Dancing in the Moonlight." It's about a night that I lifted my little J.R. up off the trail and danced with him in my arms, inspired by a dad I saw dancing with his little girl and their puppy. That night in the moonlight with J.R. was the last time I danced ... over two years ago ... it's been over two years since I've danced.

Tonight as I walked with Ollie, I was listening to a mix of older songs when one by Bette Midler began to play in my ears. It was the song The Rose, from the movie of the same name ... a movie based on the life of Janis Joplin. The lyrics to the song are powerful, but the ones near the end of the song used to speak to me years ago, and tonight the depth of their meaning really hit me. I'm going to close this post with those lyrics, but first ... first I want to tell you what I did when Ollie and I got home tonight. I put on some music, and I danced in my living room with my dogs ... I cried ... and I danced.

 
"Some say love, it is a river
That drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor
That leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger,
An endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower,
And you its only seed.

It's the heart afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance.
It's the dream afraid of waking
That never takes the chance.
It's the one who won't be taken,
Who cannot seem to give,
And the soul afraid of dyin'
That never learns to live.

When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long,
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong,
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun's love
In the spring becomes the rose."

The Case of the Deadly Spaghetti

There was once a time in my life when I was a stickler about not leaving dirty dishes in the sink ... not so much now, but there was a time when it was a rarity for me to go to bed without every dish washed and put neatly away. In fact, I was almost a freak about it ... envisioning the unclean dishes growing germs in the night that could infest my house and my family while we slept. And in addition to the whole germ phobia, there was the plain old simple grossness of dishes with remnants of food in them lying in wait for me to awaken in the morning, with the once edible morsels growing stale and hard and crusty. Such was the case one night when we had spaghetti for dinner ... a fateful night that led to a fateful morning ... a morning I will never forget.

It was when we lived in Florida, and after our dinner of spaghetti, a friend, whose husband was out of town on business just as mine was, called and suggested we take our children to the beach to watch the sun as it set across the water. It was a beautiful evening, so I quickly agreed to my friend's suggested excursion. I put our dishes in the sink, ran some water over them, loaded the kids in the van and headed to my friend's house to get her and her two children. All of the kids had a great time ... playing in the sand and collecting shells (it was always interesting to me that no matter how many times we went to the beach each week, my kids always came home with more shells), and my friend and I enjoyed having some grown-up conversation. It was almost 9 p.m. when we left the beach, and we decided to stop for ice cream on the way home, which caused me to carry a sleeping Meghann and then Brad and then Matt into our house when we got back. After settling my children into their beds, I looked at the dishes in the sink and decided I was too tired to wash them and would do it first thing in the morning. I ran some more water over them and went to bed. I must have been really tired, because I actually slept in the next morning ... I didn't wake up until Matt came and jumped in bed with me, saying that he was ready for breakfast. By the time I cooked oatmeal and made toast, Brad and Meghann were awake as well and we all had breakfast together outside on the patio.

As the kids played outside in the back yard, I began to rinse the dishes and load them into the dishwasher. The breakfast dishes were easy to clean, and I was on the last of the leftover spaghetti bowls from the night before ... they were taking more effort because the pieces of spaghetti that had managed to avoid my casual watering from the night before required a great deal of scraping to remove them from the sides of the bowls. As I said, I was on the last bowl ... and that's when it happened. I was scraping the hardened spaghetti from the bowl, and a small piece broke away from the dish and went under my fingernail ... yes, you read it correctly, a piece of hard noodle went under my nail ... and honestly, I had never felt pain that intense. My initial reaction was to stick my finger under some cold water, which was really smart because it made the spaghetti soften and expand which in turn ramped up the pain level about a bazillion notches. I'll spare you the details, but I eventually had to call a friend and ask her to drive me to the doctor. The doctor removed my nail to get the spaghetti out ... I was bandaged up to my elbow and couldn't lower my hand for two weeks or the pain would cause me to faint, and it was several months before my finger fully healed. Fun times with three little kids to take care of and a husband who traveled most of the week ... fun times indeed.

I remember thinking at the time how stupid I had been ... I remember chastising myself again and again for not washing the dishes the night before ... I remember wondering how something so small and insignificant as a piece of spaghetti could have wreaked such havoc in my life. I'm not completely certain why the spaghetti incident has been on my mind again lately, but I'm thinking it's because God has a lesson in it for me. You see, it's often the small things in life that can hurt the most ... little things that pierce my heart and make me writhe in pain ... small things that if I don't get them removed will continue to hurt, will expand and grow, and will eventually threaten my very existence. Just like the spaghetti getting under my nail in the blink of an eye, those little things can slip into my heart before I even realize what has happened and do some big damage. Those little things can tarnish my testimony; they can lead me into sin; they can even cause me to doubt my faith. It was very painful to have my nail removed, but that was the only way ... it hurts to the core of my being when God peels away parts of my heart, but it's the only way. He knows every little piece of spaghetti that is stuck in my heart ... He knows.

"Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting." Psalm 139:23-24

Shifting Sand

My son Matt was four and my son Brad was eight months old when we moved from Tennessee to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, and my daughter Meghann was born 10 months later. Overall, I would have to say that I didn't care much for living in Florida, especially southern Florida, but I did like being only 15 minutes from the beach. I took my kids there a lot while we lived there, and I remember how we would all stand at the edge of the ocean and let the waves wash over our feet. As the water would recede, the sand beneath our feet would shift and cause our feet to sink ... and it was the weirdest feeling, almost as if we were being sucked down into the gritty substance below us. While my boys loved it, Meghann (who was only a year old when we left Florida) would scream and raise her hands for me to pick her up and rescue her from the scary sand as it shifted under her little feet and toes. It's funny how certain things affect us all differently ... what is fun and exhilarating to one person can be terrifying and traumatic to another.

Tonight when I got home from church after listening to the little kids say their Bible verses at Awana, I decided to take Ollie for a walk. It was dark, so we walked a different route, going in the opposite direction on the trail so that we would get to the sidewalk that runs along the busy road near my house. It had rained a little today, so the trail was slick, and it was covered with leaves ... wet, slippery leaves. Ollie was excited to be walking so he was tugging on the leash urging me to walk faster. Even though I walk in trail shoes, I slipped several times before we got to the dry and more textured sidewalk. And each time I slipped, I thought about the sand on the beach when the water would travel back into the ocean and how I would always feel out of control as I struggled to pull my feet from the grit that swirled around them.

I've often said that God teaches me some of His greatest lessons when I'm out walking, and tonight was no exception. So many times now, I feel as though the sand of my life is shifting beneath me and I have no control over the path I'm on. There are so many days when it seems as though I'm losing my footing, that if I don't concentrate with every ounce of energy I have, I'll lose my balance and the swirling sand will suck me under. And with those days comes a feeling of complete and utter helplessness ... much like Meghann must have felt as the sand and water shifted around her little feet. "That's what it is, Ollie," I said out loud to my little hound as we walked. "That's what I'm feeling ... the sand is shifting, little boy, the sand is shifting all around me, and there's nothing I can do to stop it."

It's rather overwhelming sometimes, this shifting and shaking of what once was my ground and my place. There are days ... like today ... when it feels as though the sand is shifting with every passing minute, and I fear that I'll never be on solid ground again. Those days frighten me to the very core of my being ... those days I pray fervently that God would give me His strength and His courage ... those days I pray to the One Who is Lord of all the sand in the universe ... those days I pray that He would once again give me a firm place to stand.

"He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand." Psalm 40:2

Share and Share Alike

Sometimes I wonder how many times I said the following words to my children when they were young ... "You have to share." It seems to me that of all the things I tried to teach my kiddos, being willing to share was one of the most difficult traits for them to learn. I think one of the funniest examples of their "what's mine is mine" tendencies concerned food when they were teenagers, and more specifically, Pop-Tarts. I would buy enough each Saturday when I went to the grocery store for each child to have two of the tasty pastries for breakfast each morning. The problem was that someone would invariably decide to eat either 1) an extra Pop-Tart for breakfast, or 2) a Pop-Tart at another time of the day. I'm pretty sure that Brad was usually the culprit given his long-standing penchant for all sugary foods. And it was Matt whom I found carefully writing his name in permanent marker on his box of Pop-Tarts one day when I returned home from work, along with a note that said, "Eat these and die." Yep, my hard-fought attempt to teach my children to share was obviously a roaring success.

I've had sharing on my mind today because of a line in a blog post that I read, a line that has given me pause to consider how much of myself I really share with others. I've come to understand in the penning of this blog how risky it can be to open up your heart for others to see into ... how painful it can be to put yourself out there for all the world to judge. The words from the blog I read say it beautifully ... "It is always a test of courage and self-worth to share yourself with another person." As I've thought about those words and rolled them around in my brain today, I couldn't help but wonder ... if I don't share myself with others and truly let them see inside my heart, are my relationships real and honest? If I hide parts of myself away because I'm afraid of being rejected or condemned or ridiculed, am I fooling myself more than I'm fooling others? If I'm not open and transparent with others, am I really the woman God desires me to be?

As I have written before, I believe that God has called me to be open and honest in this blog ... and at times, that has been quite difficult. There have been posts that have generated comments and messages that have stung and hurt, but there have also been posts that have elicited words of encouragement and love. I realize more each day that sharing is a two-way street, that it involves give and take, courage, trust and risk. I can't begin to thank God enough for the people who read between the lines and truly get what I'm saying, for the people who know me inside and out and love me still, for the people who share themselves with me in return.

One of my favorite movies is Indiana Jones and The Last Crusade ... I know it's cheesy, but it stars Harrison Ford and Sean Connery, two of my favorite actors. My favorite scene in the movie is when Indy stands at the edge of a large chasm and takes a step of faith, and when he does, an invisible bridge appears beneath his feet to support him. I think sharing myself with others is like that bridge ... I have to take a leap of faith and trust that a bridge will appear and my heart won't be crushed on the rocks below.

Share and share alike, friends ... share and share alike.

It's a Line Drive

My dad loved to watch baseball, and he especially loved the Atlanta Braves and he even more especially loved the great Hank Aaron. I have no idea how many Sunday afternoons I flopped on the big red and black pillow on the floor of our den and watched Atlanta Braves baseball with Daddy ... probably too many to count, I suppose. When we would travel to Georgia to see Daddy's family or to Florida on vacation, we drove through downtown Atlanta and would pass the stadium where the Braves played. And every single time, Daddy would put his hand on the car window and say, "Knock one out of the park for me, boys."

Perhaps it was my dad's love of baseball that spurred me to play softball for several years during my youth. I played on my church's team, and we were, if I do say so myself, quite good. Occasionally, I played third base, but most of the time, I was our team's resident second base gal. Now when I say that we were a good team, we really were a good team ... good enough that we won the area tournament several years in a row. And that was a big deal in our little town of Red Bank ... a really big deal. And because it was such a big deal, a few of us began to think that we were a pretty big deal and began to get sort of ... well ... sort of arrogant when it came to our abilities on the field. Looking back, I'm amazed that God waited as long as He did before He took me down a great big old notch, and I've never forgotten how He did it.

It was the third game of the tournament, and I was playing second base. Our team was ahead by three runs in the top of the fourth inning when a gal who was called "Killer" by her teammates stepped up to bat with the bases loaded and no outs. I don't remember the pitch that she connected with, but I do remember seeing the ball heading toward me as she whacked a powerful line drive. My arrogance shifted into overdrive as I yelled, "Mine, mine, mine! Double play!" to our shortstop gal on my right, more than confident that I would catch the ball, throw it to her and we would get two outs. What happened next will forever go down as one of the most embarrassing moments of my life ... I put my glove in front of my face as the ball flew toward me, and I missed it completely. But not only did I miss the ball, it hit me ... squarely in the neck ... hard. I remember dropping to the ground clutching my neck with the ball sitting on the ground in front of me while the other team scored four runs to go ahead and eventually win the game. Thankfully, it was a double elimination tournament and our team went on to take first place ... but to this day, I remember feeling completely responsible for my team losing that game.

Now back to my neck ... the ball hit me so hard that it left marks on my skin that matched the stitching on the softball. I had a big goose egg that took over a week to disappear, and the whole side of my neck became one gigantic bruise. My coach wouldn't let me play the rest of the game, and I had to sit on the bench knowing that my arrogance had wrecked my team's undefeated season. You can be assured that when I came back to play the following night, I was more than a bit humbled and more than aware that I wasn't the perfect softball player I thought I was.

This evening when I got home from work, I gulped down some dinner and headed out for a walk with Ollie the wiener dog. Some of you may remember me writing previously about how sometimes I stop and run in the field with Ollie on our way home, and over the last couple of weeks, I've discovered that Ollie loves, loves, loves to run through the leaves that are falling from the trees. Near the end of our walk, Ollie bolted into the field and immediately began to bark and hop toward me as he tried to get me to play. I couldn't help but smile at him ... he so enjoys playing and running and barking and rolling in the grass and the leaves. I took off after him and we ran back and forth in the field until I was out of breath. I leaned over and rubbed his head and told him I was pooped, and that's when the line drive hit me.

I don't have many low blood sugar episodes any more except in the middle of the night, but as I stood back up, my head began to spin and my palms began to tingle ... sure signs that my blood sugar was dropping. I was mentally griping at myself for not eating more dinner, for not bringing any snacks along with me, for running in the field with Ollie at the end of a fairly long walk ... and that's when a friend who was picking up her son from soccer practice saw me and Ollie and stopped to say hello. Even though I knew I had just been hit by a swift line drive, my pride and arrogance immediately kicked in when she offered to give me a ride home, and I said, "No ... I'm good." But as I tried to stand up and my head swirled, I remembered that night at the softball game, and I changed my mind. "I think I will let you take me home if you don't mind," I said as I tried to keep my legs from trembling. When we got to my house, I climbed out of her car and went straight inside and ate ... a lot ... and within a few minutes, the tingling in my hands and the spinning of my head had ceased.

You would think I would learn that God doesn't want me to be proud or arrogant ... you would think I would learn. "A man's pride will bring him low, but a humble spirit will obtain honor." Proverbs 29:23

Evidence That Demands a Verdict

When I was in high school, I had an English teacher who saw something in me that I didn't see in myself ... she saw a young gal who needed a challenge to engage her active mind; she saw a potential writer in the thoughts that swirled in the chaos of my thoughts; she saw a productive future in the girl who spent as much time at the principal's office as she did at her desk. And more than seeing those things in me, she did something about it ... she took me under her wing and she encouraged me to read, to study, to write, to dream. I told someone just last week that if it hadn't been for that teacher, my life could have followed a much different path than it did, and I'm beyond grateful that she took the time to care about me and was willing to put forth the effort to reach me.

My teacher did many things to keep me focused, and one of those things was to make me write ... and write ... and write some more. She insisted that I write poetry and short stories and song lyrics and essays and research papers. While I don't remember the content of most of those writing assignments, I do remember one research paper quite well ... and part of the reason I remember it so clearly is because I adamantly protested the subject matter my teacher asked me to report on. She assigned me the task of arguing the validity of the claims made by Josh McDowell in his book Evidence That Demands a Verdict ... a book that addressed the historical proof for the trustworthiness of the Bible and offered historical evidence and supporting attestations concerning Jesus' claim to be God. At the time, I thought it was a ridiculous assignment, but my teacher wouldn't budge ... write a 30-page, double-spaced, footnoted paper about the truth of the Bible and Jesus. In a high school English class ... obviously, that was a lot of years ago and things have certainly changed in the education realm.

I can't recall the details of my paper, but I remember my conclusion quite well. Not only was the Bible true and accurate and supported by the events of history, Jesus was most definitely Who He said He was ... the one and only Son of God ... the healer of the sick ... the raiser of the dead ... the forgiver of sins. And ... and ... and ... not only was Jesus who He said He was ... He did what He said He would do ... He went to the cross for me, and He conquered death and the grave and rose on the third day. I remember my teacher asking me to present my findings before the class, and I remember begging her not to make me speak to the class. Just like with the writing of the paper, I got nowhere with her and ended up standing before my classmates talking about the Bible, Jesus and the resurrection. Maybe that was God's own foreshadowing of what He had planned for me, to call me to speak to countless groups about His Word and His Son.

One thing I distinctly recall from my class presentation is that I ended it by stating that every single person has to make a choice ... to come up with their own verdict ... concerning the validity of the Bible and the truth of Jesus Christ. Every person who has ever drawn a breath has had to determine what he or she would do with Jesus. I've been thinking today about evidence and courts and juries and that sort of thing, and I thought about a question I'm sure that many of you have read or heard before. If I was on trial for being a Christian, would there be enough evidence to convict me? And the more I thought about that question, I couldn't help but think about how often we humans level verdicts against one another ... we declare guilt or innocence based on our interpretation of what we perceive as evidence that proves or disproves our often unwarranted judgments of our fellowman. And the more I thought about that premise, the more I came back to the question of there being enough evidence to convict me of being a devoted follower of my Lord.

It's so easy, Father, to become discouraged when others judge me based on how I look or how I feel or how I speak. Help me to focus on the only evidence and the only verdict that matters, God ... the evidence of You living in me, and my innocence declared by the blood of Your Son. 

Walmart Heart

Just about every Saturday morning, I go to Walmart. I go there because I don't like to shop at all ... yes, I know what you're thinking, but my statement really does make sense (at least in my own mind). I go to Walmart because I can get everything I need there which means I don't have to shop at any other stores. From lawn care products to dog food to toiletries to cleaning supplies to sugar free Cool Whip ... I can get it all at Walmart. It's funny to me that I used to love to shop ... I can remember shopping with my mom at the mall or the specialty clothing store in Red Bank named Cooley's Clothing. I used to love shopping with my children, especially on the day after Thanksgiving. But now ... now I detest shopping, hence my Saturday morning "buy it all at once" Walmart shopping.

Last weekend as I was standing in the dog treats aisle musing over which rawhide bones to buy for Julie, I started thinking about how much my shopping ventures have changed over the last few years. Now that my kiddos have all moved out, the things I buy are quite different than they used to be, and I have to buy less of things like toilet paper and laundry detergent and food. A pitcher of tea lasts over a week now as opposed to when my brood still lived at home and we went through a gallon each day. There are certain things I never buy now, like ice cream and school supplies and multipacks of toothbrushes.

The more I thought about shopping for my physical needs, the more I began to think about how it's not possible to walk into a store and shop for my emotional or spiritual needs. And the more I thought about that, the more I thought about how often that's exactly what I try to do. I try to find a way to have a Walmart heart ... one that I can just walk in and pick up off of a shelf, maybe even slip into a dressing room and try on one or two to see if there's one that fits, and then go on my way. So many times, I try to have the heart that everyone else thinks I should have ... the heart that loves the way others tell me to love, the heart that does what others tell me to do, the heart that goes where others tell me to go.

I wonder sometimes how many minutes, hours, days, months, even years I've spent ignoring my own heart to follow a heart that isn't really mine at all. That wondering, that pondering, leads me to another place of questioning ... so what now? I'm almost 52 years old ... so what now? Do I continue to be concerned about the opinions and advice of everyone around me telling me who I should be or what I should do or where I should go? Or do I follow my heart ... listen to that inner voice ... be courageous and strong enough to stop my heart shopping and wear the one that fits me best ... the one that God created within me and desires for me to have?

Yesterday I read a quote that has made me think even more about the shortness of this life... a quote that has made me once again, as I have so often over the last year, pray that God would strip away my pretense, erase my pride, make my heart be one that seeks after Him and Him alone. "The benefit of death is you know not to waste life living someone else's choices. Don't let the noise of others' opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition."

Hmmm ... that brings to mind another quote ... a quote from God's Word that shall be my prayer this morning, that shall be in my heart and on my lips today and every day ... "Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me." Yes, Lord, please create in me a heart that is pure in Your sight ... a heart that cares not what others may think of me or say about me ... a heart that can't be bought at any store ... a heart that was purchased by Your blood on the cross at Calvary.

The Green Chair

My brothers and my sister were quite a bit older when I was born ... yep, I was an "oops" baby in the truest sense of the word. Because of the significant age difference, my oldest nieces and nephews are only a few years younger than me. In fact, my oldest niece is not quite two years younger than I am ... granted, she looks like she's 20 years younger and could be a model, but she really is less than two years younger than me. But while she looks younger than me, she already has two ... count 'em, two ... grandchildren, so technically she's a granny and I'm not just yet. My niece and I spent a ton of time together when we were young because my sister kept me a lot while Mom worked. My niece and I were really more like sisters than aunt and niece, as was often evidenced in our bickering and picking at each other.

Almost every time my niece and I get together now, which isn't very often since she lives in Tennessee and I live in Kansas, somehow one of us manages to bring our battles over the green chair into the conversation. You see, my sister had this green chair that sat in the corner of her family room, and for some reason that neither my niece nor I can remember, she and I fought like crazy over who got to sit in the green chair. Now we laugh about it, but back then, whoever shouted, "I call the green chair!" and made it to the chair first was a big deal, a really, really big deal.

I was thinking this evening as I was driving home about all the things in life that are not my call ... that no matter how much I may want to be the decider on certain events or situations, I can't make the call. It's not my call if someone is going to heaven or hell. It's not my call if someone is rich or poor. It's not my call if someone is healthy or sick. It's not my call if someone is nice or mean. It's not my call if someone is honest or lies. It's not my call to determine if someone is right or wrong. It's not my call if someone lives or dies. I may have been able to call the green chair as mine for a night, but in life, so very many things are not my call.

Watching the news and reading stories online this past week has made me realize, perhaps more than I ever have before, that I shouldn't presume anything about another person ... that I shouldn't be judgmental ... that I shouldn't allow any form of prejudice to ever creep into my heart. The truth is that it's not my call ... the truth is that it's only His.

"If you show special attention to the man wearing fine clothes and say, 'Here’s a good seat for you,' but say to the poor man, 'You stand there' or 'Sit on the floor by my feet,' have you not discriminated among yourselves and become judges with evil thoughts?" James 2:3-5

The End of an Era

There are some people who are larger than life, who change the course of the way people live and work, who will be remembered and talked about as long as there are people on earth. Steve Jobs was one of those people, and today, he passed away at the young age of 56. And the thing is ... I didn't even know who he was until my sons went Apple crazy ... iPods, Mac computers, iPhones, iPads ... their infatuation with all things Apple, coupled with my entrance into a career in advertising, caused me to pay attention to Mr. Jobs and the products of his company ... a little company that began in a garage and grew into a multi-billion dollar venture.

Tonight as I was reading a lengthy article about his passing, I was amazed once again at all the things he accomplished in his relatively short lifetime. I couldn't help but feel sad as I read, wondering what else he would have done had he lived to a ripe old age. But for all the accolades in the article, for all the recounting of his personal and business successes and failures, it was a quote from Jobs' commencement address at Stanford University in 2005 after his first bout with cancer that struck me the most.

"Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life," he said. "Because almost everything -- all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure -- these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important."

I don't understand how anyone can face death and not be changed in some way ... changed in the way they live each day, changed in the way they spend their time, changed in the way they treat others, changed in the way they walk with God. Getting a glimpse at one's own mortality and recognizing the true brevity of this life must change a person somehow ... perhaps for some, it causes them to strive to improve who they are; perhaps for others, it causes them to become bitter and angry. Facing death must, must, must change a person ... it simply must. 

"Leaving only what is truly important" ... as I read those words, I couldn't help but wonder if Mr. Jobs had a relationship with God ... ultimately, after all, in the face of death, that is the only thing that is important ... where a person stands in their relationship with the one true God. My prayers are with Mr. Jobs' family and friends tonight as they grieve his passing ... his death truly does mark the end of an era for the world, but for those who loved him, it is so much more ... so much more.