One thing I learned early on when I started speaking at women's events was that not all microphones are created equal, and it didn't take me long at all to decide that I definitely like the cordless ones best. Well, I like them best when they work the way they are supposed to work, which unfortunately, they don't always do. And I must also say that one of my greatest fears when I speak has always been that I would forget to flip the switch into the off position on the cordless microphone when I go to the restroom ... don't laugh ... apparently that's a pretty common fear among public speakers. But back to microphones that don't always function the way they are built to function ... I've had them completely die in the middle of a session; I've gotten "buzzed" by one with electrical problems; I even had one of the old-fashioned corded ones that spontaneously broke into a million pieces while it was perched on a microphone stand. So now, when I travel to an event to speak, I always request that we do a microphone check before I step onto the stage. And every time we run through the check, I always say, "Testing 1, 2, 3 ... testing" until the sound people get all the levels correct and any issues worked out.
Last weekend while I was shopping in the after-Thanksgiving madness, I made a stop at a Hallmark store ... you know, Hallmark cards and really mushy TV commercials that make you cry ... that Hallmark store. I stopped there because a few days earlier, I had decided that I wanted to get a recordable storybook for my future granddaughter to have on her first Christmas next year since I won't be with her (Matt and Becca will be moving away when he completes his Ph.D. in May). And I had already decided that I would buy A Charlie Brown Christmas to record for her since Matt loves anything Charlie Brown ... in fact, the first gift he bought his future daughter was a stuffed Snoopy ... go ahead and say a collective "Oh, how sweet!" As I was looking at the Christmas books (which were on sale for half price), I decided to also purchase 'Twas the Night Before Christmas to record for little B.J. ... my mom used to read that story to my children when they were young ... I can still see her sitting on the couch with my three little ones around her as she read to them. Now get this ... I'm standing in line to pay for the books when my phone rings and I see that it's Matt. I answer and he says, "Hey, Mom, Bec and I were talking and we thought if you were going to get the baby a Christmas gift, you might want to get the recordable Charlie Brown Christmas since we may not be together next Christmas." Yep, you guessed it ... I stood in line at the Hallmark store bawling my eyes out.
So tonight was my fourth attempt to record the books for B.J. ... I can't get through them without tearing up, and the harder I try to pull myself together and read the story, the more the tears flow. Thankfully, Hallmark designed the books so that weepers like me get more than one chance to record the story. It struck me tonight as I gave up after my latest attempt to read the Charlie Brown book that there are some deep truths to be gleaned from the process of trying to record the stories for little B.J. I realized that my son recognizes that the chances are great that I will miss his daughter's first Christmas and that it is important to him that she will be able to hear her Granny read to her. I realized how important family is, how short life truly is, and how much I wish that I would have had the foresight to have recorded my mom reading 'Twas the Night Before Christmas to my kiddos. I realized that in many ways, my life is like a recordable book ... God gives me so many chances to get the story right ... no matter how many times I mess up, He erases my mistakes and allows me to try again and again and again.
My prayer tonight is that God would do a microphone check on me ... that He would test me, examine me, make me who He desires me to be. And while you do, Lord ... while you do, thank You for letting me start over ... to read the story again ... and again ... and again.
"Examine me, O Lord, and try me; test my mind and my heart." Psalm 26:2
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Monday, November 28, 2011
Habitual Creatures
When I first started thinking about writing this post, I decided to do what I do best ... research my subject as best I could. So I did a lot of reading about habits and how long it takes to form them and found that there's a generally accepted range of time, 21 to 66 days, much longer than I thought. And then I did a lot of reading about how long it takes to break a well-established habit and found that most folks agree that it takes around 30 days to undo an action that has become part of a person's daily routine, much less time than I thought. And the reason the whole habit thing has been on my mind is because I just spent 10 days at home with my two dogs ... my two dogs who are most definitely creatures of habit. I spent most of my time off hanging around the house with the exception of Black Friday shopping with Brad and Shelby and meeting a friend for lunch one day, and perhaps it's because I was home so much that the habits of my hounds caught my attention in a big way. I'm not going to recount all of the things they do every single day, but I am going to mention some of them for two reasons ... to support my theory concerning habitual behavior and because the dogs are just stinking cute when they do these things each day.
A while back, I started what my kids would say is a bad thing with my dogs. Each time they go out in the yard to go potty, I give them a Cheeto ... or two ... or five. And each time I touch the bag of Cheetos, both Ollie and Julie come flying to the back door to go outside. They don't come running for the bag, they come running to the back door because the sound of the Cheetos bag means "outside" to the two of them. And yes, it's adorable to watch them both when they bolt outside, and it's even more adorable to see them sit in unison when they come back inside as they wait for their Cheetos. One more food-related behavior ... each night before I go to bed, I take my nighttime medications, two pills that I keep in their original prescription bottles on the kitchen counter rather than in a pill organizer. When Julie and Ollie hear me open the bottle and start to shake a pill out, they come racing into the kitchen. Even if they are both sound asleep in my bed, they come running when they hear the pills because they know that after I take my pills, I always eat a piece of cheese before I go to bed ... and I always give each of them a piece of cheese, too. And when we turn in for the night, Julie has her spot and Ollie has his. Julie stretches out and sleeps on the side of the bed next to me, and Ollie burrows under the covers until he is down by my feet where he then flips over on his back ... and they sleep in the same spots in the same way every single night. My hounds are most definitely habitual creatures.
In watching my dogs over the last week, I couldn't help but think about my own habits and routines. There are many things that I do at the same time in the same way every single day. Take breakfast, for example. I always eat between 7:00 and 7:30, and I have three eggs over easy with cream cheese and a glass of almond milk ... every single day for the last two years, I have eaten the same breakfast at the same time. I even cook the eggs in the same skillet every morning. I never used to be such a creature of habit and routine, but I certainly have become one over the last couple of years. I have a routine that I follow each morning as I get ready to leave for work, and I have a routine that I follow when I come home each evening. The more I think about it, the more I realize that aside from things that may pop up at work, all of my days are pretty much the same ... doing the same thing the same way over and over again.
I couldn't get the whole habit thing off of my mind today, and as I was driving home tonight, God placed a thought deep within me. Habits can be good, or they can be bad. Routines can be a source of stability in life, or they can cause life to become dull and joyless. Just like He has so many times over the last year, God reminded me once again as I drove that it's about perspective ... it's about keeping myself focused on Him rather than the habits or routines of my daily existence. And as I greeted Julie and Ollie when I got home and we began our nightly routine, I whispered a prayer ... Make me habitual when it comes to You, Father ... make me a creature of habit when it comes to loving You, to serving You, to talking with You, to being in Your Word ... make those things be the things I do every single day ... make me a creature of habit, Lord.
A while back, I started what my kids would say is a bad thing with my dogs. Each time they go out in the yard to go potty, I give them a Cheeto ... or two ... or five. And each time I touch the bag of Cheetos, both Ollie and Julie come flying to the back door to go outside. They don't come running for the bag, they come running to the back door because the sound of the Cheetos bag means "outside" to the two of them. And yes, it's adorable to watch them both when they bolt outside, and it's even more adorable to see them sit in unison when they come back inside as they wait for their Cheetos. One more food-related behavior ... each night before I go to bed, I take my nighttime medications, two pills that I keep in their original prescription bottles on the kitchen counter rather than in a pill organizer. When Julie and Ollie hear me open the bottle and start to shake a pill out, they come racing into the kitchen. Even if they are both sound asleep in my bed, they come running when they hear the pills because they know that after I take my pills, I always eat a piece of cheese before I go to bed ... and I always give each of them a piece of cheese, too. And when we turn in for the night, Julie has her spot and Ollie has his. Julie stretches out and sleeps on the side of the bed next to me, and Ollie burrows under the covers until he is down by my feet where he then flips over on his back ... and they sleep in the same spots in the same way every single night. My hounds are most definitely habitual creatures.
In watching my dogs over the last week, I couldn't help but think about my own habits and routines. There are many things that I do at the same time in the same way every single day. Take breakfast, for example. I always eat between 7:00 and 7:30, and I have three eggs over easy with cream cheese and a glass of almond milk ... every single day for the last two years, I have eaten the same breakfast at the same time. I even cook the eggs in the same skillet every morning. I never used to be such a creature of habit and routine, but I certainly have become one over the last couple of years. I have a routine that I follow each morning as I get ready to leave for work, and I have a routine that I follow when I come home each evening. The more I think about it, the more I realize that aside from things that may pop up at work, all of my days are pretty much the same ... doing the same thing the same way over and over again.
I couldn't get the whole habit thing off of my mind today, and as I was driving home tonight, God placed a thought deep within me. Habits can be good, or they can be bad. Routines can be a source of stability in life, or they can cause life to become dull and joyless. Just like He has so many times over the last year, God reminded me once again as I drove that it's about perspective ... it's about keeping myself focused on Him rather than the habits or routines of my daily existence. And as I greeted Julie and Ollie when I got home and we began our nightly routine, I whispered a prayer ... Make me habitual when it comes to You, Father ... make me a creature of habit when it comes to loving You, to serving You, to talking with You, to being in Your Word ... make those things be the things I do every single day ... make me a creature of habit, Lord.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
We Come Far
Just as there are books that have left a lasting impression on me, there are movies that have as well. I will forever remember going to see Gone With the Wind at the old Tivoli Theater in Chattanooga with Mom and Dad or Steel Magnolias with a group of gal friends in Florida the weekend before we moved to Kansas City. There are several movies that have touched me or that hold a special place in my heart, but there is one that I would probably rank as my all-time favorite ... Dances With Wolves. I remember the first time I saw it in the theater with my ex-husband and our next-door neighbors, and though I own the DVD, I will still stop and watch it every time I stumble upon it on television. Which was the case yesterday ... a cold, windy, rainy gray day, a day when my mood was as gloomy as the skies outside my windows ... yesterday, I spent three hours snuggled on my couch with my dogs watching Dances With Wolves.
The film begins with a scene in which the main character, Lieutenant John J. Dunbar, is wounded in the American Civil War. Not wanting to have his leg amputated, Lieutenant Dunbar takes a superior officer's horse and rides back and forth adjacent to enemy lines "to produce his own death." While the Confederate soldiers are focused on trying to shoot the lieutenant, the Union army attacks and wins the battle. Dunbar survives and is given a commendation and his choice of posts at which to serve. He chooses the western frontier, saying that he wishes to see it before it disappears. He finds the fort abandoned and in disrepair but decides to stay and man the post himself, keeping a diary of his daily life on the prairie. He meets and is accepted into the Sioux tribe, is given the name Dances With Wolves, and marries a woman who had been brought into the tribe as a child when her family was killed. When Dunbar returns to the fort to retrieve his diary before the tribe moves to its winter camp, he is captured and treated as a traitor. While transporting him back for trial, his Sioux family attacks and kills the soldiers to save him from certain hanging. The movie concludes with Dunbar and his wife Stands With a Fist leaving the tribe in order to try and protect them from retribution for the soldiers' deaths.
The opening scene in which Lieutenant Dunbar rides across the field with his arms stretched open is powerful to say the least. His whispered words of "Forgive me, Father," as he attempts to bring about his own death always bring tears to my eyes. I can completely identify with the words he writes to identify his lonely existence at the fort ... "I remain alone, however, and should troops not arrive soon, I fear that all may be lost." But it is the words that are spoken in the final scenes of the movie that continue to impact me the most. Dunbar is saying goodbye to Kicking Bird, the tribe's medicine man whom he admires and respects, and who has become his close friend. As they exchange pipes each has carved, Kicking Bird says, "We come far, you and me." And Dunbar replies, "I will not forget you." Then as Dunbar and Stands With a Fist ride out of the Sioux camp that has been their home, the young warrior, Wind in His Hair, who initially most strongly opposed Dunbar, sits on his horse at the top of a hill and shouts, "Dances With Wolves! ... Dances With Wolves! ... I am Wind In His Hair! ... Do you see that I am your friend? ... Can you see that you will always be my friend?"
While some would say that the film is violent and not very well done, I would say the movie is about love and friendship and commitment and discovering one's true identity and purpose in life, and that it offers a great glance into a way of life from days gone by. It reminds me each time I watch it that there are bonds between people that transcend the boundaries of time or social standing or race or distance. It reminds me of people in my life who have come far with me, of people I will not forget. But most of all, it reminds me of my one true Friend ... my Friend who says to me each morning ... "We come far, you and Me." I will not forget You, Lord ... I will not forget You.
The film begins with a scene in which the main character, Lieutenant John J. Dunbar, is wounded in the American Civil War. Not wanting to have his leg amputated, Lieutenant Dunbar takes a superior officer's horse and rides back and forth adjacent to enemy lines "to produce his own death." While the Confederate soldiers are focused on trying to shoot the lieutenant, the Union army attacks and wins the battle. Dunbar survives and is given a commendation and his choice of posts at which to serve. He chooses the western frontier, saying that he wishes to see it before it disappears. He finds the fort abandoned and in disrepair but decides to stay and man the post himself, keeping a diary of his daily life on the prairie. He meets and is accepted into the Sioux tribe, is given the name Dances With Wolves, and marries a woman who had been brought into the tribe as a child when her family was killed. When Dunbar returns to the fort to retrieve his diary before the tribe moves to its winter camp, he is captured and treated as a traitor. While transporting him back for trial, his Sioux family attacks and kills the soldiers to save him from certain hanging. The movie concludes with Dunbar and his wife Stands With a Fist leaving the tribe in order to try and protect them from retribution for the soldiers' deaths.
The opening scene in which Lieutenant Dunbar rides across the field with his arms stretched open is powerful to say the least. His whispered words of "Forgive me, Father," as he attempts to bring about his own death always bring tears to my eyes. I can completely identify with the words he writes to identify his lonely existence at the fort ... "I remain alone, however, and should troops not arrive soon, I fear that all may be lost." But it is the words that are spoken in the final scenes of the movie that continue to impact me the most. Dunbar is saying goodbye to Kicking Bird, the tribe's medicine man whom he admires and respects, and who has become his close friend. As they exchange pipes each has carved, Kicking Bird says, "We come far, you and me." And Dunbar replies, "I will not forget you." Then as Dunbar and Stands With a Fist ride out of the Sioux camp that has been their home, the young warrior, Wind in His Hair, who initially most strongly opposed Dunbar, sits on his horse at the top of a hill and shouts, "Dances With Wolves! ... Dances With Wolves! ... I am Wind In His Hair! ... Do you see that I am your friend? ... Can you see that you will always be my friend?"
While some would say that the film is violent and not very well done, I would say the movie is about love and friendship and commitment and discovering one's true identity and purpose in life, and that it offers a great glance into a way of life from days gone by. It reminds me each time I watch it that there are bonds between people that transcend the boundaries of time or social standing or race or distance. It reminds me of people in my life who have come far with me, of people I will not forget. But most of all, it reminds me of my one true Friend ... my Friend who says to me each morning ... "We come far, you and Me." I will not forget You, Lord ... I will not forget You.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Utter Madness
For as far back as I can remember, I've never cared much for shopping. As I've grown older, my dislike of the process has evolved into near loathing accompanied with a significant amount of dread when I know that I must shop. It doesn't matter what I'm shopping for ... food, clothes, gifts ... I almost break out in a cold sweat when I know a shopping excursion is on the horizon. If I could, I would never leave my couch to purchase anything, I would do every bit of my shopping online. But ... I love my son, Brad ... I love him a lot, in fact, and there is one day of the year that my Bradley looks forward to all year. You see, for my son Brad, Thanksgiving means two things ... eating lots and lots of food, and preparing his plan of attack for Black Friday shopping. I'm not sure when it began, but Brad has a thing about shopping on Black Friday ... a real serious thing about it. And because I love him and because he says it's tradition for me to accompany him for at least some of the grand event, I steel myself each year for the crowds and the long lines ... yes, I, the woman who detests shopping, shops on Black Friday because I love my son.
So yesterday morning, I ventured out to purchase a newspaper to give to Brad the minute he arrived at my house in the early evening. For as technologically savvy as my son is, our entire family knows that Brad must have an old-fashioned hard copy newspaper on Thanksgiving ... a newspaper that is filled to overflowing with Black Friday shopping advertisements. Brad's reputation for spreading all the ads on the floor in front of him as he painstakingly makes a list of all the items he wishes to purchase and carefully maps out his travel route to the stores is even known among our extended family in Tennessee. One year when we were there visiting family, Matt and Brad camped out in front of Best Buy for the better part of a rather chilly night so that they would be some of the first customers in the door when the store opened at 4:00 a.m. I'm telling you ... Brad has a thing about shopping on Black Friday.
While many people have voiced disapproval that many retailers were beginning the traditional Black Friday sales on Thanksgiving this year, Brad was almost giddy last night when his girlfriend arrived at my house to join us on our shopping adventure. She had never experienced Black Friday shopping, and she had certainly never experienced it with Brad. As he checked and rechecked his list and discussed where we were going and when, Shelby patted him on the back and shook her head in wonder that the young man who has worn the same ugly orange sneakers since junior high was so excited to go shopping.
Though I have gone Black Friday shopping time and time again with Brad over the last 20 something years, I've never experienced it to the fullest until last night. Before he could drive himself, Brad and Matt would be the ones who would stand in line and rush in when the doors of the stores opened in the wee hours of the morning. I would then, like any smart mother would, join them at a much more reasonable time after the initial chaos was over. Translated ... I would give the boys money, tell them what I wanted them to buy for me, sleep in, meet them for breakfast and then shop for what I absolutely had to after the predawn crowds had thinned out a bit.
But this year, since the stores were opening earlier on Thanksgiving evening and since my vacuum cleaner died a couple of days ago, I decided to go with Brad and Shelby and, as Brad so eloquently stated, "see what I've been missing out on all these years." We began at Walmart at 9:30 ... well, we began by parking across the street from Walmart at 9:30 because the parking lot was completely full. We hiked to the store where we then split up and staked out our spots near the items we most wanted to purchase ... Brad and Shelby in front of the $1.28 bath towels and me in front of the $36.00 Bissell vacuum. And friends, in all my 52 years of life, I've never experienced anything quite like the utter madness that ensued when the clock reached 10:00 p.m. and a voice on the loudspeaker announced that the sale was on. I'll spare you the details of the behavior of the people around me whose sole mission in life seemed to be to own a $36.00 Bissell vacuum, but I will tell you that when I met up with Brad and Shelby a few minutes later, the two of them were breathless as they told me about an older woman who was ready to throw punches if she didn't get her $1.28 towels. And I will also tell you that my son Matt and very pregnant daughter-in-law were at the Walmart in their hometown a couple of hours west of here at the same time when Becca sent me a text message saying, "This is crazy and I'm scared!"
I finally got home at 3:00 a.m. after standing in line with Shelby for an hour and twenty minutes to check out at Old Navy while Brad hit Best Buy and Target. They got back to my house at 3:30 after they made a quick stop at Kohl's and then they drove another 40 minutes to go home. As I climbed into bed, it was almost 4:00 a.m., and I said to Julie and Ollie, "That was utter madness, dogs ... sheer and utter madness." But the final thought that was on my mind as I drifted off to sleep was this ... I made memories tonight with Brad, memories that he will always have. I got to chat with Shelby and discover that she's a deep thinker and a great gal who encourages and challenges Brad to follow his dreams. Memories ... tonight was about making memories for my son far more than it was about shopping.
So here's to you, Bradley, and your Black Friday shopping skills ... here's to you and your precious heart ... here's to you and your sweet smile ... here's to you and your strong hugs ... here's to you, my middle kiddo ... thanks for reminding me right in the middle of utter madness how very much I love you.
So yesterday morning, I ventured out to purchase a newspaper to give to Brad the minute he arrived at my house in the early evening. For as technologically savvy as my son is, our entire family knows that Brad must have an old-fashioned hard copy newspaper on Thanksgiving ... a newspaper that is filled to overflowing with Black Friday shopping advertisements. Brad's reputation for spreading all the ads on the floor in front of him as he painstakingly makes a list of all the items he wishes to purchase and carefully maps out his travel route to the stores is even known among our extended family in Tennessee. One year when we were there visiting family, Matt and Brad camped out in front of Best Buy for the better part of a rather chilly night so that they would be some of the first customers in the door when the store opened at 4:00 a.m. I'm telling you ... Brad has a thing about shopping on Black Friday.
While many people have voiced disapproval that many retailers were beginning the traditional Black Friday sales on Thanksgiving this year, Brad was almost giddy last night when his girlfriend arrived at my house to join us on our shopping adventure. She had never experienced Black Friday shopping, and she had certainly never experienced it with Brad. As he checked and rechecked his list and discussed where we were going and when, Shelby patted him on the back and shook her head in wonder that the young man who has worn the same ugly orange sneakers since junior high was so excited to go shopping.
Though I have gone Black Friday shopping time and time again with Brad over the last 20 something years, I've never experienced it to the fullest until last night. Before he could drive himself, Brad and Matt would be the ones who would stand in line and rush in when the doors of the stores opened in the wee hours of the morning. I would then, like any smart mother would, join them at a much more reasonable time after the initial chaos was over. Translated ... I would give the boys money, tell them what I wanted them to buy for me, sleep in, meet them for breakfast and then shop for what I absolutely had to after the predawn crowds had thinned out a bit.
But this year, since the stores were opening earlier on Thanksgiving evening and since my vacuum cleaner died a couple of days ago, I decided to go with Brad and Shelby and, as Brad so eloquently stated, "see what I've been missing out on all these years." We began at Walmart at 9:30 ... well, we began by parking across the street from Walmart at 9:30 because the parking lot was completely full. We hiked to the store where we then split up and staked out our spots near the items we most wanted to purchase ... Brad and Shelby in front of the $1.28 bath towels and me in front of the $36.00 Bissell vacuum. And friends, in all my 52 years of life, I've never experienced anything quite like the utter madness that ensued when the clock reached 10:00 p.m. and a voice on the loudspeaker announced that the sale was on. I'll spare you the details of the behavior of the people around me whose sole mission in life seemed to be to own a $36.00 Bissell vacuum, but I will tell you that when I met up with Brad and Shelby a few minutes later, the two of them were breathless as they told me about an older woman who was ready to throw punches if she didn't get her $1.28 towels. And I will also tell you that my son Matt and very pregnant daughter-in-law were at the Walmart in their hometown a couple of hours west of here at the same time when Becca sent me a text message saying, "This is crazy and I'm scared!"
I finally got home at 3:00 a.m. after standing in line with Shelby for an hour and twenty minutes to check out at Old Navy while Brad hit Best Buy and Target. They got back to my house at 3:30 after they made a quick stop at Kohl's and then they drove another 40 minutes to go home. As I climbed into bed, it was almost 4:00 a.m., and I said to Julie and Ollie, "That was utter madness, dogs ... sheer and utter madness." But the final thought that was on my mind as I drifted off to sleep was this ... I made memories tonight with Brad, memories that he will always have. I got to chat with Shelby and discover that she's a deep thinker and a great gal who encourages and challenges Brad to follow his dreams. Memories ... tonight was about making memories for my son far more than it was about shopping.
So here's to you, Bradley, and your Black Friday shopping skills ... here's to you and your precious heart ... here's to you and your sweet smile ... here's to you and your strong hugs ... here's to you, my middle kiddo ... thanks for reminding me right in the middle of utter madness how very much I love you.
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Thanks Giving
This morning, I ate breakfast ... and I thanked God for eggs, cream cheese, almond milk and sugar-free chocolate syrup. This morning, I took Ollie for a walk ... and I thanked God that the loose dog we ran into didn't bite us. This morning, Ollie and I saw three ducks in the creek ... and I thanked God that I could see the sharp green coloring on their heads. This morning, I swept out my garage ... and I thanked God that I have a place to park my car. This morning, I cleaned my house ... and I thanked God for the roof over my head (and my doggies' heads, too). This morning, I cooked turkey breast and butternut squash ... and I thanked God for an oven that works. This morning, I took a shower ... and I thanked God for hot water, soap and shampoo. This morning, I lit candles ... and I thanked God that I could smell them. This morning, I wrote some letters ... and I thanked God that I can put my thoughts on paper. This morning, I thought about my family in Tennessee as they would be gathering at Country Place to eat together ... and I thanked God for my extended family. This morning, I thought about my children scattered about with various friends and family ... and I thanked God that they are well-loved. This morning, I thought about the friends I've had down through the years ... and I thanked God for the way they have blessed me.
This morning, I thanked God for the gift of His Son ... this morning, I thanked God for His forgiveness ... this morning, I thanked God for His love ... this morning, I thanked God for being God.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends ... Happy Thanksgiving.
This morning, I thanked God for the gift of His Son ... this morning, I thanked God for His forgiveness ... this morning, I thanked God for His love ... this morning, I thanked God for being God.
Happy Thanksgiving, friends ... Happy Thanksgiving.
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Ain't Bigger Than a Minute
It's funny to me how things my mom used to say will randomly pop into my head ... sometimes it's something I'm doing or somewhere I'm going or something I see or something I smell that will trigger me to recall what she used to say. With all the food-related activities that accompany Thanksgiving, all day I've been thinking about what Mom used to say when a person was thin ... "Lord, help! She ain't bigger than a minute!" And since Mom was deaf in one ear, she often spoke those words loudly enough for everyone around her to hear. I distinctly remember one such instance when we were shopping ... actually, I remember many times when Mom loudly announced her opinion in a public place. And while I was often embarrassed back then, I would give everything I own to be able to take Mom shopping again no matter what her commentary might be ... everything I own, friends.
My son Matt called last night to ask what I wanted for Christmas, and as we talked, he asked me what size jeans I wear. When I told him what size I now wear, he asked what size I wore two years ago. Now two years ago, I would have never told my sweet son what size jeans I wore ... never ever. And I would have also had a stern talk with him about not asking me what size my clothes were. But last night ... last night, I told him that before I was diagnosed with diabetes, I wore a size 22 in jeans and had to leave the button at the waist undone because they were too tight. The last pair of jeans I bought a few weeks ago were a size 6 ... if my math is correct, that means I've gone down eight sizes in jeans. I don't think I've ever worn a size 6 until now, even when I was young and much slimmer than I was as an adult. Matt's response was, "Wow, Mom ... wow. I bet you would have never imagined that you'd be wearing a 6 in jeans, huh? I'm proud of you, Mom ... really proud of you."
All day today, I've been thinking about my conversation with Matt last night, and I couldn't help but think about what my mom would have said about the change in my appearance over the last couple of years. I couldn't help but remember a time when she came to visit and I picked her up at the airport and she announced to everyone within earshot that she could tell I had lost a little weight. I couldn't help but think that were I picking her up at the airport today, she would have proudly announced to everyone around her ... "Lord, help! My girl ain't bigger than minute!" But here's the thing ... I also couldn't help but think about how many times I look in the mirror and still see the size 22 me rather than the size 6 me. And I couldn't help but think about how many times I look in the mirror of my heart and still see the me I was all those years ago before I met Christ.
The more I thought about Matt and Mom and Thanksgiving and food and what size I used to wear and who I used to be and how much my life has changed over the last couple of years, a verse from God's Word lodged itself in my mind. A verse that reminds me to look in the mirror with His eyes, His heart, His love.
"Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come." 2 Corinthians 5:17
My son Matt called last night to ask what I wanted for Christmas, and as we talked, he asked me what size jeans I wear. When I told him what size I now wear, he asked what size I wore two years ago. Now two years ago, I would have never told my sweet son what size jeans I wore ... never ever. And I would have also had a stern talk with him about not asking me what size my clothes were. But last night ... last night, I told him that before I was diagnosed with diabetes, I wore a size 22 in jeans and had to leave the button at the waist undone because they were too tight. The last pair of jeans I bought a few weeks ago were a size 6 ... if my math is correct, that means I've gone down eight sizes in jeans. I don't think I've ever worn a size 6 until now, even when I was young and much slimmer than I was as an adult. Matt's response was, "Wow, Mom ... wow. I bet you would have never imagined that you'd be wearing a 6 in jeans, huh? I'm proud of you, Mom ... really proud of you."
All day today, I've been thinking about my conversation with Matt last night, and I couldn't help but think about what my mom would have said about the change in my appearance over the last couple of years. I couldn't help but remember a time when she came to visit and I picked her up at the airport and she announced to everyone within earshot that she could tell I had lost a little weight. I couldn't help but think that were I picking her up at the airport today, she would have proudly announced to everyone around her ... "Lord, help! My girl ain't bigger than minute!" But here's the thing ... I also couldn't help but think about how many times I look in the mirror and still see the size 22 me rather than the size 6 me. And I couldn't help but think about how many times I look in the mirror of my heart and still see the me I was all those years ago before I met Christ.
The more I thought about Matt and Mom and Thanksgiving and food and what size I used to wear and who I used to be and how much my life has changed over the last couple of years, a verse from God's Word lodged itself in my mind. A verse that reminds me to look in the mirror with His eyes, His heart, His love.
"Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come." 2 Corinthians 5:17
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
The L Word
My son Matt is a brilliant young man. I know that some of you will say that I have a skewed opinion because I'm his mother, but he really is brilliant. He is 27 years old and will receive his Ph.D. in marriage and family therapy next May. He completed his undergraduate degree in 3 1/2 years, and the university allowed him to begin taking classes toward his Ph.D. during his last semester of graduate school. His grade point average has been a solid 4.0 throughout both his graduate and post-graduate education. He really is a brilliant young man.
Matt has always been smart, but I didn't realize when he was young just how smart he really was. He always had a fascination with words (I can't imagine who might have encouraged that trait in him), and from time to time, he would get focused on a certain word and use that word every time he had the opportunity. Sometimes the way he would use the words would be hilarious, like when he got hung up on the word "linkage." He would attach the word to other words in quite comical ways that often made no sense to anyone else, but he loved the way the word sounded in conjunction with another. Let's have some cake-linkage for dinner, Mom. I'm going for a linkage-walk. I need a hair-linkage-cut. I don't feel very linkage-good. I know ... he's brilliant, but a little crazy, too.
When I think about Matt's youthful word infatuation, I can't help but think about the power of words ... words can hurt or heal or torment or praise or judge or make us laugh or cry or change the direction of our lives. Words can linger in our minds or hearts forever, and once a word is spoken, it can never be recalled. Words can make us feel loved, or they can make us feel that we are completely alone in life. Words are more powerful than many of us realize, and I know that I should think and pray so much more about what I say before I speak.
When I went with my friend to the inner city church that I wrote about in the post Forgiven Much, we were asked as we entered the church to choose from three different brightly colored stickers and to place one on our shirts. In his sermon, the pastor talked about the various labels that we place on one another, and about the pain or joy those labels can bring into our lives. He spoke about labels of love and labels of hate, about labels of success and labels of failure, about labels of truth and labels of lies. And as he spoke, my eyes filled with tears as I gazed at those around me who nodded in agreement or spoke words of affirmation as the minister's words struck chords within their hearts. You see, those people ... those people know what it means to be labeled. Those people know what it means to bear L words ... to walk through every moment of their lives with a label pinned to their clothing, to be judged, to be criticized, to be scorned.
Words ... L words ... I'm so thankful that when God looks at me, He sees me with only one label ... covered ... covered in the blood of Jesus Christ.
Matt has always been smart, but I didn't realize when he was young just how smart he really was. He always had a fascination with words (I can't imagine who might have encouraged that trait in him), and from time to time, he would get focused on a certain word and use that word every time he had the opportunity. Sometimes the way he would use the words would be hilarious, like when he got hung up on the word "linkage." He would attach the word to other words in quite comical ways that often made no sense to anyone else, but he loved the way the word sounded in conjunction with another. Let's have some cake-linkage for dinner, Mom. I'm going for a linkage-walk. I need a hair-linkage-cut. I don't feel very linkage-good. I know ... he's brilliant, but a little crazy, too.
When I think about Matt's youthful word infatuation, I can't help but think about the power of words ... words can hurt or heal or torment or praise or judge or make us laugh or cry or change the direction of our lives. Words can linger in our minds or hearts forever, and once a word is spoken, it can never be recalled. Words can make us feel loved, or they can make us feel that we are completely alone in life. Words are more powerful than many of us realize, and I know that I should think and pray so much more about what I say before I speak.
When I went with my friend to the inner city church that I wrote about in the post Forgiven Much, we were asked as we entered the church to choose from three different brightly colored stickers and to place one on our shirts. In his sermon, the pastor talked about the various labels that we place on one another, and about the pain or joy those labels can bring into our lives. He spoke about labels of love and labels of hate, about labels of success and labels of failure, about labels of truth and labels of lies. And as he spoke, my eyes filled with tears as I gazed at those around me who nodded in agreement or spoke words of affirmation as the minister's words struck chords within their hearts. You see, those people ... those people know what it means to be labeled. Those people know what it means to bear L words ... to walk through every moment of their lives with a label pinned to their clothing, to be judged, to be criticized, to be scorned.
Words ... L words ... I'm so thankful that when God looks at me, He sees me with only one label ... covered ... covered in the blood of Jesus Christ.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Hands and Feet
A few years ago, I was asked to photograph a "prom" for a group of seniors at a retirement home ... and what an incredible experience that was. Watching those older folks dance and laugh and eat and have fun was a true blessing to me, and taking both posed prom photos and spontaneous shots was an absolute blast. I took over 2,000 photos that evening, and it was that night that I got the idea for a book filled with photos ... photos of people's hands and feet. I know that sounds a bit odd, but if you think about it, our hands and feet tell the stories of where we've been and what we've done in life. So over the last years, I've compiled quite a collection of photos of hands and feet ... pudgy little baby feet, worn and calloused older hands, mud-covered teenaged feet, tender gentle hands of a new mom. And maybe someday ... maybe someday, I'll put those photos into a book ... maybe someday.
It's cold here in Kansas, and cold weather now means a couple of things to me ... my feet hurt more than they usually do, and my hands get so dry that they crack and bleed. So yesterday as I walked with Ollie in the cold air (don't worry, he was bundled up in his sweater and down jacket), I was pretty focused on my hands and feet. And as I felt the pain in my aching feet and the roughness of the gloves on my dry hands, I began to think about how we as Christians are called to be the hands and feet of Jesus to those around us. With each labored step I took, I realized how much I have missed it over the years, how very much I have failed to understand what it means to allow Him to use my hands to minister to others or to guide my feet in the paths that He desires for me to walk.
By the time Ollie and I reached the place on the trail where we turn to head home, I realized that God had once again chosen to use our time on the path to speak to me and impart yet another lesson to me. It is always humbling to me when His voice to me is so clear, when His love for me is so intense, when His presence around me is so real. Being the hands and feet of Jesus, I thought, the hands and feet of Jesus. What does that mean ... what does that really mean? It means stepping outside of my comfort zone ... it means loving the unlovable ... it means going the extra mile to help another ... it means there should be no judgmental attitude within me ... it means hugging someone who is lonely ... it means caring for someone who is sick ... it means reading to someone who can't read ... it means including someone who has no one ... it means comforting someone who has been abandoned ... it means feeding someone who is hungry ... it means so much more than going to church on Sundays, caring only about those whom I deem worthy or acceptable, convincing myself that I shouldn't worry about the pain or hurt in the eyes of the person sitting right next to me who is struggling to get through one more day. Being the hands and feet of Jesus means so much more than I ever understood before.
When I got home and peeled off all the layers of clothing I had put on to walk outside in the cold, a thought crashed into my mind and caused tears to spring to my eyes. The hands and feet of Jesus, friends, were pierced with spikes ... pierced with spikes as He was placed upon the cross ... pierced with spikes because of His love for me. The hands and feet of Jesus ... so much more than I ever understood before.
It's cold here in Kansas, and cold weather now means a couple of things to me ... my feet hurt more than they usually do, and my hands get so dry that they crack and bleed. So yesterday as I walked with Ollie in the cold air (don't worry, he was bundled up in his sweater and down jacket), I was pretty focused on my hands and feet. And as I felt the pain in my aching feet and the roughness of the gloves on my dry hands, I began to think about how we as Christians are called to be the hands and feet of Jesus to those around us. With each labored step I took, I realized how much I have missed it over the years, how very much I have failed to understand what it means to allow Him to use my hands to minister to others or to guide my feet in the paths that He desires for me to walk.
By the time Ollie and I reached the place on the trail where we turn to head home, I realized that God had once again chosen to use our time on the path to speak to me and impart yet another lesson to me. It is always humbling to me when His voice to me is so clear, when His love for me is so intense, when His presence around me is so real. Being the hands and feet of Jesus, I thought, the hands and feet of Jesus. What does that mean ... what does that really mean? It means stepping outside of my comfort zone ... it means loving the unlovable ... it means going the extra mile to help another ... it means there should be no judgmental attitude within me ... it means hugging someone who is lonely ... it means caring for someone who is sick ... it means reading to someone who can't read ... it means including someone who has no one ... it means comforting someone who has been abandoned ... it means feeding someone who is hungry ... it means so much more than going to church on Sundays, caring only about those whom I deem worthy or acceptable, convincing myself that I shouldn't worry about the pain or hurt in the eyes of the person sitting right next to me who is struggling to get through one more day. Being the hands and feet of Jesus means so much more than I ever understood before.
When I got home and peeled off all the layers of clothing I had put on to walk outside in the cold, a thought crashed into my mind and caused tears to spring to my eyes. The hands and feet of Jesus, friends, were pierced with spikes ... pierced with spikes as He was placed upon the cross ... pierced with spikes because of His love for me. The hands and feet of Jesus ... so much more than I ever understood before.
"Surely He took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered Him punished by God, stricken by Him, and afflicted. But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed. Isaiah 53:4-5
Sunday, November 20, 2011
On the Move
My mom used to say, "Someday when you have children of your own, you'll understand." Funny ... Mom was right. I didn't understand fear until my children were sick or injured. I didn't understand happiness until my children said, "I love you, Mom." I didn't understand worry until my children were teenagers. I didn't understand sadness until my children were angry with me. I didn't understand joy until I saw my children smile. I didn't understand love until my children wrapped their arms around me. I didn't understand life until my children were born ... I didn't understand life at all until God blessed me with Matt, Brad and Meghann. Funny ... Mom was right.
Yesterday, I went to a baby shower for B.J. ... that's what we've been calling my future granddaughter ... Baby Johnson ... B.J. for short. There were the traditional shower events ... games, food and gifts. There were lots of gifts ... Matt and Becca are well-loved and have been blessed in receiving almost everything they need for their soon-to-arrive little girl. Perhaps the best gift of all was a baby bathtub in the shape of a large yellow duck that makes quacking sounds when you squeeze its orange bill. Matt and Becca's little dachshund Andy's favorite toys are rubber duckies, so I can only imagine what the tiny hound will think when he sees the giant duck.
Becca is blessed with wonderful parents (and Matt with wonderful in-laws), and as I sat there watching all the festivities yesterday, I breathed a prayer of thanks that little B.J. will have such awesome grandparents. They will love and spoil her and shower her with all the things a little girl deserves to have. They will pray for her every single day, and they will be shining examples of a strong and abiding faith in God. They are good people with good hearts, and I know that B.J. will be deeply loved and cherished by them. And as much as I've ever known anything in my life, I know that little girl deserves and needs wonderful grandparents who will be there for her through thick and thin.
I was completely overwhelmed when Becca placed my hand on her belly as little B.J. moved and turned ... I felt her moving ... my hand felt the miracle of life that is growing inside my precious daughter-in-law. As I drove home after the shower, tears streamed down my face ... my baby boy is having a baby of his own, and I felt her move ... I felt her move. She deserves so much love ... parents and aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents who can give her that love ... the love that she so deserves.
So here's to you, little B.J. ... keep growing and moving and getting ready to meet all those who already love you ... all those who will lead you and teach you and guide you and love you forever ... all those who will be there for you, little girl ... here's to you, little B.J. ... here's to you.
Yesterday, I went to a baby shower for B.J. ... that's what we've been calling my future granddaughter ... Baby Johnson ... B.J. for short. There were the traditional shower events ... games, food and gifts. There were lots of gifts ... Matt and Becca are well-loved and have been blessed in receiving almost everything they need for their soon-to-arrive little girl. Perhaps the best gift of all was a baby bathtub in the shape of a large yellow duck that makes quacking sounds when you squeeze its orange bill. Matt and Becca's little dachshund Andy's favorite toys are rubber duckies, so I can only imagine what the tiny hound will think when he sees the giant duck.
Becca is blessed with wonderful parents (and Matt with wonderful in-laws), and as I sat there watching all the festivities yesterday, I breathed a prayer of thanks that little B.J. will have such awesome grandparents. They will love and spoil her and shower her with all the things a little girl deserves to have. They will pray for her every single day, and they will be shining examples of a strong and abiding faith in God. They are good people with good hearts, and I know that B.J. will be deeply loved and cherished by them. And as much as I've ever known anything in my life, I know that little girl deserves and needs wonderful grandparents who will be there for her through thick and thin.
I was completely overwhelmed when Becca placed my hand on her belly as little B.J. moved and turned ... I felt her moving ... my hand felt the miracle of life that is growing inside my precious daughter-in-law. As I drove home after the shower, tears streamed down my face ... my baby boy is having a baby of his own, and I felt her move ... I felt her move. She deserves so much love ... parents and aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents who can give her that love ... the love that she so deserves.
So here's to you, little B.J. ... keep growing and moving and getting ready to meet all those who already love you ... all those who will lead you and teach you and guide you and love you forever ... all those who will be there for you, little girl ... here's to you, little B.J. ... here's to you.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Miles to Go
Since I majored in English in college, I had to take a plethora of literature classes. Some of those classes I will never forget, due in part to the writings that we studied but also due in part to the various instructors who taught those classes. I remember a class on the works of Shakespeare ... my professor would come to class dressed in period costumes reflecting whichever play we were studying at the time. I remember a class on Southern literature ... my professor would have us all close our eyes as he read to us from the works of great Southern writers such as Walker Percy or Eudora Welty or Harper Lee. But one of my favorite literature classes focused on the poetry of Robert Frost, and part of the curriculum the professor created was to have us write a paper each week on the Frost poem we had just discussed in class. And my all-time favorite Frost poem is Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.
Ollie and I left the house early this morning to go for a walk. It is ferociously windy today, and I couldn't help but smile as Ollie's wiener dog ears flapped in the wind. I think he needs some sort of little doggie headband or stocking cap for these terribly windy Kansas mornings ... perhaps I should make a trip to PetSmart to see if such a thing exists. But again, I digress. Though the wind gusts are intense today, the temperature is warm enough that I was quite comfortable in my own stocking cap, gloves and hoodie as we walked. Since I didn't have any time constraints today, Ollie and I walked for a long time ... almost two hours ... and we walked for several miles. And as we walked, the final lines of the Robert Frost poem kept pounding in my mind.
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
I couldn't help but think about the promises I've made throughout my life, some I've kept and some I haven't. I couldn't help but think about the fact that I rarely promise anything to anyone any longer and about how tentative I am when I do. I couldn't help but think about how often I wonder how many more miles I have to go before I can sleep. I couldn't help but think about how the only place I feel at peace is when I am on my beloved trail that winds through the woods ... the lovely, dark and deep woods. Promises to keep, I thought, I've got no more promises to keep. As tears sprung to my eyes, something in the sky caught my eye ... something in the sky caught my eye and made me stop in my tracks and stare heavenward.
Remember when I said it was ferociously windy here today? I hadn't noticed as Ollie and I were walking because I always look down as I walk, but the sky had filled with dark gray clouds during the time we were on the trail. And those clouds were literally racing across the sky as they were pushed along by the strong winds ... really ... racing across the sky. I stood gazing upward, tears pouring down my cheeks as I marveled at the dramatic way that God had just gotten my attention. I've always thought that one day when the trumpet sounds and Jesus returns ... the clouds will roll across the sky, the sun will split the horizon and Jesus will appear. I stood there looking at those clouds ... looking at those clouds ... looking at those clouds.
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
Help me keep my eyes on You, Lord ... help me to remember that You alone are God of the woods, God of the skies, God of my heart, God of my miles ... help me keep my eyes on You, Lord.
Ollie and I left the house early this morning to go for a walk. It is ferociously windy today, and I couldn't help but smile as Ollie's wiener dog ears flapped in the wind. I think he needs some sort of little doggie headband or stocking cap for these terribly windy Kansas mornings ... perhaps I should make a trip to PetSmart to see if such a thing exists. But again, I digress. Though the wind gusts are intense today, the temperature is warm enough that I was quite comfortable in my own stocking cap, gloves and hoodie as we walked. Since I didn't have any time constraints today, Ollie and I walked for a long time ... almost two hours ... and we walked for several miles. And as we walked, the final lines of the Robert Frost poem kept pounding in my mind.
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
I couldn't help but think about the promises I've made throughout my life, some I've kept and some I haven't. I couldn't help but think about the fact that I rarely promise anything to anyone any longer and about how tentative I am when I do. I couldn't help but think about how often I wonder how many more miles I have to go before I can sleep. I couldn't help but think about how the only place I feel at peace is when I am on my beloved trail that winds through the woods ... the lovely, dark and deep woods. Promises to keep, I thought, I've got no more promises to keep. As tears sprung to my eyes, something in the sky caught my eye ... something in the sky caught my eye and made me stop in my tracks and stare heavenward.
Remember when I said it was ferociously windy here today? I hadn't noticed as Ollie and I were walking because I always look down as I walk, but the sky had filled with dark gray clouds during the time we were on the trail. And those clouds were literally racing across the sky as they were pushed along by the strong winds ... really ... racing across the sky. I stood gazing upward, tears pouring down my cheeks as I marveled at the dramatic way that God had just gotten my attention. I've always thought that one day when the trumpet sounds and Jesus returns ... the clouds will roll across the sky, the sun will split the horizon and Jesus will appear. I stood there looking at those clouds ... looking at those clouds ... looking at those clouds.
"The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep."
Help me keep my eyes on You, Lord ... help me to remember that You alone are God of the woods, God of the skies, God of my heart, God of my miles ... help me keep my eyes on You, Lord.
Friday, November 18, 2011
Pennies From Heaven
When I was a little kid, I looked forward to one certain card that would come in the mail every Christmas. It was the card my Granny always sent me ... a card with 100 shiny new pennies taped inside. Yes, I know that seems like nothing to most of you, just a dollar's worth of pennies. But that card meant the world to me when I was young. Granny always wrote a little note in the card, a note telling me how much she loved me and how important I was to her. I didn't feel very important when I was a kid; in fact, most of the time I felt like I was ugly and stupid and didn't have anything to offer to anyone. Those cards from Granny kept me going in many ways, I think ... and those pennies ... I'm convinced now that those pennies came straight from heaven and that my Granny was the vessel God chose to use to deliver those shiny new blessings to me every year.
Last night, I spent an hour or so talking with the sweet lady at the retirement home I've mentioned in previous posts ... the sweet lady who is 101 years old. We talked about a lot of things ... biscuits and gravy, riding motorcycles (she has, by the way, more than a few times and said she'd hop on one again if she had the chance!), snowy weather, being in love, jobs, churches, friends ... but it was the last two statements she made to me that were on my mind throughout the night, that kept me tossing and turning and not sleeping well, that I can't get out of my head this morning.
As I was getting ready to leave my sweet friend's room, she took my hand and asked me if I would pray with her before I left. Her hands are thin and I could feel her bones as she wrapped her precious hands around mine. And it was after I prayed that she gazed into my eyes and spoke the words that impacted me so much ... "You bless me when you come here to see me. I'm happy you are my new friend." I patted her frail hands and promised to come see her again as I hurried to get out of her room before my tears began to fall. By the time I made it to my car, I was sobbing, and I sat in the parking lot for a long time before I could finally see well enough to drive home.
So many, many days now I feel ... unnecessary, unwanted, unneeded, unloved. I feel like I am a burden to those who know me, a burden and certainly not a blessing. There are days when I struggle to just get through the day, to keep my head above the water that is raging around me. Days when I feel like I could just drift away and no one would notice or care that I was gone. And last night before I walked into the dear lady's room, those feelings were washing over me in a big way. And then ... then God sent me a card ... a card sealed with the words of a dear lady with thin, frail hands and a kind and gentle heart. God sent me a card filled with pennies from heaven, and He sent it through the lips of someone who has walked this earth for over a century.
You are the one who blesses me, sweet friend ... you are the one who blesses me.
Last night, I spent an hour or so talking with the sweet lady at the retirement home I've mentioned in previous posts ... the sweet lady who is 101 years old. We talked about a lot of things ... biscuits and gravy, riding motorcycles (she has, by the way, more than a few times and said she'd hop on one again if she had the chance!), snowy weather, being in love, jobs, churches, friends ... but it was the last two statements she made to me that were on my mind throughout the night, that kept me tossing and turning and not sleeping well, that I can't get out of my head this morning.
As I was getting ready to leave my sweet friend's room, she took my hand and asked me if I would pray with her before I left. Her hands are thin and I could feel her bones as she wrapped her precious hands around mine. And it was after I prayed that she gazed into my eyes and spoke the words that impacted me so much ... "You bless me when you come here to see me. I'm happy you are my new friend." I patted her frail hands and promised to come see her again as I hurried to get out of her room before my tears began to fall. By the time I made it to my car, I was sobbing, and I sat in the parking lot for a long time before I could finally see well enough to drive home.
So many, many days now I feel ... unnecessary, unwanted, unneeded, unloved. I feel like I am a burden to those who know me, a burden and certainly not a blessing. There are days when I struggle to just get through the day, to keep my head above the water that is raging around me. Days when I feel like I could just drift away and no one would notice or care that I was gone. And last night before I walked into the dear lady's room, those feelings were washing over me in a big way. And then ... then God sent me a card ... a card sealed with the words of a dear lady with thin, frail hands and a kind and gentle heart. God sent me a card filled with pennies from heaven, and He sent it through the lips of someone who has walked this earth for over a century.
You are the one who blesses me, sweet friend ... you are the one who blesses me.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Fish Guts
Whenever the kids and I would go to Colorado in the summer, we would always go fishing. The Lions Club in the little town we stayed in had two ponds stocked with trout, one for the adults to fish in and one for the kids (the pond for the kids had more fish, go figure). We caught quite a few fish throughout the summers we were there, but the all-time record for the biggest trout caught by a member of our little family is held by my daughter Meghann. Yep, the baby girl of the family caught a huge trout one year, and she's never let her brothers forget that she is better at fishing than they are.
I've been thinking a lot about fishing for the last couple of weeks because I was asked to lead this evening's Awana lesson on Jonah. You know, the guy who tried to run away from God and what He asked him to do. The guy who ended up getting tossed overboard by the sailors on the boat he was trying to escape in. The guy who got swallowed by a big, giant fish. The guy who spent three days and nights in the slimy, gooey belly of said fish. Yuck, yuck, and triple yuck.
The more I've thought about old Jonah, the more I've thought about how much I'm like him at times. God tells me to go somewhere or do something, and instead of being obedient, I jump on a boat and try to escape. And though God doesn't send a real fish to swallow me up, He often allows me to end up in a slimy, gooey place that feels an awful lot like the belly of a big, giant fish until I wise up and do what He asked me to do or go where He asked me to go. It never ceases to amaze me that God doesn't grow so weary of my disobedience that He just decides to leave me in the fish's belly.
I realized on my way home from church tonight that the lesson for the kiddos this evening was as much for me as it was for them ... perhaps even more for me than for them. It's been a long time since I meditated on the story of Jonah ... a long time since I pondered the consequences of my own disobedience to God. I talked to the kids tonight about how God gave Jonah a second chance, about how when the fish spit Jonah out on the sand, God asked Jonah again to go preach in Nineveh. And the Bible says that old Jonah packed his bags in a hurry that time and hightailed it to Nineveh to do what God asked Him to do. So here's the thing ... God has given me so many second chances over the years that I've lost count, and yet I still manage to try my best to run away from Him ... and I end up right back in the belly of that big fish. And you know what? He keeps right on telling that fish to spit me out on the sand ... He keeps right on calling me to serve Him ... He keeps right on giving me chance after chance after chance to obey Him ... and He keeps right on forgiving me when I don't.
Thank You, Lord, for little kids and the way You use them to teach me Your lessons ... thank You, Lord, for not giving up on me ... thank You, Lord, for all those second chances ... thank You, Lord, for loving me even when I'm covered in slimy, gooey fish guts.
I've been thinking a lot about fishing for the last couple of weeks because I was asked to lead this evening's Awana lesson on Jonah. You know, the guy who tried to run away from God and what He asked him to do. The guy who ended up getting tossed overboard by the sailors on the boat he was trying to escape in. The guy who got swallowed by a big, giant fish. The guy who spent three days and nights in the slimy, gooey belly of said fish. Yuck, yuck, and triple yuck.
The more I've thought about old Jonah, the more I've thought about how much I'm like him at times. God tells me to go somewhere or do something, and instead of being obedient, I jump on a boat and try to escape. And though God doesn't send a real fish to swallow me up, He often allows me to end up in a slimy, gooey place that feels an awful lot like the belly of a big, giant fish until I wise up and do what He asked me to do or go where He asked me to go. It never ceases to amaze me that God doesn't grow so weary of my disobedience that He just decides to leave me in the fish's belly.
I realized on my way home from church tonight that the lesson for the kiddos this evening was as much for me as it was for them ... perhaps even more for me than for them. It's been a long time since I meditated on the story of Jonah ... a long time since I pondered the consequences of my own disobedience to God. I talked to the kids tonight about how God gave Jonah a second chance, about how when the fish spit Jonah out on the sand, God asked Jonah again to go preach in Nineveh. And the Bible says that old Jonah packed his bags in a hurry that time and hightailed it to Nineveh to do what God asked Him to do. So here's the thing ... God has given me so many second chances over the years that I've lost count, and yet I still manage to try my best to run away from Him ... and I end up right back in the belly of that big fish. And you know what? He keeps right on telling that fish to spit me out on the sand ... He keeps right on calling me to serve Him ... He keeps right on giving me chance after chance after chance to obey Him ... and He keeps right on forgiving me when I don't.
Thank You, Lord, for little kids and the way You use them to teach me Your lessons ... thank You, Lord, for not giving up on me ... thank You, Lord, for all those second chances ... thank You, Lord, for loving me even when I'm covered in slimy, gooey fish guts.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Forgiven Much
I'm sure that most of you could agree with me that there are certain events from your childhood or youth that you never forget. Events that shape and mold the person you eventually become, events that are often painful when they occur, events that forever change the way you view life. I've had several of those events, but one in particular has been on my mind a lot lately. I'm not going to share all the details, but suffice it to say that I was a total jerk to a dear friend over a boy when we were teenagers ... I wanted to be his girlfriend, he dated her instead, and I was ticked off in a big way. We didn't speak for lots and lots and lots of years, and when we finally did, I uttered the apology that I should have spoken many years sooner. I was sure that she wouldn't want to talk to me, and honestly, that would have been exactly what I deserved because of the way I behaved so long ago. But instead, she was gracious and free in her forgiveness, even though my sins from years gone by were monumental in size and scope.
Perhaps the reason that event from my past has been on my mind ... actually, it's the forgiveness part of that event that's been on my mind so much ... is because I've recently had several conversations with a woman who accepted Christ not too long ago, a woman who has lived a pretty rough life for the last 50 years, a woman who thought for many years that God could never forgive her, a woman who has wrestled and wrestled with accepting who she is and who God created her to be. She said some things to me last week that have been on my mind ever since, some things that have made me think deeply about my own attitude toward others. And as she spoke the following words, she wept ... she wept and so did I.
"I wonder about people who've always lived a pretty clean life ... I wonder how they can really get it when it comes to how great God's forgiveness is. It's those of us who have lived at the bottom of the barrel that when we are forgiven, we know ... we really know what forgiveness is. I think it's hard for people who think they are pretty good and holy not to look down on or judge somebody like me. But the truth is, Terrie, it's us who have been forgiven much that know how to forgive much in return. It's us people who've seen the bottom of the pit that understand forgiveness and how important it is to hold out your hand to them that's still in the pit. I've been to churches where I wasn't welcome because of who I am or who I used to be. I'm telling you ... it's us who've been forgiven much ... it's us who've been beat up and thrown away ... it's us who've been forgiven much who get it about forgiveness and loving each other."
When she finished talking, all I could do was sit at the table in the restaurant and sob. I had no recourse, no words of defense, nothing wise or holy to say. I sat at the table knowing that I, too, have been forgiven much, and yet I still sit in judgment over others at times. I sat at the table knowing that I, too, have experienced rejection, and yet I still turn my back on others I deem unworthy of my time or my attention. I sat at the table knowing that I, too, have seen the ugly bottom of the pit, and yet I still don't reach out my hand to others who are struggling to get out. I sat at the table humbled as the woman invited me to visit her church ... an inner city church far removed from my comfort zone, a church populated by those whom other churches have rejected or shunned.
I went to her church last Sunday morning, and I was overwhelmed by the people's obvious passion for the Lord. I went to her church last Sunday morning, and I was deeply moved by the people's obvious love for one another. I went to her church last Sunday morning, and I recognized the deep truth in her words ... "It's us who've been forgiven much ... it's us who've been beat up and thrown away ... it's us who've been forgiven much who get it about forgiveness and loving each other."
"Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven - as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little." Luke 7:47
Perhaps the reason that event from my past has been on my mind ... actually, it's the forgiveness part of that event that's been on my mind so much ... is because I've recently had several conversations with a woman who accepted Christ not too long ago, a woman who has lived a pretty rough life for the last 50 years, a woman who thought for many years that God could never forgive her, a woman who has wrestled and wrestled with accepting who she is and who God created her to be. She said some things to me last week that have been on my mind ever since, some things that have made me think deeply about my own attitude toward others. And as she spoke the following words, she wept ... she wept and so did I.
"I wonder about people who've always lived a pretty clean life ... I wonder how they can really get it when it comes to how great God's forgiveness is. It's those of us who have lived at the bottom of the barrel that when we are forgiven, we know ... we really know what forgiveness is. I think it's hard for people who think they are pretty good and holy not to look down on or judge somebody like me. But the truth is, Terrie, it's us who have been forgiven much that know how to forgive much in return. It's us people who've seen the bottom of the pit that understand forgiveness and how important it is to hold out your hand to them that's still in the pit. I've been to churches where I wasn't welcome because of who I am or who I used to be. I'm telling you ... it's us who've been forgiven much ... it's us who've been beat up and thrown away ... it's us who've been forgiven much who get it about forgiveness and loving each other."
When she finished talking, all I could do was sit at the table in the restaurant and sob. I had no recourse, no words of defense, nothing wise or holy to say. I sat at the table knowing that I, too, have been forgiven much, and yet I still sit in judgment over others at times. I sat at the table knowing that I, too, have experienced rejection, and yet I still turn my back on others I deem unworthy of my time or my attention. I sat at the table knowing that I, too, have seen the ugly bottom of the pit, and yet I still don't reach out my hand to others who are struggling to get out. I sat at the table humbled as the woman invited me to visit her church ... an inner city church far removed from my comfort zone, a church populated by those whom other churches have rejected or shunned.
I went to her church last Sunday morning, and I was overwhelmed by the people's obvious passion for the Lord. I went to her church last Sunday morning, and I was deeply moved by the people's obvious love for one another. I went to her church last Sunday morning, and I recognized the deep truth in her words ... "It's us who've been forgiven much ... it's us who've been beat up and thrown away ... it's us who've been forgiven much who get it about forgiveness and loving each other."
"Therefore, I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven - as her great love has shown. But whoever has been forgiven little loves little." Luke 7:47
Monday, November 14, 2011
In Memory
This morning, I kiss Julie and Ollie and hold them close ... as I remember. This morning, I gaze at my pawprint tattoo ... as I remember. This morning, I step on the scale ... as I remember. This morning, I cry many tears ... as I remember. This morning, I miss my little J.R. ... as I remember. This morning, I know that it is World Diabetes Day ... as I remember. This morning, it seems the only words to share are the ones from a year ago ... as I remember. This morning, this one is for you, fat buddy ... as I forever and always remember.
Fifteen months ago, a fat little wiener dog came trotting ... actually, it was more like waddling than trotting ... into my life. He was a foster dog that had been placed with my son and daughter-in-law on a Monday, and on the following Friday, they brought him to me to keep along with their dog while they went out of town for the weekend. His name was J.R., and he had a rough life before that fateful Friday evening when he landed in a little house in Kansas. He was afraid of everything and everyone, and rightfully so since he had been born into a puppy mill and then adopted by someone who abused him and then placed in four different shelters and with three foster families before he came to me. Did you take note of all those places and all he had lived through? Remember that path, because I'll come back to it in a bit.
That first night at my house, J.R. wouldn't come out of his kennel for a couple of hours, and he was shaking so badly that I thought the kennel would come apart. I kept going in and laying down on the floor in front of his open door and talking to him, offering him bites of food and extending my hand for him to check me out. My big dog, Julie, kept running in and laying in front of him, too, wagging her tail and begging him to come out and play. Just when I was ready to give up and call my son and tell him I didn't want to keep J.R. for the weekend, he came out ... very tentatively at first, and then, before I knew it, fat little J.R. was waddling along beside me with every step I took and even licking my legs when I would stop walking. When it was time to turn in for the night, I decided to see if he might sleep in bed with Andy, Julie and me, and the minute my head hit my pillow, J.R. snuggled in right next to me, with his head tucked up close to my neck.
When I woke up the next morning, there was a fat little wiener dog nose right up against mine, and the minute my eyes were open, J.R. promptly planted a wet dog kiss on my face. And that was the moment I knew that he was going to be mine, that I would never let him go back into the system and risk him being hurt again. I called Matt and Becca and informed them that J.R. would be staying with me and Julie ... that my little fat buddy had most definitely found his "furever" home. I knew that morning that there was something special about J.R. ... I felt a connection with him that was different than anything I'd felt for any other dog, a connection that was deep and strong, a connection that spoke to the very core of my soul. And thus began a journey that I never expected, a journey that has forever changed who I am, a journey of love and lessons and loss.
Those of you who are long-time readers of this blog know the story of how J.R. quite literally saved my life ... he had a recurring back issue from being abused and was carrying some serious extra pounds, so the vet said I needed to take him for a walk every day. About a month or so into those walks, I began having some intense recurring pain in my left leg which became so bad that I went to the doctor. I was eventually diagnosed with diabetes, and my doctor sat across from me more somber than I had ever seen her and said, "It's only by God's grace that you are sitting in that chair. You should be dead several times over. You think you rescued that little dog, but I'm telling you as strongly as I can, God sent that pup to save your life." I went home from the doctor that day and held J.R. close and kissed him right on his little wiener dog mouth, and I thanked him ... over and over and over, I thanked him. I suddenly fully understood the heart and soul connection I felt with J.R. ... he was sent to me on a life-saving mission according to God's plan and purpose.
Over the last 15 months, J.R. and I have walked more miles than I can count on our beloved trail. We've seen a beaver, a fox, ducks, a turtle and lots and lots of birds. We've made new friends, old and young, human and canine, as we've marched along together. We've made a road trip to Tennessee and one to Colorado. We've lost a lot of weight, me a few more pounds than J.R. We've eaten cheese and peanut butter in the middle of the night. We've waded in the creek on a hot summer day. We've snuggled under a fleece blanket and watched a midnight snowfall. We've played tug of war with Julie and never admitted that she let us win. We've stayed in bed late on a Saturday morning and read a book out loud. We've rocked in the recliner when the thunder rolled and the lightening flashed. We've run around the back yard chasing butterflies and bunny rabbits. We've lounged in the hammock and basked in the warmth of the sun. We've ventured off the path and listened to the sound of the autumn leaves crunching under our feet. We've lived life together ... we've shared an extra special stretch of time as best friends ... we've loved with a pure and loyal love that neither of us had ever known before.
Early last week, I could tell that J.R.'s back was beginning to hurt a bit, and I took him to the vet for a cortisone shot and started him on the normal routine we followed when his back problem flared up. This time, however, nothing seemed to help him, and we went back to the vet for another injection. As the week wore on, J.R. grew progressively worse, and by late Friday night, he lost the use of his hind legs. On Saturday morning, our vet sent us to the emergency animal clinic, and after running some tests, a grim doctor told me that the previous injuries to J.R.'s back had worn out his spine. He said that surgery was his only option, but that his chances for even a partial recovery were very low. Since he wasn't in any pain, I took J.R. home and spent the rest of the day and most of the night cradling him in my arms. By Sunday morning, his breathing had become labored and there was a definite shift in his comfort level, and I knew that J.R.'s time was drawing to a close. A friend drove us to the clinic, and from the time we left my house until he passed away, J.R. never left my arms. He drew his final breath on Sunday morning around 10:00 ... snuggled against my chest ... licking my hand as long as he could. He went quietly and quickly, his pain gone and his little life complete.
J.R. has taught me so many things over the last 15 months, so very many things. The lessons I've learned from him about trust and loyalty and freedom and happiness and gratitude and love will stay with me until the day that I, too, draw my final breath. Our time together was far too short, but our time together was also way beyond precious. Remember earlier when I mentioned the path that J.R. had traveled before he came to me? When I think of where he had been ... of all he had endured ... it is nothing short of a miracle that he came to me on that hot and humid day in August. God sent that fat little wiener dog to me, of that I have not even a tiny shred of doubt.
Around my neck, I wear a medical ID dog tag. Though I originally thought I would take J.R.'s tag and bury it by the trail where he so loved to walk, I changed my mind on Sunday afternoon and placed his tag on my medical tag for two reasons ... he's why I discovered my diabetes, and the medical tag rests near my heart. He saved my life, little J.R., and he will forever be near my heart. When my friend Dee Dee arrived at my house on Sunday morning to find me stretched out on my couch sobbing with J.R. laying on my chest, she said that a verse from God's Word had been in her heart since I had spoken with her on Saturday and told her of his condition ... "To everything there is a season ... a time and a purpose under heaven." I don't know that I will ever understand why my season and my time with J.R. was so short, but I do understand that he came to me to fulfill a specific purpose ... to give me the gift of life. As I sat at the clinic and held him and rocked him in my arms, I made a promise to J.R. ... I promised him that I would keep on walking, that I would take care of myself and do my best to honor his gift.
J.R. left me with many special memories ... many precious and priceless and sweet memories ... and he left me with a final reminder of what he did for me. Last Sunday, November 14, 2010, was World Diabetes Day. Rest peacefully, little fat buddy, you truly were a good and faithful friend. And don't worry, I will never forget ... I will never ever forget.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
To Everything a Season
Recently, someone told me that my blog posts are ranked by her and her friends as to how many tissues they need when they read them. If that's the case for others of you, then I'm telling you up front on this post ... you may want to grab the whole box. And I'm also warning you ... this one is going to be longer than most of my blogs because it's more than a blog post ... it's a tribute to an amazing little guy.
Fifteen months ago, a fat little wiener dog came trotting ... actually, it was more like waddling than trotting ... into my life. He was a foster dog that had been placed with my son and daughter-in-law on a Monday, and on the following Friday, they brought him to me to keep along with their dog while they went out of town for the weekend. His name was J.R., and he had a rough life before that fateful Friday evening when he landed in a little house in Kansas. He was afraid of everything and everyone, and rightfully so since he had been born into a puppy mill and then adopted by someone who abused him and then placed in four different shelters and with three foster families before he came to me. Did you take note of all those places and all he had lived through? Remember that path, because I'll come back to it in a bit.
That first night at my house, J.R. wouldn't come out of his kennel for a couple of hours, and he was shaking so badly that I thought the kennel would come apart. I kept going in and laying down on the floor in front of his open door and talking to him, offering him bites of food and extending my hand for him to check me out. My big dog, Julie, kept running in and laying in front of him, too, wagging her tail and begging him to come out and play. Just when I was ready to give up and call my son and tell him I didn't want to keep J.R. for the weekend, he came out ... very tentatively at first, and then, before I knew it, fat little J.R. was waddling along beside me with every step I took and even licking my legs when I would stop walking. When it was time to turn in for the night, I decided to see if he might sleep in bed with Andy, Julie and me, and the minute my head hit my pillow, J.R. snuggled in right next to me, with his head tucked up close to my neck.
When I woke up the next morning, there was a fat little wiener dog nose right up against mine, and the minute my eyes were open, J.R. promptly planted a wet dog kiss on my face. And that was the moment I knew that he was going to be mine, that I would never let him go back into the system and risk him being hurt again. I called Matt and Becca and informed them that J.R. would be staying with me and Julie ... that my little fat buddy had most definitely found his "furever" home. I knew that morning that there was something special about J.R. ... I felt a connection with him that was different than anything I'd felt for any other dog, a connection that was deep and strong, a connection that spoke to the very core of my soul. And thus began a journey that I never expected, a journey that has forever changed who I am, a journey of love and lessons and loss.
Those of you who are long-time readers of this blog know the story of how J.R. quite literally saved my life ... he had a recurring back issue from being abused and was carrying some serious extra pounds, so the vet said I needed to take him for a walk every day. About a month or so into those walks, I began having some intense recurring pain in my left leg which became so bad that I went to the doctor. I was eventually diagnosed with diabetes, and my doctor sat across from me more somber than I had ever seen her and said, "It's only by God's grace that you are sitting in that chair. You should be dead several times over. You think you rescued that little dog, but I'm telling you as strongly as I can, God sent that pup to save your life." I went home from the doctor that day and held J.R. close and kissed him right on his little wiener dog mouth, and I thanked him ... over and over and over, I thanked him. I suddenly fully understood the heart and soul connection I felt with J.R. ... he was sent to me on a life-saving mission according to God's plan and purpose.
Over the last 15 months, J.R. and I have walked more miles than I can count on our beloved trail. We've seen a beaver, a fox, ducks, a turtle and lots and lots of birds. We've made new friends, old and young, human and canine, as we've marched along together. We've made a road trip to Tennessee and one to Colorado. We've lost a lot of weight, me a few more pounds than J.R. We've eaten cheese and peanut butter in the middle of the night. We've waded in the creek on a hot summer day. We've snuggled under a fleece blanket and watched a midnight snowfall. We've played tug of war with Julie and never admitted that she let us win. We've stayed in bed late on a Saturday morning and read a book out loud. We've rocked in the recliner when the thunder rolled and the lightening flashed. We've run around the back yard chasing butterflies and bunny rabbits. We've lounged in the hammock and basked in the warmth of the sun. We've ventured off the path and listened to the sound of the autumn leaves crunching under our feet. We've lived life together ... we've shared an extra special stretch of time as best friends ... we've loved with a pure and loyal love that neither of us had ever known before.
Early last week, I could tell that J.R.'s back was beginning to hurt a bit, and I took him to the vet for a cortisone shot and started him on the normal routine we followed when his back problem flared up. This time, however, nothing seemed to help him, and we went back to the vet for another injection. As the week wore on, J.R. grew progressively worse, and by late Friday night, he lost the use of his hind legs. On Saturday morning, our vet sent us to the emergency animal clinic, and after running some tests, a grim doctor told me that the previous injuries to J.R.'s back had worn out his spine. He said that surgery was his only option, but that his chances for even a partial recovery were very low. Since he wasn't in any pain, I took J.R. home and spent the rest of the day and most of the night cradling him in my arms. By Sunday morning, his breathing had become labored and there was a definite shift in his comfort level, and I knew that J.R.'s time was drawing to a close. A friend drove us to the clinic, and from the time we left my house until he passed away, J.R. never left my arms. He drew his final breath on Sunday morning around 10:00 ... snuggled against my chest ... licking my hand as long as he could. He went quietly and quickly, his pain gone and his little life complete.
J.R. has taught me so many things over the last 15 months, so very many things. The lessons I've learned from him about trust and loyalty and freedom and happiness and gratitude and love will stay with me until the day that I, too, draw my final breath. Our time together was far too short, but our time together was also way beyond precious. Remember earlier when I mentioned the path that J.R. had traveled before he came to me? When I think of where he had been ... of all he had endured ... it is nothing short of a miracle that he came to me on that hot and humid day in August. God sent that fat little wiener dog to me, of that I have not even a tiny shred of doubt.
Around my neck, I wear a medical ID dog tag. Though I originally thought I would take J.R.'s tag and bury it by the trail where he so loved to walk, I changed my mind on Sunday afternoon and placed his tag on my medical tag for two reasons ... he's why I discovered my diabetes, and the medical tag rests near my heart. He saved my life, little J.R., and he will forever be near my heart. When my friend Dee Dee arrived at my house on Sunday morning to find me stretched out on my couch sobbing with J.R. laying on my chest, she said that a verse from God's Word had been in her heart since I had spoken with her on Saturday and told her of his condition ... "To everything there is a season ... a time and a purpose under heaven." I don't know that I will ever understand why my season and my time with J.R. was so short, but I do understand that he came to me to fulfill a specific purpose ... to give me the gift of life. As I sat at the clinic and held him and rocked him in my arms, I made a promise to J.R. ... I promised him that I would keep on walking, that I would take care of myself and do my best to honor his gift.
J.R. left me with many special memories ... many precious and priceless and sweet memories ... and he left me with a final reminder of what he did for me. Last Sunday, November 14, 2010, was World Diabetes Day. Rest peacefully, little fat buddy, you truly were a good and faithful friend. And don't worry, I will never forget ... I will never ever forget.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Tickled Pink
When my son Matt was a little boy, he loved the colors pink and purple. His favorite "toy" was a pink Minnie Mouse that he called Baby Sister, and he carried that pink mouse with him everywhere for a long time. And it was probably one of the most devastating events of his childhood when he left Baby Sister at an event we had attended and we couldn't find her when we returned. My son wept and wept over that little pink stuffed Minnie Mouse like his heart was breaking. He eventually became pretty attached to a Cabbage Patch doll named Jake, but old Jake never fully took the place of his Baby Sister. And you can rest assured that his brother Bradley has teased Matt endlessly about his love of pink and his infatuation with a female stuffed mouse. You can also rest assured that Matt teases Bradley as well about his Mickey and Minnie blanket that he carried around for years.
Last night after work, I drove out to the little town about two hours away where Matt and Becca live after dropping Julie off to have an overnight play date with her buddy, Brad's big dog Max. Matt and Becca and I sat up and chatted for a couple of hours, watching Ollie and their two wiener dogs run around their little apartment like wild things. Becca was quite excited to show me the nursery she and Matt have set up for their baby girl who will arrive at the end of January. The room is adorable with a white crib, shelves for all the baby paraphernalia and a well-stocked closet of clothes thanks to some gals whom Becca works with. She showed me the little outfit they are planning to have her 1-month photos taken in and the blanket her great grandma cross-stitched for the baby. Andy, their little dapple dachshund, cracked me up when he sat at the foot of the shelves crying and begging for the baby's rubber ducky that Becca had placed there. Matt pretty much just stood beaming from ear to ear, except for when he showed me the stuffed Snoopy he had purchased for his little girl ... Matt loves Charlie Brown and Peanuts, hence the significance of the Snoopy. His little girl ... those words still seem so surreal to me ... my son's little girl.
We spent the day shopping for baby things, first at a giant consignment sale where there were more baby items under one roof than I have ever seen. Then we went to Target on a quest for hot pink tights or leggings to accompany the little dress for BJ's (Baby Johnson) 1-month photos. I looked at more baby stuff today than I have in years and years and years. And ... I've never seen Matt so excited, so happy, so giddy about anything in his life the way he is about this baby. The closest he's come to this level of excitement was on his wedding day ... I can only imagine how he will feel when he holds his baby girl in his arms for the first time. Or how his heart will completely melt the first time she calls him Daddy. Or how he will ache when he puts her on the bus to go to school. Or how he will worry when she goes on her first date. Or how he will burst with pride as he walks her down the aisle on her wedding day.
Pink ... my son has always loved pink, and now ... now he is tickled pink ... pink ... he's tickled pink.
Last night after work, I drove out to the little town about two hours away where Matt and Becca live after dropping Julie off to have an overnight play date with her buddy, Brad's big dog Max. Matt and Becca and I sat up and chatted for a couple of hours, watching Ollie and their two wiener dogs run around their little apartment like wild things. Becca was quite excited to show me the nursery she and Matt have set up for their baby girl who will arrive at the end of January. The room is adorable with a white crib, shelves for all the baby paraphernalia and a well-stocked closet of clothes thanks to some gals whom Becca works with. She showed me the little outfit they are planning to have her 1-month photos taken in and the blanket her great grandma cross-stitched for the baby. Andy, their little dapple dachshund, cracked me up when he sat at the foot of the shelves crying and begging for the baby's rubber ducky that Becca had placed there. Matt pretty much just stood beaming from ear to ear, except for when he showed me the stuffed Snoopy he had purchased for his little girl ... Matt loves Charlie Brown and Peanuts, hence the significance of the Snoopy. His little girl ... those words still seem so surreal to me ... my son's little girl.
We spent the day shopping for baby things, first at a giant consignment sale where there were more baby items under one roof than I have ever seen. Then we went to Target on a quest for hot pink tights or leggings to accompany the little dress for BJ's (Baby Johnson) 1-month photos. I looked at more baby stuff today than I have in years and years and years. And ... I've never seen Matt so excited, so happy, so giddy about anything in his life the way he is about this baby. The closest he's come to this level of excitement was on his wedding day ... I can only imagine how he will feel when he holds his baby girl in his arms for the first time. Or how his heart will completely melt the first time she calls him Daddy. Or how he will ache when he puts her on the bus to go to school. Or how he will worry when she goes on her first date. Or how he will burst with pride as he walks her down the aisle on her wedding day.
Pink ... my son has always loved pink, and now ... now he is tickled pink ... pink ... he's tickled pink.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Integrity at Any Price
There is something about a flag waving in the wind that always kind of gets to me. Whether it is the red, white and blue fabric sauntering in the gentle breeze of autumn or being flung about in the ferocious gusts of winter, whenever I see the stars and stripes, it causes me to pause and give thanks, even if only for a moment, for the freedom the flag represents and for those who have fought to win that precious freedom. If one flag waving in the wind can bring me such emotion, you can only imagine what it does to my heart when I saw more than 750 flags on a grassy hill next to the interstate as I drove into work yesterday morning. You see, each year, a group of Boy Scouts places the flags on the hill to commemorate Veterans Day, and it's a truly moving display ... a display of freedom, a display of respect, a display of honor, and a display of integrity.
A few years ago, my daughter and I drove from Kansas City to Nashville to attend a send-off ceremony for my nephew who was being deployed to Iraq. I had never been to a military commissioning event, so I had no idea what to expect. As the dignitaries who were the scheduled speakers gathered at the front of the large room, I realized that this was a pretty huge deal ... there were some big names there, including the governor of Tennessee. But it wasn't until the soldiers came marching in that the lump formed in my throat and the tears filled my eyes. I can't begin to tell you how powerful it was to watch those men and women file in, stand at attention, salute, remove their hats and sit in perfect unison. In fact, the entire ceremony was powerful, and there were plenty of tears when the service ended and we had to say our goodbyes to my nephew. On my drive back to KC, I remember praying for Charlie's safety while he was away, and thanking God for soldiers like him who live their lives defending the freedom that I so very often take for granted.
Charlie spent over a year in Iraq, and we were all very grateful when he returned home safe and sound. He is my sister's only son, and I've written about him before. He truly is a man of honor and courage and integrity, and I have a great deal of respect for him on many levels. I don't know if he remembers it or not, but once when I was visiting Chattanooga, he and I had a lengthy conversation one night about what is really important in life. I will forever remember one statement he made that evening concerning his granddad, my daddy. "Granddad taught me about integrity, Terrie ... he taught me what it means to be willing to sacrifice all you have to be a man of character and integrity." Trust me, Charlie ... you learned Daddy's lesson well, young man ... you learned it well.
I don't think it was coincidence that the song that was playing on my iPod this morning as I drove past the flags on the side of the highway talks about honor and integrity and living by example. I know that not all soldiers live by that code of conduct, but I know at least one who does. Thank you, Charlie, for being the man you are ... and thank you to all the men and women who love this country enough to keep it free. God bless you, and God bless America.
"You see, life cannot be measured by
The place you live, the car you drive
The thing that counts the day you die
Is who you are, and what's inside
So tell the truth, don't ever lie
Integrity at any price
Your word's your bond, your highest prize
So guard it close, and live your life
So many things, I learned from you
'Bout life and love and play,
But I learned more by how you lived
Than what I heard you say."
A few years ago, my daughter and I drove from Kansas City to Nashville to attend a send-off ceremony for my nephew who was being deployed to Iraq. I had never been to a military commissioning event, so I had no idea what to expect. As the dignitaries who were the scheduled speakers gathered at the front of the large room, I realized that this was a pretty huge deal ... there were some big names there, including the governor of Tennessee. But it wasn't until the soldiers came marching in that the lump formed in my throat and the tears filled my eyes. I can't begin to tell you how powerful it was to watch those men and women file in, stand at attention, salute, remove their hats and sit in perfect unison. In fact, the entire ceremony was powerful, and there were plenty of tears when the service ended and we had to say our goodbyes to my nephew. On my drive back to KC, I remember praying for Charlie's safety while he was away, and thanking God for soldiers like him who live their lives defending the freedom that I so very often take for granted.
Charlie spent over a year in Iraq, and we were all very grateful when he returned home safe and sound. He is my sister's only son, and I've written about him before. He truly is a man of honor and courage and integrity, and I have a great deal of respect for him on many levels. I don't know if he remembers it or not, but once when I was visiting Chattanooga, he and I had a lengthy conversation one night about what is really important in life. I will forever remember one statement he made that evening concerning his granddad, my daddy. "Granddad taught me about integrity, Terrie ... he taught me what it means to be willing to sacrifice all you have to be a man of character and integrity." Trust me, Charlie ... you learned Daddy's lesson well, young man ... you learned it well.
I don't think it was coincidence that the song that was playing on my iPod this morning as I drove past the flags on the side of the highway talks about honor and integrity and living by example. I know that not all soldiers live by that code of conduct, but I know at least one who does. Thank you, Charlie, for being the man you are ... and thank you to all the men and women who love this country enough to keep it free. God bless you, and God bless America.
"You see, life cannot be measured by
The place you live, the car you drive
The thing that counts the day you die
Is who you are, and what's inside
So tell the truth, don't ever lie
Integrity at any price
Your word's your bond, your highest prize
So guard it close, and live your life
So many things, I learned from you
'Bout life and love and play,
But I learned more by how you lived
Than what I heard you say."
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Porcupine Hair
For as long as I can remember, there have been things I didn't like about my body. I'm sure many of my readers who are female can totally relate ... I think maybe it's a woman thing. I've always wished I was taller or thinner or had bigger eyes or less wrinkles or prettier feet or whiter teeth ... or ... or ... or ... I know that you girls get what I'm saying ... you totally get it. And no matter how much other people told me that I was perfect the way I was, there were always things I didn't like about myself. For all the things about my physical appearance I didn't like, however, there was one thing I always prided (key word, prided) myself on ... my hair. I have always had good hair, no matter the cut or the style or even the color, I've always had good hair. Yep, I've always liked my hair.
I've written a great deal in this blog about the ups and downs of having diabetes, and about some of the not-so-fun side effects of the various medications that I must take on a daily basis. Most of them have been manageable, albeit not fun, and usually subside after a few days or weeks. One of those side effects, though, is one that began a year or so ago, isn't going away, and involves my hair ... yep, the one thing I prided (key word, prided) myself on my whole life. The gal who has done my hair for over 15 years was the one who noticed it first, and I think I may always remember her words ... words that knocked the wind out of me. "Your hair is getting really thin in some spots, Terrie, probably because of your medication." And over the last year, my hair has gotten thinner and thinner and thinner in some spots, so thin that my hairdresser finally cut it really short, telling me that was the only way to make me look like I have more hair.
At first it bothered me a bit ... OK ... it bothered me a lot that my hair was thinning and for a while I had nightmares of bald spots and wigs and people staring and pointing at me and my lessening hair. But eventually, I've grown to really like my short, spiky do ... it's super easy to take care of, all I have to do is put this gel stuff in it, run my fingers through it and I'm done. I still worry about going bald, but the short do makes the thinning less noticeable, at least for now anyway. I get a lot of compliments on my hair, both on the cut and the color ... guess it's not every day that people see an older gray-haired gal with such a hip haircut.
Yesterday morning when I got ready to leave for work, I looked in the mirror and said out loud ... "Julie and Ollie, I'm having a really, really good hair day. Yep, my hair is looking fine today!" And remember how I said I always prided myself on my hair? Well, last night was crazy hair night at Awana, and most of the kids had ... well ... they had crazy hair. Some had their hair all spiked up; some had crazy bows and headbands on; some had weird colors sprayed in their hair. A lot of the leaders had their hair crazy, too, including some really funky looking wigs. So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by the comments of a couple of little boys when I was helping them with their Bible verses. One of them said, "Cool! You have porcupine hair for crazy hair night!" And before I could say a word, the other little boy said, "No, she doesn't. She always has porcupine hair." So much for priding myself on my hair, huh?
I've thought all day about those two little boys and their matter-of-fact commentary about my spiky hair. And I've thought all day about how open and honest little kids are ... they generally say exactly what they think, without reservation and without filters. And I've thought all day about pride and how even when I think I have completely dealt with the issue of pride in my life, God allows two little boys telling me I have porcupine hair to teach me again that pride can lurk in places within me where I never imagined it could. My dad used to say that when a person thinks they've learned all they can learn about God and how humble He really wants us to be, He finds a way to teach us all over again. Porcupine hair and pride ... I sure didn't see that one coming ... wow, God, wow.
I've written a great deal in this blog about the ups and downs of having diabetes, and about some of the not-so-fun side effects of the various medications that I must take on a daily basis. Most of them have been manageable, albeit not fun, and usually subside after a few days or weeks. One of those side effects, though, is one that began a year or so ago, isn't going away, and involves my hair ... yep, the one thing I prided (key word, prided) myself on my whole life. The gal who has done my hair for over 15 years was the one who noticed it first, and I think I may always remember her words ... words that knocked the wind out of me. "Your hair is getting really thin in some spots, Terrie, probably because of your medication." And over the last year, my hair has gotten thinner and thinner and thinner in some spots, so thin that my hairdresser finally cut it really short, telling me that was the only way to make me look like I have more hair.
At first it bothered me a bit ... OK ... it bothered me a lot that my hair was thinning and for a while I had nightmares of bald spots and wigs and people staring and pointing at me and my lessening hair. But eventually, I've grown to really like my short, spiky do ... it's super easy to take care of, all I have to do is put this gel stuff in it, run my fingers through it and I'm done. I still worry about going bald, but the short do makes the thinning less noticeable, at least for now anyway. I get a lot of compliments on my hair, both on the cut and the color ... guess it's not every day that people see an older gray-haired gal with such a hip haircut.
Yesterday morning when I got ready to leave for work, I looked in the mirror and said out loud ... "Julie and Ollie, I'm having a really, really good hair day. Yep, my hair is looking fine today!" And remember how I said I always prided myself on my hair? Well, last night was crazy hair night at Awana, and most of the kids had ... well ... they had crazy hair. Some had their hair all spiked up; some had crazy bows and headbands on; some had weird colors sprayed in their hair. A lot of the leaders had their hair crazy, too, including some really funky looking wigs. So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised by the comments of a couple of little boys when I was helping them with their Bible verses. One of them said, "Cool! You have porcupine hair for crazy hair night!" And before I could say a word, the other little boy said, "No, she doesn't. She always has porcupine hair." So much for priding myself on my hair, huh?
I've thought all day about those two little boys and their matter-of-fact commentary about my spiky hair. And I've thought all day about how open and honest little kids are ... they generally say exactly what they think, without reservation and without filters. And I've thought all day about pride and how even when I think I have completely dealt with the issue of pride in my life, God allows two little boys telling me I have porcupine hair to teach me again that pride can lurk in places within me where I never imagined it could. My dad used to say that when a person thinks they've learned all they can learn about God and how humble He really wants us to be, He finds a way to teach us all over again. Porcupine hair and pride ... I sure didn't see that one coming ... wow, God, wow.
"When pride comes, then comes dishonor, but with the humble is wisdom." Proverbs 11:2
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Where You Found Me
As a parent, there are no words to begin to describe the terror that grips your soul when you can't find your child. And as a parent of three kiddos who are close in age, I experienced that feeling more than once during the years when they were young. I don't know if the kids remember those times, but I sure do ... I sure do. One of those instances involved Bradley, and for some reason, that particular time has been on my mind a lot lately. In fact, I've thought about it so much that I could even tell you the clothes that Brad had on the afternoon that it happened. Obviously, the event left a huge imprint on my brain at the time it occurred, and obviously, the fact that God keeps bringing it back to the forefront of my conscious thinking must mean that there's still a lesson for me in it. That's just like God, you know, to bring something back to our hearts and minds that happened a long time ago so that He can teach us another truth or lesson ... that's just like Him.
Brad was the one of my kids who could sleep anywhere when he was little, as long as he had his yellow blanket and his pacie. He could sleep on the floor, in the car, outside in the grass ... you name a spot, and my Bradley could sleep there. So I suppose that what happened that afternoon so many years ago shouldn't have surprised me ... or frightened me to death either. Matt, Brad and Meghann had been playing downstairs in our finished basement, the basement that was the ultimate playroom for little kids. Their dad built them this giant wooden thing that was half little boy-sized fort and half little-girl sized dollhouse. They had one of those big plastic jungle gyms with a slide, and a plastic workshop and plastic kitchen. One whole wall of the basement was lined with shelves to hold all their toys, and they had a little cubby under the stairs that they turned into the Lego room. It really was an awesome place for the kiddos to play, and they spent countless hours in that basement when they were young. It was late afternoon when I went downstairs to take them some snacks and discovered that Brad wasn't in the basement with Matt and Meghann. When I asked them where he was, Matt said that Brad got mad and went upstairs a while ago.
I went upstairs to check in his room ... no Brad. I went from bedroom to bedroom ... no Brad. I went through the family room, office, dining room, laundry room, kitchen, closets and the bathrooms ... no Brad. I went to the garage and out in the yard ... no Brad. By then, the terror and panic began to engulf me as I again went from room to room calling Brad's name ... no Brad. Now the thing about Brad when he was little? He would get mad and pout for a really long time. It would have been so like him to have been hiding somewhere, waiting to jump out and scare me when I walked by. I'm not sure how long it was until I found Brad, but by the time I did, I was frantic ... and actually, it was Matt who discovered him curled up with his blanket in a tiny little space between the wall and the china cabinet in the dining room. My little middle kiddo had simply crawled into what he considered to be a good spot and taken a nap, completely oblivious to my search or my overwhelming fear that some harm had befallen him.
So here's the thing ... in Brad's mind, he was just sleeping ... he wasn't lost at all, he was just mad and tired and sleepy. In this mother's mind, however, my son was missing ... perhaps wounded or frightened, but he was definitely lost. A song on a CD this morning caused me to think once again about the scene with Brad ... when I found him, I scooped him into my arms and carried him into the family room, sat in the recliner, and rocked my little boy found. And as I did, you can be assured that I shed many a tear of gratitude that he was safe within my arms. Now later, I had a stern chat with Brad about telling me before he decided to curl up and snooze somewhere, but at that moment, I was beyond thankful that my lost son had been found.
I think that's the way it is with me and God sometimes ... I don't realize how lost I am. I think I'm simply tired of the trials of life, or I work myself into a tight spot and want to close my eyes, not even attempt to get out and just go to sleep. I wrap myself in my blanket and feel all safe and cozy, and then, before I know it, I'm asleep and have no clue that God has been searching for me and calling out my name. God knows I need to be found, and I don't even recognize that I'm lost because I'm asleep in my little tight spot ... whoa ... there's a powerful lesson there for me ... friends, and maybe for some of you as well.
Brad was the one of my kids who could sleep anywhere when he was little, as long as he had his yellow blanket and his pacie. He could sleep on the floor, in the car, outside in the grass ... you name a spot, and my Bradley could sleep there. So I suppose that what happened that afternoon so many years ago shouldn't have surprised me ... or frightened me to death either. Matt, Brad and Meghann had been playing downstairs in our finished basement, the basement that was the ultimate playroom for little kids. Their dad built them this giant wooden thing that was half little boy-sized fort and half little-girl sized dollhouse. They had one of those big plastic jungle gyms with a slide, and a plastic workshop and plastic kitchen. One whole wall of the basement was lined with shelves to hold all their toys, and they had a little cubby under the stairs that they turned into the Lego room. It really was an awesome place for the kiddos to play, and they spent countless hours in that basement when they were young. It was late afternoon when I went downstairs to take them some snacks and discovered that Brad wasn't in the basement with Matt and Meghann. When I asked them where he was, Matt said that Brad got mad and went upstairs a while ago.
I went upstairs to check in his room ... no Brad. I went from bedroom to bedroom ... no Brad. I went through the family room, office, dining room, laundry room, kitchen, closets and the bathrooms ... no Brad. I went to the garage and out in the yard ... no Brad. By then, the terror and panic began to engulf me as I again went from room to room calling Brad's name ... no Brad. Now the thing about Brad when he was little? He would get mad and pout for a really long time. It would have been so like him to have been hiding somewhere, waiting to jump out and scare me when I walked by. I'm not sure how long it was until I found Brad, but by the time I did, I was frantic ... and actually, it was Matt who discovered him curled up with his blanket in a tiny little space between the wall and the china cabinet in the dining room. My little middle kiddo had simply crawled into what he considered to be a good spot and taken a nap, completely oblivious to my search or my overwhelming fear that some harm had befallen him.
So here's the thing ... in Brad's mind, he was just sleeping ... he wasn't lost at all, he was just mad and tired and sleepy. In this mother's mind, however, my son was missing ... perhaps wounded or frightened, but he was definitely lost. A song on a CD this morning caused me to think once again about the scene with Brad ... when I found him, I scooped him into my arms and carried him into the family room, sat in the recliner, and rocked my little boy found. And as I did, you can be assured that I shed many a tear of gratitude that he was safe within my arms. Now later, I had a stern chat with Brad about telling me before he decided to curl up and snooze somewhere, but at that moment, I was beyond thankful that my lost son had been found.
I think that's the way it is with me and God sometimes ... I don't realize how lost I am. I think I'm simply tired of the trials of life, or I work myself into a tight spot and want to close my eyes, not even attempt to get out and just go to sleep. I wrap myself in my blanket and feel all safe and cozy, and then, before I know it, I'm asleep and have no clue that God has been searching for me and calling out my name. God knows I need to be found, and I don't even recognize that I'm lost because I'm asleep in my little tight spot ... whoa ... there's a powerful lesson there for me ... friends, and maybe for some of you as well.
"Lost is where You found me
Shattered and frail
But You love me still
Trouble may surround me
My heart may fail
But You never will
You never will.
Shattered and frail
But You love me still
Trouble may surround me
My heart may fail
But You never will
You never will.
You lifted me out
You lifted me out
And set me dancing, dancing
Free, now I am free
Your love rescued me
Now it's the anthem I'm singing."
You lifted me out
And set me dancing, dancing
Free, now I am free
Your love rescued me
Now it's the anthem I'm singing."
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
One of Us
When I began writing this blog back in 2008, I did so because the guy who created the website for my speaking ministry told me I needed to write a blog. I was really half-hearted about it, though, and only posted 36 entries for the entire first two years. Then one of my doctors last year asked me to blog twice a week and he asked me to be extremely real and transparent in my posts, saying that it would be "good therapy" for me in my struggle with depression. So in 2010, I penned 100 posts. I never anticipated that this blog would resonate with so many people, or that God had such a purpose and plan for the words He places on my heart to share ... seems I so very often underestimate Him. Today's post is number 221 for 2011 to date, and God graciously continues to provide ideas and words for several posts each week. Even more, however, God uses this blog to cause me to be open, honest, real and transparent ... I quite often share things that I've kept hidden for years, locked away behind the walls of fear or pride or shame. I've felt God's prodding and urging on many occasions to speak out on certain issues or to reveal my own personal battles.
I know this may surprise many of you, but when I was young, I was an introvert in the truest sense of the word. I was never one of the popular kids ... never. In fact, I was one of those kids the other kids made fun of and teased because I had a speech problem. It wasn't until the early years of junior high school that I was able to speak clearly, but by then the wounds that were inflicted by my peers caused me to be withdrawn and afraid to trust anyone. It was several years before I ventured out of my protective shell and began to be included in groups and activities, and I can remember like it was yesterday lying in my bed wishing so badly to belong. Perhaps I remember those feelings like they were yesterday because, as I've previously written, I am acutely aware that I don't fit or belong anywhere anymore. A woman who attended the retreat last weekend asked me to pray for her ... she told me of some physical issues she has, saying, "No one wants to be around me anymore. I understand why, but it hurts all the same to be so alone." If you're reading this blog, dear one, please know that I am praying for you and that I truly do understand how you feel.
It's not a coincidence that God called a gal who had a hard time speaking in front of anyone to eventually become a speaker ... nothing He does is ever a coincidence but part of His much greater plan for my life. Nor was it a coincidence that when the women gathered around me last Sunday morning to pray as I knelt sobbing before them that one of the ladies uttered some words that have had a huge impact on me this week. A young woman led the prayer time, asking God to strengthen and bless me, and I heard the other women agreeing with her requests on my behalf. And then ... then I heard one of the ladies say, "She is one of us, Lord, she is one of us." Once again, I heard the other women speaking in agreement, "Yes, Lord, she is one of us."
I haven't been able to get those words out of my mind or my heart, and every time I think of them, tears spring to my eyes. I am certain the dear woman who uttered those words had no idea that God was using her to touch the depths of my soul in such a mighty and powerful way or how much I appreciated what she said. I am sure that she didn't know how often I feel so alone now, how much I miss the relationships I once had, how much I don't belong. The more I've thought about the words of this sister in the Lord, the more I realize how important they really are. "She is one of us" ... shouldn't that be the cry of all who are believers? Shouldn't we all be included and loved and accepted and welcomed and treasured and cared for and encouraged and lifted up? Shouldn't we obey the command in God's Word to love one another as He loves us? Seriously ... shouldn't we?
"Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: if either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken." Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12
I know this may surprise many of you, but when I was young, I was an introvert in the truest sense of the word. I was never one of the popular kids ... never. In fact, I was one of those kids the other kids made fun of and teased because I had a speech problem. It wasn't until the early years of junior high school that I was able to speak clearly, but by then the wounds that were inflicted by my peers caused me to be withdrawn and afraid to trust anyone. It was several years before I ventured out of my protective shell and began to be included in groups and activities, and I can remember like it was yesterday lying in my bed wishing so badly to belong. Perhaps I remember those feelings like they were yesterday because, as I've previously written, I am acutely aware that I don't fit or belong anywhere anymore. A woman who attended the retreat last weekend asked me to pray for her ... she told me of some physical issues she has, saying, "No one wants to be around me anymore. I understand why, but it hurts all the same to be so alone." If you're reading this blog, dear one, please know that I am praying for you and that I truly do understand how you feel.
It's not a coincidence that God called a gal who had a hard time speaking in front of anyone to eventually become a speaker ... nothing He does is ever a coincidence but part of His much greater plan for my life. Nor was it a coincidence that when the women gathered around me last Sunday morning to pray as I knelt sobbing before them that one of the ladies uttered some words that have had a huge impact on me this week. A young woman led the prayer time, asking God to strengthen and bless me, and I heard the other women agreeing with her requests on my behalf. And then ... then I heard one of the ladies say, "She is one of us, Lord, she is one of us." Once again, I heard the other women speaking in agreement, "Yes, Lord, she is one of us."
I haven't been able to get those words out of my mind or my heart, and every time I think of them, tears spring to my eyes. I am certain the dear woman who uttered those words had no idea that God was using her to touch the depths of my soul in such a mighty and powerful way or how much I appreciated what she said. I am sure that she didn't know how often I feel so alone now, how much I miss the relationships I once had, how much I don't belong. The more I've thought about the words of this sister in the Lord, the more I realize how important they really are. "She is one of us" ... shouldn't that be the cry of all who are believers? Shouldn't we all be included and loved and accepted and welcomed and treasured and cared for and encouraged and lifted up? Shouldn't we obey the command in God's Word to love one another as He loves us? Seriously ... shouldn't we?
"Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: if either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Also, if two lie down together, they will keep warm. But how can one keep warm alone? Though one may be overpowered, two can defend themselves. A cord of three strands is not quickly broken." Ecclesiastes 4: 9-12
Monday, November 7, 2011
All Abuzz
Most of the time, I don't have the opportunity to meet any of the ladies involved in planning an event where I am asked to speak, mainly because of logistics ... we live too far apart to pop into a coffee shop for a meet and greet. Many of the women contact me through one of the speakers' websites that I am a member of or through the recommendation of another group for which I've spoken. But occasionally, I have the opportunity to sit down and chat with one or more of the women in charge of organizing the retreat or brunch or luncheon. Such was the case a few weeks ago when I had the true blessing of meeting the gals who planned the retreat that took place in Branson last weekend. We met at a restaurant not far from my house after work one evening for dinner ... well, they ate dinner and I watched and talked.
I had just returned from the weekend I spent in Edna, Kansas ... those of you who are faithful readers will remember that on my drive home from Edna, a gigantic, enormous, monster-sized black and yellow bee flew into my car and stung me on the forehead. For those of you who missed that post, it's titled Crossing the Line and it recounts my traumatic experience with said bee. Perhaps because the encounter was still so vivid in my mind (and on my forehead) the night I met the gals for dinner, I shared with the ladies what had happened to me. And ... I made sure to tell them how gigantically enormously monster-sized the bee was, complete with "the bee was this big!" measurements with my hands. We had a good laugh together about the bee incident, and they teased me about how the bee would grow in size each time I told the story.
When I arrived at the lodge on Friday afternoon, I went inside to make sure I was at the right place. The ladies from the planning team greeted me with smiles and hugs, and then they unloaded my car ... yep, I didn't have to lift a finger because they carried everything in for me. One of the gals gave me a tour of the top floor while another told me I couldn't see my room just yet. Eventually, they took me to my room and as I stepped in the door, a camera flashed and caught my expression as I saw a gigantic, enormous, monster-sized bee attached to the light above my bed ... what an incredibly fun way to begin my weekend with this group of ladies! I was told that when they left the restaurant the night I met them for dinner, they all decided that there must be a bee waiting for me when I came to the retreat. One of the gals found a dog's bee Halloween costume, stuffed it and stitched it together and added a head with eyes, antennae and a scary mouth ... creative and absolutely hilarious. "Bumbles the Giagantic, Enormous, Monster-sized Bee" rode back to Kansas City with me tucked securely into Ollie's doggie car seat, and I've decided that Bumbles will be accompanying me to many of my speaking events in the future.
In my last post, I wrote about how God moved last weekend, not only in the hearts of the women attending, but in my own heart as well. Needless to say, I've had the events of the retreat on my mind all day today, and it was as I was driving home this evening in the rain (and the darkness since the time changed last weekend) that another truth presented itself to me. Those ladies listened to me that night at dinner, but they did more than just listen ... they heard my heart, and they understood my earnest desire for their retreat to be richly blessed by God. They felt my longing to serve our Lord together, and they embraced my passion for women's ministry. They even appreciated my unusual sense of humor ... come on ... they made and hung a giant bee from the ceiling for me. And to prove that God has a sense of humor as well, right after I shared the bee story at the beginning of Saturday evening's session with the ladies who were attending the retreat, a moth flew by the side of my head and scared the daylights out of me ... a gigantic, enormous, monster-sized moth.
Here's the thing ... those sweet ladies got it that night at dinner ... they listened and heard and got it. As I pulled into the garage this evening, I thought ... I would do well to learn from those gals, Lord, I would do well indeed. So here's to gigantic, enormous, monster-sized bees ... here's to smiles and laughter and fun ... here's to new friends ... here's to serving an awesome God Who brings the right people to the right place at the right time. Perfection, Lord ... You are true perfection.
I had just returned from the weekend I spent in Edna, Kansas ... those of you who are faithful readers will remember that on my drive home from Edna, a gigantic, enormous, monster-sized black and yellow bee flew into my car and stung me on the forehead. For those of you who missed that post, it's titled Crossing the Line and it recounts my traumatic experience with said bee. Perhaps because the encounter was still so vivid in my mind (and on my forehead) the night I met the gals for dinner, I shared with the ladies what had happened to me. And ... I made sure to tell them how gigantically enormously monster-sized the bee was, complete with "the bee was this big!" measurements with my hands. We had a good laugh together about the bee incident, and they teased me about how the bee would grow in size each time I told the story.
When I arrived at the lodge on Friday afternoon, I went inside to make sure I was at the right place. The ladies from the planning team greeted me with smiles and hugs, and then they unloaded my car ... yep, I didn't have to lift a finger because they carried everything in for me. One of the gals gave me a tour of the top floor while another told me I couldn't see my room just yet. Eventually, they took me to my room and as I stepped in the door, a camera flashed and caught my expression as I saw a gigantic, enormous, monster-sized bee attached to the light above my bed ... what an incredibly fun way to begin my weekend with this group of ladies! I was told that when they left the restaurant the night I met them for dinner, they all decided that there must be a bee waiting for me when I came to the retreat. One of the gals found a dog's bee Halloween costume, stuffed it and stitched it together and added a head with eyes, antennae and a scary mouth ... creative and absolutely hilarious. "Bumbles the Giagantic, Enormous, Monster-sized Bee" rode back to Kansas City with me tucked securely into Ollie's doggie car seat, and I've decided that Bumbles will be accompanying me to many of my speaking events in the future.
In my last post, I wrote about how God moved last weekend, not only in the hearts of the women attending, but in my own heart as well. Needless to say, I've had the events of the retreat on my mind all day today, and it was as I was driving home this evening in the rain (and the darkness since the time changed last weekend) that another truth presented itself to me. Those ladies listened to me that night at dinner, but they did more than just listen ... they heard my heart, and they understood my earnest desire for their retreat to be richly blessed by God. They felt my longing to serve our Lord together, and they embraced my passion for women's ministry. They even appreciated my unusual sense of humor ... come on ... they made and hung a giant bee from the ceiling for me. And to prove that God has a sense of humor as well, right after I shared the bee story at the beginning of Saturday evening's session with the ladies who were attending the retreat, a moth flew by the side of my head and scared the daylights out of me ... a gigantic, enormous, monster-sized moth.
Here's the thing ... those sweet ladies got it that night at dinner ... they listened and heard and got it. As I pulled into the garage this evening, I thought ... I would do well to learn from those gals, Lord, I would do well indeed. So here's to gigantic, enormous, monster-sized bees ... here's to smiles and laughter and fun ... here's to new friends ... here's to serving an awesome God Who brings the right people to the right place at the right time. Perfection, Lord ... You are true perfection.
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