Chipmunk Cheeks

I'm tired. Tired. Tired. Tired. Physically exhausted. Mentally drained. Emotionally spent. Tired. Tired. Tired. Short post tonight. Just talked to my daughter-in-law. Doctor's appointment for her and Baby J this evening. The baby who is fat and happy inside her mom's belly and doesn't want to be born. The baby who is a week overdue today. The baby who was sucking her thumb on the ultrasound. The baby who now weighs almost nine pounds according to the measurements the ultrasound tech made. The doctor said they will induce next Tuesday. Becca emailed me one of the ultrasound pictures. Baby J has chipmunk cheeks. Fat little chipmunk cheeks.

I'm overwhelmed with the idea of being a grandmother ... I'm anxious to see her ... I'm afraid I'll sob when I do ... there are words I want to whisper in her little ears and hope that they somehow lodge in her precious heart so that she remembers when I first held her in my arms. Geez, friends ... she's almost here ... the waiting is almost over ... she's got fat little chipmunk cheeks and she's almost here. Baby J is almost here.

Priceless

When my son Bradley took his first steps, I worried that he would fall and injure himself. And until he mastered the art of walking, I often followed behind him so that I could catch him if he stumbled and hopefully keep him from getting hurt. The truth is, however, that I couldn't always prevent Brad from falling ... sometimes he simply fell. He always got back up and tried again, and eventually he learned to walk and run and skip and dance. But before he became graceful on his feet, Bradley had to take his first steps ... and he had to stumble and fall a few times along the way. Brad is now 24 years old, and he recently graduated from the University of Kansas with a degree in film. I have no doubt that my Bradley will one day be a famous filmmaker, and I've been blessed to watch him grow in the knowledge of his craft. As much as I worried when Brad began to walk as a baby, that level of motherly concern paled in comparison to the anxiousness that sweeps over me when my son hits the road to film his latest project. I know that some of you will say that I shouldn't worry about him ... but come on, friends ... this is the son who bungee jumped off of a bridge over the Grand Canyon to film a video for a client. I have every right in the world to worry about my Bradley ... every right in the world.

Brad drove to Texas last Thursday night for a Friday morning shoot near Dallas and then stayed over on Saturday to meet up with one of his friends from high school who happened to be in Dallas for the weekend as well. I knew that he would be driving home yesterday, so when my phone rang around 9:00 p.m. and I saw that it was Brad, I assumed he was calling to tell me he made it home safely. Brad's good about that ... giving me a call when he returns from a trip so that I can stop worrying because he knows I do, worry, that is. When Brad instead asked if I knew if his car insurance had rental car coverage included in the policy ... oh, yeah, my heart skipped a few beats for sure. He told me what had happened and assured me that he was fine, promised to call me back and hung up to talk with the policeman who had just arrived. I'll spare you all the details, but I will tell you this ... Brad was on a two-lane highway and was forced to drive off the road to avoid a head-on collision with another car, hitting a large pothole on the way and blowing out two tires and breaking a wheel on the rental car he was driving. The driver of the car that was following him also hit the hole on the side of the road as she tried to avoid hitting Brad's car and chewed up one of her tires as well. After several phone conversations and several hundred dollars charged to my credit card, tonight Brad is back at his house and enjoying the company of his big dog Max and his girlfriend Shelby.

All day I've thought about the MasterCard commercials ... the ones that listed several things and the amount they cost, and then ended with an emotional experience that couldn't be measured in dollars and cents. So here's my closing for this post, MasterCard style. Tow truck to haul Brad's rental car to the nearest town in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma ... $143.00. Hotel room for the night ... $65.00. Repairing the tires and the wheel of the rental car ... $323.00. Knowing that my son is back home safe and sound ... completely and totally priceless.

The Waiting Game

My mom garnered a nickname when I was a teenager, and no, I wasn't the one who bestowed the moniker upon her. It was given to her by some other adults who were fellow sponsors along with Mom and Dad on a youth group trip to the amusement park Opryland. They began calling Mom "First Lady" because of her ability to work her way around people as they waited in line for the rides. We could never figure out how Mom accomplished the feat of getting ahead of everyone else ... she managed to negotiate her way around the metal rails that separated the waiting streams of people. Mom rode almost every ride on that trip with total strangers ... you see, she didn't really care whom she rode with, but she cared a whole lot that she cut down on her waiting time. To this day, I can see her grinning from ear to ear as she waved to the rest of us from the front of the line, happy to be riding the rides and thrilled that she didn't have to wait as long as we did.

I've been thinking a lot about waiting recently, and even more so over the last week. Baby Johnson was due last Tuesday, but she has decided to delay her grand entrance into our lives. Our whole family is on pins and needles waiting for the little girl to be born, and each time I see Matt's name pop up on my phone, my heart starts pounding and I break out in a cold sweat. I'm pretty sure that when it really is "the" call, I will probably pass out cold when I hear the news that my granddaughter has finally entered the world. In the grand scheme of life, nine months really isn't that long, but when you're waiting on a baby's birth, it seems like an eternity. And as Matt and very pregnant and tired Becca have learned, there's nothing you can really do to speed things along ... that baby will be born when God says it's time for her to be born. And so ... we wait ... and wait ... and wait.

While my family waits for a new life to begin, my dear friend Donna spent last week holding the hand of her 90-year-old mother, waiting for her to leave this life and enter eternity. When I received a text message from Donna yesterday evening saying that her mom was gone, my mind instantly flew back to the morning my sister and I held Daddy's hands as he, too, ended his journey here on earth. Waves of emotion swept through me as I recalled the night Brad and I entered Mom's apartment to find that she had slipped away while she slept in her favorite chair. Last night and all day today, I've been struck over and over again with the significance of the two different avenues of waiting that Donna and I have walked in recent days ... one of us waiting for a beginning, and one of us waiting for an ending.

The more I think about waiting, the more I recognize that it's a difficult thing to do. It really doesn't matter if I'm waiting on something wonderful or if I'm waiting on something I know will be painful, it's never easy to wait. I guess I don't much like playing the waiting game ... I guess I just don't like it much at all. The more I wrap my arms around the difficulty of waiting, the more I acknowledge how much of my life is now spent doing just that ... waiting ... and waiting ... and waiting ... waiting for beginnings and waiting for endings. And even as I type those words, I'm aware of another truth. With beginnings also come endings ... the beginning of my granddaughter's life will mark the ending of Becca's pregnancy ... the ending of the earthly life of Donna's mother will mark the beginning of her eternal one. Waiting for life and waiting for death ... waiting and waiting and waiting.

"Yet those who wait for the Lord will gain new strength; They will mount up with wings like eagles, They will run and not get tired, They will walk and not become weary." Isaiah 40:31

Psychotherapy by Hair

Before I get into the subject of this post ... many of you have sent me messages asking about the new medications I began last weekend. The side effects from one of them were so bad that I had to discontinue it ... I couldn't keep any food down, and for a gal with diabetes, that's not a good thing. The other drug I am tolerating fairly well, except that it causes my heart to race from time to time and has affected my appetite to the point that I've had to set an alarm on my phone to remind me to eat. I saw my doctor again on Wednesday, and I started on another different med today in place of the one that made me so violently ill. I've been queasy and dizzy all day, but so far, no puking. Thanks to all of you who've prayed for me over the last week ... your prayers mean more to me than you will ever know.

For the last 15 years or longer, I've paid a monthly visit to a gal who is, in my opinion, the greatest psychotherapist on the planet. She doesn't have a bunch of diplomas hanging on the wall of her office; in fact, her office is far from what you would picture a normal therapist's office to look like. She does all of her counseling while she stands and I sit in a chair, and most of the time, she stands behind me. I can see her face in the mirror on the wall in front of me as she speaks. She is always anxious to hear about my life, and often I wonder if she has a list of questions to ask me that are swirling in her mind when I walk in the door. She's an awesome listener, and she doesn't hesitate to chastise me when I'm either doing something I shouldn't be doing or not doing something I should be doing. She is wise far beyond her years, and she has amazing gifts of discernment and honesty. Oh, and in addition to all of her counseling skills, she's also been cutting or perming or coloring my hair for all those years as well ... and not once has she ever messed up my hair, not one single time.

I've written before about how I haven't been leaving my house much on the weekends ... OK, not at all unless I absolutely have to. But since I'm currently sporting my porcupine hair style, I have to get my hair cut every three weeks or so and today was haircut day. I started dreading going out in public from the minute my feet hit the floor this morning and even contemplated calling and cancelling my appointment. I knew, however, that next Saturday I probably wouldn't want to get out either, and by then my hair would resemble a porcupine who had stuck his paw in an electrical socket. So I forced myself to take a shower, put on my Tennessee Valley Railroad cap and headed to the salon. And as she has for over 15 years, Lola greeted me with a smile and walked me back to her chair and for the next half-hour or so, she dispensed her form of psychotherapy ... her sweet and tender psychotherapy by hair.

Weekends are extra rough for me ... they intensify the isolation I now feel, they quadruple the loneliness that pervades my heart, they remind me of how drastically I have changed over the last year and a half, they scream to me of relationships lost. Weekends are the times when the silence is most often overwhelming ... the silence in my home and the silence in my heart. Weekends are the days when I spend more time in bed than out, because if I'm asleep, I don't have to think or feel. But this morning ... this morning, I got dressed and I went to get my hair cut. This morning, I smiled as Lola talked. This morning, even if only for a few minutes ... this morning, my spirits were lifted by my hair-cutting psychotherapist ... my spirits were lifted by my friend.

My Answer

Last night I posed a question to you that someone had posted as their Facebook status yesterday. The question is hypothetical in nature ... meaning that it is asking for an answer to a situation that is imaginary or not real. As far as I can determine, unless one plans to implement his or her own exit from this world, no one knows when the last day of his or her life will arrive. I completely agree with the words of my dear friend Cindy when she wrote, "We should live every day in hope of tomorrow." I also would postulate, however, that many of us would approach our final 24 hours in a different manner if  we knew they were our last 24 hours. I requested that you comment on my blog with your answers, but as I suspected and anticipated, I got emails and private FB messages more than public comments. And some of the answers about your plans for your final day of life were ... well ... some of them were hilarious, some were tender and sweet, some were sorrowful and alluded to a life filled with regrets, some were secular, some were religious ... but all of them were ... well ... yours. So now ... here's my own answer to the hypothetical question ... if I knew that tomorrow was my last day of life, how would I live it out?

I'd get up early, really early, and I'd get on my knees by the side of my bed and pray that God would fill every nook and cranny of my being with His presence for the day ahead. I would pray that He would open my eyes and my heart ... that I would see and feel the miracles within each moment. I would eat six eggs for breakfast instead of two, and I would cook some for Julie and Ollie as well. I would tell those two furry friends of mine how much I loved them and how grateful I was for their unconditional loyalty and devotion. I would have a Starbucks venti cafe vanilla frappucino with extra, extra, extra whipped cream and thick, gooey caramel sauce. I would spend time with the people I love most in this world ... my kids. I would hug them and love them and laugh with them and wonder if the imprints of their beautiful smiles and their dancing eyes would go with me into eternity. I would call my brother and sister and my nieces and nephews and tell them I love them and that I wouldn't have chosen any other people to be my family even if I could have. I would look into the eyes of my dear friends and thank them for their faithfulness and love, and I would encourage them to treasure every second that God bestows upon them. I would have another Starbucks venti cafe vanilla frappucino with extra, extra, extra whipped cream and thick, gooey caramel sauce ... or five or 10. I would go for a long walk and soak in the beauty of God's creation. I would take Julie and Ollie for a swim in the creek, and I would wade in the water with my hounds. I would sing at the top of my lungs and not care who heard me. I would hug a stranger or two and feed someone who had no food. I would linger in God's Word and rest in His promises. As the sun dipped low in the sky, I would dance and dance and dance.

And just before the stroke of midnight, I would post my final entry to this blog and I would pen the following words ... the most important words ever written: "For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16

Just Wondering

Tonight I think I'll change the way I normally post ... I read a status update on Facebook that made me wonder how my readers would answer the question that was posed there. So instead of me writing something, I'm simply going to ask the question of you. I'd love it if you would post your answers as comments to my blog, but I also know from past experience that most of you will choose to email or private message me. It would be cool, though, if you would share your answers with everyone instead of just with me. I know for a fact that many of you are much better writers than I am, and I'm sure that your answers would touch all of the folks who read this blog. And then maybe tomorrow night, I'll share my own answer with all of you.

So here's the question: If you knew that tomorrow was the last day of your life, how would you live it out?

Answer away, dudes and dudettes ... answer away.

 

Finding Wilson

One of my favorite books of all time is the novel, Robinson Crusoe, the story of a man who is shipwrecked on an island where he lives for 28 years until he is finally rescued. There's a whole lot more to the story ... if you haven't read it, you should. I think perhaps my love of the tale of Robinson Crusoe explains in part why I fell in love with a movie that came out several years ago titled Cast Away starring Tom Hanks. I remember the Christmas Day when the kids and I first saw the movie in a theater with our friends Greg and Nancy. I also remember the emotion that swept over me when I saw the film, and I still tear up every time I watch it. It's been on TV a lot over the last week or so, and since I've spent a great deal of time on my couch for the last few days, I've watched the movie several times. And each time I do, I am struck by Wilson ... you know, the volleyball that Tom Hanks paints a face on ... a face painted in Tom's own blood ... an accidental injury that led to the creation of Wilson ... the volleyball turned friend that helps to keep Tom going during his lonely days on the island.

You see, while some would say that the character portrayed by Mr. Hanks descended into a state of madness in the way he communicated with Wilson, I would argue that the personification of the volleyball in fact kept him alive, gave him hope and helped him to find a way to escape the island. I sobbed right along with Mr. Hanks as I watched the movie last night ... the scene when Wilson falls into the sea and floats too far away to be rescued, man, it gets me every single time. There are so many life lessons in that film ... I could probably pen a hundred posts and not scratch the surface of all the underlying meanings. But last night, one in particular kept pounding in my brain as I lay stretched out on my couch. People need relationships. And if a person finds himself on a deserted island with no human contact, that person will create someone to love, someone to care for, someone to communicate with. As I watched last night, I wondered what course the movie would have taken had Mr. Hanks not found Wilson, had he been forced to endure his time on the island completely and totally alone.

When I turned off the television and headed toward my room to get ready for bed, I heard myself conversing with Julie and Ollie in much the same manner that Tom Hanks had conversed with Wilson. I heard myself asking them questions and pausing as if I were listening for their answers. As I asked them if they wanted a piece of cheese before we turned in and they both went flying into the kitchen, a thought crashed into my mind much like the waves had crashed into the shore in the movie I had just watched. These two dogs are my Wilsons ... they are my Wilsons on this deserted island that is my current dwelling place. They are my constant companions, my listening ears, my loyal and faithful Wilsons. I remember when the trailers for Cast Away first appeared on television, I thought the filmmakers had misspelled the title. I thought it should have been a noun, the person on the island, a castaway. I didn't understand until I watched the movie that using two words rather than one carried with it a wealth of meaning and purpose.

Yes, Mr. Hanks was a castaway ... a man who survived a crash and was living alone on a deserted island. But he was also cast away ... torn away from his normal existence and thrown into a place he had never been before. And here's the thing ... when he left the island, he left a changed man, a different man, a better man than he was before that fateful night that seemed in every way to be the end of his world. You see, when he returned to the life he had known before, he understood how it felt to be alone ... he understood how it felt to be hungry and thirsty ... he understood how it felt to be sick and injured ... he understood the need for relationships ... he understood the meaning and the brevity of life in a whole new way. The island ... the deserted, harsh, lonely, isolated island ... changed him in ways he could never imagine possible while he was stranded.

So here's to enduring the island ... here's to finding Wilsons ... here's to seeking rescue ... for all who are castaways ... for all who are cast away. God is still God when the waters rage and the winds howl. God is still God when life comes crashing down around us. God is still God when the darkness is deep. God is still God on every island in every sea. God. Is. Still. God.

Calf Licking

Though it was my mom who is most remembered in our family for some of her unusual sayings, there were also some that my dad was well-known for speaking as well. And one of those I remember most distinctly is when he would say to me, "Sam, you've got to lick that calf over again." I have no idea why Daddy called me Sam, but he did just that throughout my whole life. Nothing in my name even remotely resembles the name Sam, but that's what Daddy called me ... even when he was afflicted with Alzheimer's, Daddy called me Sam. It didn't take me long to understand, however, what Daddy meant when he told me to lick my calf over again. The phrase meant that the task I had just performed wasn't done correctly or didn't meet his expectations, and I had to do it all over again. And yes, you can rest assured that I heard those words from my dad many, many times because getting things right the first time has never been one of my strongest abilities.

I still have a bit of curiosity left in my tired and weary brain, so at 3:00 a.m. this morning, I was reading about the origin of Daddy's phrase and what it meant. I discovered that it's very much a Southern expression, and more specifically (though not surprisingly), one that is often used among dairy farmers. The expression is derived from watching mother cows lick their newborn calves in order to remove the membrane that covers them when they are born. More often than not, it takes several "lickings" for the mama cow to get her baby cow clean and ready to experience the world. Sounds pretty gross to me, and definitely something I never want to witness in person. But more than one of the explanations I read on the meaning of the phrase said something like this ... "This expression is often used in reference to completing a task that is disagreeable in nature or execution, but one that is required to be performed because of honor or duty." Hmmm ... there's depth and meaning and teaching in that definition, which means that all those times my dad instructed me to "lick that calf over again," he was teaching me a lesson and imparting a deep truth to me. A lesson and a truth that has revealed itself to me all these years later ... in a big, huge, gigantic way.

Those of you who read this blog know that I've been sinking further into the darkness that's surrounded me for the last year or so. I've tried to be open and honest in my posts about the battles that accompany both diabetes and depression, sometimes receiving strong and loving encouragement from my readers and sometimes being blasted with hateful words and harsh judgments. I've attempted to share my journey because it may help someone else who's in the same place, because it seems to help to put the thoughts that torture my mind into words, because there are days when it's what keeps me real, when it's what keeps me breathing. So in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent ... I'm going to attempt to lick my calf over again, one more time. I went back to the doctor last week for the first time in a long time, accompanied by a friend who for some reason hasn't given up on me even though I've been nothing but a thorn in her heart since the moment we became friends.

My doctor has added two new medications to the plethora of pills I'm already taking, and I've struggled for the last couple of days with finding the strength and the courage to take them. I decided to wait until today to start the new meds because they can have some pretty intense side effects, including some that are very frightening, and I wanted to be home rather than at work in case they wreak havoc on my already worn out body and mind. I know how tired I am, physically, mentally and emotionally, and I know that these drugs need to work ... these drugs have to work. So ... I'm signing off to eat some breakfast and take the pills. I'm signing off to try one more time to lick my calf over again. I'm signing off to try to complete a task that is disagreeable in nature or execution, but one that is required to be performed because of honor or duty.

I know that many of you already do, and I know how hard the following words are for me to pen ... I could use some prayers from you, friends ... prayers for me physically as I take the new medications, prayers for my state of mind, prayers for my aching heart. I have a granddaughter who is due to enter the world any day now, and I would really like to have the chance to meet her, to hold her, to love her. Thank you to each one of you ... may God's peace cover your hearts and minds today, may you soak your souls in His love, may you treasure His grace and mercy with every fiber of your being.

"Wait for the Lord; be strong and let your heart take courage; yes, wait for the Lord." Psalm 27: 14.

Help me to wait upon You, Lord ... please, oh, please give my body strength and fill my heart with courage ... I'm tired and I'm weak, God ... help me to wait upon You.

Choice Words

Today my oldest son Matt presented and defended his dissertation for his Ph.D. And after his presentation and the questioning session by a panel of professors, Matt was told that it is now official ... he is a doctor of marriage and family therapy. He still has some counseling hours to finish up, and then he will attend the graduation ceremony in May and receive his diploma. Oh, and by the way, the illustrious Ph.D.s on the panel told Matt today that his dissertation, his presentation of it, and his defense of his research was among the best they had ever read and heard. And one more bit of motherly bragging ... my Mattie had a perfect 4.0 all the way through both his master's and Ph.D. programs ... that's impressive by anyone's standards.

I had thought about Matt all morning and prayed for him to be calm and hold himself together under the pressure and not faint ... oh wait, that's when he sees blood, not when he's nervous. It was just before noon when I received a text message from him that said, "I'm a Dr." Tears rolled down my cheeks when I read his words ... his three simple yet packed with emotion and meaning words. I've always said that Matt was a man of few words, but when he speaks, his words more often than not resound with depth and meaning. He's a deep thinker, my Matt ... a very deep thinker. I'm sure that when he sent me the text today, he knew that I would immediately know and understand the unwritten meaning behind his words. And I'm sure that he chose those three small words after thinking for a while before he tapped them into his phone. You see, Matt and I know that life was tough for him growing up ... Matt and I know the road he traveled to reach today's big event ... Matt and I know ... my son and I know.

Matt could have chosen from a plethora of words to tell me his news today, but he chose his words carefully and he chose to use only three. Three choice words that spoke volumes and volumes to me, three choice words that let me know that everything that led up to today in my son's life was worth it all. He called me later in the afternoon to tell me all the details, and I sat at my desk at work and sobbed as I tried to tell him how proud I am of him, as I tried to tell him that I know more than anyone what he overcame to reach today's milestone, as I tried to tell him how much I love him. When I told Matt how smart I think he is, he said something that has pounded in my mind all afternoon and evening. He said, "I'm not any smarter than anyone else, it's all about hard work and determination and not giving up. You taught me that, Mom ... you taught me to work hard and never give up because that's what you always did, you worked hard and never gave up."

I don't know why it still surprises me when God chooses to speak to me so directly through the words of others, but my tears fell like rain as my son's words pierced to the very core of my being. So very many days now, I am ready to give up, to throw in the towel and give up the fight ... so very many days. Two friends sent me emails today about not giving up, about taking one day at a time, about not being alone in the fight. I think God wants me to listen, friends ... I think maybe He's sending me a message ... "I'm a Dr."

Pressure Cooker

My mom inherited my grandmother's old-fashioned pressure cooker, and if I close my eyes, I can still picture that big old silver pot with the little cylinder on top perched on the stove in Mom's kitchen. I can't remember what Mom cooked in the pressure cooker, but I do remember the noise that crazy pot would make as it heated up. The little cylinder thingy on the top would shake and rattle and whistle, and I always thought the whole thing was going to explode. And being the weirdo that I am, I remember wondering what was going on with the food inside the pressure cooker. I remember thinking that it must have been quite uncomfortable for the items inside the pot being exposed to all that heat and pressure. Yes, I know ... the things I think frighten me sometimes, too.

Some days, I feel like I'm inside one of those old-fashioned pressure cookers, just waiting for the heat to get so intense that the lid blows off and I explode into a million little pieces. Today was one of those days ... two big projects on my desk when I sat down this morning, an enormous project with a tight deadline that took six hours to complete that I received right before lunch, 20 or so smaller projects that had to be done in the midst of the giant project, cranky and demanding people who thought their work should take precedence over anything else on my desk, three huge projects that I left on my desk tonight when I simply couldn't edit one more word and finally called it a day. A pressure cooker kind of day in the truest sense, and tomorrow promises to be another one as well.

So tonight, I've got no stories to tell, no lessons to share, no feelings to convey. I'm just tired, tired, tired ... physically and mentally. I've been asleep on the couch for the last two hours, and now I'm going to take a hot bath and go to bed. At least I think I am ... it's stinking thundering and lightning outside, and you all know how much I detest storms. Fitting, I suppose, considering the kind of day it's been. And tomorrow, I get to do it all over again.

Good night ... sleep tight, and try to keep your lids on.

Warming the Bench

My favorite part of the week used to be the weekend ... I would look forward to Friday all week in anticipation of Saturday and Sunday. I had a routine for most of those weekends, a routine that much of the time involved shopping and cleaning and playing and walking and worshiping and serving. The only time I really varied from that routine was when I was traveling or speaking. My speaking schedule is always light from mid-December through February, partly because I try not to schedule many things during those months to give myself a break and partly because women's groups tend to plan their bigger events from March through mid-November. The last couple of months, though, there's been a big shift in my weekend routine ... I've been stopping at the grocery store on Friday evening as I head home from work and then I stay in as much as I can for the duration of the weekend. I get up on Saturday and feed the dogs and eat breakfast, do my laundry, try to make myself stay up until lunchtime, eat lunch, go to bed for the afternoon, get up and feed the dogs, eat dinner, stay up for a couple of hours to write a post for this blog, take a hot bath, and then go back to bed. I don't talk to anyone, I only leave the house if I absolutely have to, and I haven't even been taking Ollie the wiener dog for walks on the trail ... I think maybe I'm getting old, friends.

The winter in Kansas City this year has been very mild, and today was another clear blue sky, sunny, warm day with the temperature climbing to almost 60. I think Julie and Ollie got together this morning and collaborated on their plan of attack to get me outside, because while I was trying to eat lunch, they took turns climbing in my lap, pawing and licking me, and then running to the back door wagging their tails and barking. When I tried to get them to climb into bed with me and take a nap, they would have no part of it whatsoever. They continued their barking and combined their noise with racing back and forth through the house and jumping on and off my bed (and on top of me every time they would pounce on the bed). I finally gave in to their demands and got dressed and took them out into the yard to toss the Frisbee for Julie for a while. When she got tired and was ready to go inside, Ollie was just getting started and ran from me each time I tried to head him toward the door ... until I asked if he wanted to go for a walk. Then he came flying, wiener dog ears flapping in the wind, turning circles in the garage when I reached for his harness and leash.

Ollie was beyond thrilled to be out on the trail, and I didn't have much choice but to let him set our pace ... fast ... he was ready to rock and roll as soon as we left the garage. I haven't been walking as much as I used to, so by the time Ollie and I made our way toward home, I was tired and winded from trying to keep up with the wild wiener dog who was dragging me behind him. As we came upon the bench that sits along the trail next to the creek, I bent over and scooped Ollie into my arms telling him that we were going to sit and rest for a bit. He must have sensed that I needed to take a break because he sat patiently in my lap, occasionally turning around to lick my chin. Since it was such a nice day, there were a lot of people on the trail, and Ollie and I watched as several people rode, jogged or walked by. When a gal that I met on the trail back when J.R. and I would walk together said something to me, I was forced to acknowledge that God still lives on my trail ... even when I'm not on it, He still lives there.

"What are you doing sitting on the bench, girl? I don't know that I've ever seen you sitting ... you are always walking, not sitting on the sidelines. Your blood sugar OK?" I waved and assured her that I was fine, just tired and taking a break. As I sat there rubbing Ollie's back, I thought about what the woman had said to me about sitting on the sidelines ... I began to think about warming the bench. Remember a couple of posts ago when I wrote about all the sports I used to play? Well, here's the thing ... I was a good athlete, very good, in fact, and I rarely had to sit on the bench. When I did have to sit out of a game, it was usually because of my attitude and not my ability. The gal was correct in her assessment ... I've never been one to sit on the sidelines, to sit on a bench and watch other people play. And yet, here I am, on a bench, not playing in the game ... heck, I don't even know where the game is anymore.

Standing up to walk home, a prayer filled my heart and spilled from my lips as quickly as the tears poured from my eyes. I'm stuck on the bench, God ... no matter what I do or how hard I try, I can't find my way off the bench and back into the game. I'm tired of warming the bench, Lord, so very tired of warming the bench. As Ollie and I crossed the street to head to our house, I could feel God's arms of love around my aching heart ... I could hear His words of compassion in my soul ... I could sense His protection over my wounded mind.

"He heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds. He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name. Great is our Lord and mighty in power; His understanding has no limit." Psalm 147: 4-5.

Come What May

It's hard to believe that it has been nine years since my oldest son Matt moved out of my house to a small town two hours away to attend college. I well remember that day, and the drive home after unloading his things from my car and kissing him goodbye. That two-hour drive felt like a cross-country road trip, and I sobbed like a baby with every passing mile. The tears flowed when Brad and Meghann moved out as well, but the pain when my first child left was different somehow, perhaps because he was the first ... the first to be born, the first to say, "I love you, Mommie," the first to go to school, the first to date, the first to graduate (and also the last as it turns out), the first to get married ... he was the first, and it was hard to let him go. But ... I am so very proud of the man my son has become and all that he has accomplished over the last nine years.

Matt is on the final leg of his quest for his Ph.D. in marriage and family therapy ... he will defend his dissertation next week, and he will graduate in May. He has focused a good part of his work on the research side of therapy, and he hopes to become a professor. He has spent the last couple of months sending resumes and attending meet and greet conferences in various parts of the country. He has been fortunate that the school he is attending has paid to send him to the conferences to present some of the work he has done, so he's been able to network without having to pay a penny for those opportunities. Last week my daughter-in-law sent me a text that read, "Matt has an interview at a university in San Diego in March." As much as I want my son to find the job of his dreams in a place where he can use that smart brain of his to the fullest, as soon as I read Becca's words, tears filled my eyes and before I knew it, I was sobbing my heart out. And when I received a text from Matt a couple of days later saying that he had just finished an interview via Skype with a university in Utah, the tears returned and once again, I cried and cried and cried.

Though my son has been telling me for a couple of years that he would need to move in order to get the type of teaching position he desired, I think I've been in denial about the day when he would actually move far away. But now that he is almost finished with his degree and the interviews are beginning, it's becoming more real to me every day ... Matt and his little family are leaving ... his little family ... now it's not just my son who's moving, it's my son and daughter-in-law and soon to arrive granddaughter. As I thought today about how fast May will come, I couldn't help but think that for over 27 years, all three of my children have lived either with me or within a two-hour drive away. And I've taken that for granted, the close proximity of my kids. Just like so many other things in my life, I haven't fully appreciated their geographical nearness until I am now faced with one of them moving far away.

I left Tennessee over 23 years ago, and I never really thought much about how my move must have impacted my mom. She was in her late 60s when my ex-husband's job caused us to move to south Florida, and my dad had recently been diagnosed with Parkinson's and Alzheimer's diseases. If ever my mom needed me to live nearby, it was then. And yet, not one time do I remember Mom begging me to stay or making me feel guilty for leaving or ever letting me see her sadness over my departure. She knew that I had to go, and she supported me even though I know it must have broken her sweet old heart to watch me leave. Mom never once told me she was afraid or lonely, but not long ago, I found a poem tucked inside of her well-worn Bible ... a poem titled, "A Prayer for Those Who Live Alone." A poem that caused my tears to fall like rain ... a poem that spoke volumes to me about my mom ... a mom who stood behind me even when I was far away, even when she was frightened and alone. Come what may, Mom wanted what was best for me ... always what was best for me.

The more I think about Mom and how she must have felt when I moved away from her and the more I think about Matt moving away soon, the more I've begun to think about how God must feel when I move away from Him, when the distance between us becomes so great, when the choices I make take me so far away from my heavenly Father. Though He may be frightened for my outcome, though He longs for me to return, He stands behind me ... loving me, calling me, missing me, waiting for me. You see, come what may, He loves me and He wants what is best for me ... always what is best for me.

May is coming soon, Dr. Mattie ... go get 'em, son, go get all those dreams in your heart ... go get 'em and always know that I love you ... always know how very much I love you.

Game Over

I've never cared much for watching sports on television, except for tennis ... I could watch tennis for hours. And I suppose I did watch a lot of Atlanta Braves baseball with my dad when I was young, but that was because Daddy loved the Braves and I loved Daddy. I have, however, always enjoyed playing sports, especially tennis. But I also played basketball and softball, and even my fair share of neighborhood football, too. And there was one thing I could always count on when I played sports ... eventually the game would end and invariably someone would shout, "Game over!" We might have played extra innings or tie-breakers or overtime, but the games never lasted past a certain amount of time. Sooner or later, there were winners and losers, and the game was over.

For those of you who've been following my blog recently, you've read about the anonymous person who was leaving numbers comments each time I posted an entry. And you've read about some of the irrational thoughts that were running through my mind regarding what those numbers could possibly mean. Yesterday, I figured it out ... the numbers corresponded to the number of ellipses in my posts. So today, I've wondered all day about the reason the anonymous commenter began counting how many times I used my three little dot dot dots. Perhaps he or she hates ellipses or he or she is bored and needed a diversion or he or she simply wanted to witness my irrational thinking in full bloom. Whatever the reason, now that I've guessed the significance of the numbers, it's game over.

I think life is a lot like a sporting event ... sometimes I win, sometimes I lose, and one day, the game most certainly will be over. The older I get, the more thankful I am that I don't have to worry about my stats or my batting average or my point percentage with God. He doesn't keep score of how many times I win or lose ... He cares about what's inside my heart while I play. 

You've proven yourself to be a worthy player, Anonymous ... a worthy player, indeed.

Zombie Land

There was a time when Matt and Brad and Meghann were teenagers when evil took up residence in my house. I'm not talking about their teenage behavior, though I'm sure there are many parents who would readily agree that evil is indeed a fitting term for the things teenagers do and say from time to time. Rather, the evil I'm referring to was a game, a video game to be precise, aptly named Resident Evil. I have no idea why, but my sons went crazy over that game, totally and completely crazy. They would invite their friends over, turn off all the lights to "make it scarier," and play the game for hours and hours. And when everyone would leave for the night, Matt and Brad would sleep in the same room together because they were afraid that zombies would come and try to kill them in the night. Now that I think about it, perhaps my sons inherited more than just a touch of my penchant for irrational thinking. Each time a new iteration of the game hit the shelves, Meghann and I would shake our heads in wonder as the boys would rush to the store to buy the newest version in hopes that it would be scarier than the previous one.

I never quite understood my sons' fascination with all things zombie, but it doesn't surprise me at all that they are now both smitten with the television series The Walking Dead. The show tells the story of a small group of survivors living in the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse. Most of the story takes place in the Atlanta metropolitan area as the main characters search for a new home away from the shuffling hoards of the undead, or "walkers" as they are called by the survivors. The plot is focused primarily on the human element of a post-apocalyptic world and the way the struggling humans manage to survive. As their situation grows more hazardous, the desperation of the group of survivors pushes them to the brink of insanity. The show has been a tremendous hit with television audiences, and the network recently announced that it would be returning for yet another season.

When Matt first told me I should watch the zombie-filled show, I laughed and asked him if he was crazy. My son knows me well enough to know that horror movies, blood and guts flicks, and certainly gross-looking zombies on a television show have never been my cup of tea. But when I was home for 10 days over the holidays and barely left my house, I decided to get online and watch the show that my sons declared to be "one of the best ever." And I will admit that I was hooked after the first couple of episodes. Yes, I will say it publicly ... my name is Terrie, and I like to watch The Walking Dead. Perhaps because I know my sons love the show is part of the reason I enjoy it, or perhaps because it's set in Atlanta which is just a few hours south of where I grew up, or perhaps because it's a story of human survival against pretty harsh odds. And perhaps, just perhaps, it is because it's based on some completely irrational thinking (and you all know that I can easily identify with completely irrational thinking). I mean, really, dead people who walk around and take over big cities like Atlanta?

As I snuggled in my bed watching hours and hours of The Walking Dead, I couldn't help but feel for the poor zombie guys and gals. They shuffle through their days as if they are alive, but in reality, they are just dead bodies. They appear to be living, minus the gaping holes in their faces of course, but they aren't ... they're zombies. All they do is wander from place to place scaring everyone they come in contact with, or worse yet, doing some serious harm to anyone who is unlucky enough to cross their path. The longer I watched the show, the more I thought about how many days I wander through life now, how often I reside in zombie land, appearing on the outside to be alive while the inside of me is a zombie. A zombie that frightens others, a zombie that hurts those around me. And the more I thought about life in zombie land, the more one fear swept through me. You see, on the show, there is no cure for being a zombie ... once a zombie, always a zombie. And the more I thought about there being no hope for all the zombies of the world, the more God brought a lesson from His Word pounding into my mind. There's a verse in the recounting of the story of the prodigal son, a verse about being rescued from zombie land.

"For this son of mine was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found." Luke 15: 24

4 ... I win.

Rationally Speaking

When I was a kid, I had migraine headaches ... really bad migraine headaches. I vividly remember writhing in my bed while Mom would alternate between placing ice packs around my head and pressing encyclopedias against my throbbing skull. And no, she wasn't hoping I would absorb some knowledge from the books ... the weight of them helped to equalize the pressure inside of my head ... I know it sounds weird, but it helped to ease the pain ... no, really, it did. Those headaches coupled with my ... um ... my ... um ... less than stellar behavior when I was in elementary school eventually led to all kinds of appointments with several types of doctors. Translated ... first, they thought I had a brain tumor and then they thought I was crazy. It turned out that neither of those supposed culprits were the cause of my headaches or my mischievous actions ... food allergies were triggering the headaches, and my acting out was caused by boredom because I wasn't being challenged enough in school. Once the offending foods were removed from my diet and I was given extra reading and special projects at school, I stopped getting headaches, stopped getting into trouble all the time, and started growing and learning. Well, at least until I hit high school anyway and then I managed to find my fair share of trouble once again.

I hadn't thought about the "headache" years of my life for a while, for a really long while in fact. And then in 2010, one of the doctors I was seeing when I was struggling to get enough liquid into my body asked me if I had ever taken an IQ test. My mind immediately raced back to those troubled days of my childhood as I thought about the psychologist my parents had taken me to see ... I could remember the smell of his office, the room I took the tests in, my smart-alecky answers to his questions. When my new doctor asked me if I would be willing to take the tests again as an adult, I felt very much like I did as a child ... tense, apprehensive, fearful of failure. I finally agreed, and was pleasantly surprised to find out that I scored a bit higher on the tests the second time around. Hopefully, that means that I've learned a thing or two on my journey over the last 50 plus years.

Since I now have paperwork that says I'm smarter than the average bear, it puzzles me greatly as to how my thinking can slip so quickly from a rational cognitive state into one of paranoia and irrationality. Case in point ... my basement adventure of a couple of weeks ago, remember? Yep, the one that had me convinced that the house was going to cave in or explode and kill my dogs while I was at work because of a leaky wall and cracks in the concrete floor. Which, I've been assured by three different contractors by the way, will not happen. And said leak is hopefully going to be taken care of by the regrading of a small section of my front yard and some new guttering. But back to my puzzlement over how rapidly I made the descent into irrationality concerning my house issues ... I've lived in this house for over 10 years, and my basement has leaked for a while. Never before did I cross from being a sane woman to an insane one ... in fact, I have always tended to fall on the other side of home and auto repair ... if you ignore a problem long enough, it will go away on its own. And yet, I'm willing to admit that I became totally irrational a couple of weeks ago concerning my house ... I mean, come on, friends ... I was out in my garage in the middle of the night looking at cracks and wondering if I should park my car on the driveway. In anyone's book, that's not what's called rational behavior.

So in the wee hours of this morning when I woke up thinking about the number comments that have been left on my last six blog posts, my thoughts once again quickly descended into the realm of irrationality. From thinking that the numbers are some sort of coded message to me to wondering if they are the winning lottery numbers to contemplating if they are Bible references to being certain that they signify the day and time that I'm going to die ... well, you get it ... my thinking about the numbers has covered a huge gamut of completely irrational thinking. I even managed to lure one of my co-workers into my whole conspiracy theorizing today and she was Googling the numbers to try to find out what they mean. And even after the Web guru in our office told me that it was probably a bot-generated commenting process, I remain convinced tonight that I need to hire a private detective to discover the meaning behind the random numbers. Or ... or ... or ... Monk from TV ... he could surely get to the bottom of the mystery and put my mind at ease.

I read something this morning about being irrational, and I've been thinking about it all day. "The person indulging in the irrational thinking does not have a clue as to why he or she is behaving or thinking in this way. In fact, they do not think of their thinking as irrational at all even though they cannot explain the logical rationale for their behavior." I've said recently to friends that I can't explain or understand some of the illogical and irrational thinking or behavior that washes over me from time to time now ... like when I break out in a cold sweat and my heart almost beats out of my chest when I even think about going to the doctor and I tell myself that the fear I have is perfectly normal. Or when I creep around my basement in the middle of the night touching the walls to see if they are bowing or crumbling. Or when I actually consider calling in a super sleuth to tell me what a bunch of random numbers mean. But ... but ... but ... in my own defense, the second part of that quote doesn't apply to me at all ... I know and willingly recognize that my thinking is irrational. Therefore, I think that means that I'm not as irrational as I think I am. Rationally speaking, of course, friends ... rationally speaking. 

I Give Up ... What?

Those of you who are parents of grown children will fully understand this statement ... there are things your kiddos did when they were young that you simply never forget. Even when my dad was deep in the throes of Alzheimer's and didn't know my name, he would sometimes look at me and say, "You're the little girl who dropped the roast beef in the bed of my truck and it slid under the lawn mower. You scooped it up and let the men at church eat it anyway." Long story worthy of its own post one day, but that was indeed me and Daddy never forgot my roast beef/truck/lawn mower escapade. Lately, I've had times when I feel like my own mind is evaporating right before my eyes, but I, too, have things about my children I believe I will always remember. Like Meghann and her "night-night" blanket that she carried until it was in pieces. I can still see her when she was a little girl, dragging that blanket everywhere she went ... I can still hear her screaming for her "night-night" when she misplaced it somewhere. Or like Matt and his total infatuation with the television series Dawson's Creek. I will never forget the week before we moved from the house we lived in when I was married ... Brad and Meghann were at church camp and Matt and I would pack each evening when I got home from work and then sit in the dark in the family room eating little containers of ice cream with plastic spoons while we watched Dawson's Creek. And then there's a memory I have of Brad asking me over and over and over ... "Hey, Mom, guess what?" For years, almost daily, and always randomly, Brad would utter those words and I would wonder how or why I was expected to be able to read my son's mind and determine just what it was I was supposed to guess. Sometimes I would quip back a nonsensical response to my beloved middle child, but more often than not, I would respond by saying, "I give up, Bradley ... what?"

In thinking about all the times Brad asked me the "guess what" question, I've come to realize that I usually gave up too soon in trying to guess what my son was thinking. I was a single mom raising three children on my own, and quite honestly, a lot of the time I was plain old tired and worn out. In the first few years following my divorce, there were times when I worked three jobs to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. I was physically exhausted and emotionally and mentally drained from the stress of trying to make ends meet, take care of all the kids' needs, and deal with a not-so-nice ex-husband. But if I could turn back time, I would have stopped what I was doing and sat down and played the "guess what" game with Brad ... I wouldn't have been so quick to say, "I give up" ... I would have taken more time to try and figure out what was going on in his clever young brain. In fact, if I could turn back time, I would have spent more time with each of my three children ... more time playing, more time listening, more time loving. Oh, I know that I probably did the best I could do at the time, but there are some things I wish I wouldn't have given up on quite so easily, some things I wish I would have fought harder not to let go of ... things like playing and listening and loving.

I've had the whole "I give up" thing on my mind for a while for several reasons, and this morning as I drove to work, I noticed a personalized license plate on a car in front of me that read, "IGIVUP." Talk about God getting my attention ... good grief! My curiosity as to what type of person would put that phrase on their car tag got the best of me, and I swung into the lane next to the car and sped up to get a look at who was driving. In my mind, I thought I would see a grumpy-looking, hunched-over, wrinkled, old woman ... maybe like the Maxine character from Hallmark. Instead, as I glanced over to take a peek at the driver, I was surprised to see a well-dressed businessman who looked to be in his late 30s ... a nice-looking, sharply attired, young man ... not at all whom I expected. All day I've wondered about the young man and the words on his license plate ... all day I've wondered about him and if indeed he had given up, and if so, just what he had given up on.

The more I've thought about the young man today, the more I've wondered just how many people are ready to give up ... people who are tired, who are lonely, who are sad, who are homeless, who are sick. And the more I've thought about those folks, the more I've realized how many times I don't take the time to not just try and guess what is going on in their hearts and minds and lives, but to slow down and truly connect with them ... to slow down and offer them hope ... to slow down and listen to them ... to slow down and encourage them to hang in there for one more day. Just like I drove past the young man in his car today, so often I offer only a passing glance to those whom I know must be ready to utter the words, "I give up." And the more all of those thoughts have coursed through my mind, the more I've thought about how easy it is to do ... to give up and not even attempt to answer the "guess what" questions of life any longer.

So to the young man in the car this morning ... though you will never know it, God used you to make this old gray-haired gal think about some tough things, and I prayed for you today. Though I don't know the details of your life, I understand about giving up. To my Bradley ... if I could do it over, son, I would offer up a guess every single time you asked. And to the anonymous person who is leaving random number comments on my posts ... sorry, but I give up ... what?

A Sling and a Stone

When my sons were young, my sister gave each of them a slingshot ... you know the kind, the Y-shaped piece of wood with a strong rubber band and a little pouch to hold the rock. She also gave them a target to pin onto a tree so they could play with their slingshots without breaking out a window or aiming for each other ... in theory that was her idea anyway. But boys will be boys, and without fail, each time Matt and Brad would head out into the back yard for slingshot target practice, it wouldn't take long until they would begin stretching the rubber bands on those pieces of wood and popping each other with stones. And without fail, I would take the slingshots away from them and tell them they couldn't have them back until they learned and understood that they absolutely could not shoot at each other. And also without fail, the boys would beg to be given another chance and every single time I gave the slingshots back to them, they would inevitably end up firing away at each other and lose their slingshot privileges once again. I suppose that's the nature of all of us in some way ... to repeat our mistakes over and over and over and fail to learn a lesson that should be so easy to comprehend.

One of my favorite Bible stories is that of David and Goliath, perhaps because it's a story where the underdog wins. The account of the battle between the two men is found in 1 Samuel 17. Saul and his army of Israelites are facing the Philistines at the Valley of Elah. Twice a day for 40 days, Goliath, the champion of the Philistine army, comes out of his tent, walks between the lines of the two armies and challenges the Israelites to send forth a champion of their own to fight him and allow the battle to be decided based on the outcome of the fight between the two. Saul and all of his men were afraid of Goliath ... enter David, the young shepherd boy who has brought food for his older brothers who are soldiers. David accepts the challenge issued by Goliath, but he turns down Saul's offer to wear the king's armor and approaches Goliath with a sling and five smooth stones he chooses from a brook. The rest of the story is ... well ... it's history. David hurls one of the stones from his sling, smacks Goliath in the head and kills him.

There are so many lessons in the story of David and Goliath, too many to list them all in this post. But as I read the story aloud to Ollie as we sat on a bench on the side of the trail yesterday afternoon, a couple that I've never thought about before came to my mind. Unlike my sons all those years ago, David didn't turn his sling against his brothers ... not against his biological brothers or against his fellow Israelites. He threw the stone against the enemy, against the giant who had terrified even the king. He didn't laugh at the soldiers for their fear or belittle their inability to win the battle or scorn them for the length of time they had been stuck in the war zone. He stepped up and helped ... he volunteered to fight the giant ... he threw the stone against the enemy ... against the giant who had terrified even the king. And here's the other thing ... David wasn't afraid of Goliath's size or swagger or stinging insults ... this little shepherd kid wasn't afraid of the giant champion of war because he knew that the battle belonged to God and his job was to help his brothers, to do what they could not, to sling the stone toward the giant.

As Ollie and I walked home, I couldn't help but think once again about my boys and their slingshots, and about the way they would always shoot at each other. I also thought about how upset I would get with them about it, about how much it scared me that one of them would seriously wound the other, about how frustrated it would make me that they didn't obey me. As those thoughts washed through my mind, I began to think about how God must feel when we hurl stones against our brothers and sisters in the Lord ... stones of discouragement, stones of judgment, stones of gossip, stones of despair, stones of fear, stones of criticism. I wondered how it must hurt His heart when we don't step up to help one another, when we aren't willing to fight the giants that threaten to overtake our fellow soldiers, when we fail to recognize that the battle belongs to God and our job ... our job is to sling the stone.

"Then David said to the Philistine, 'You come to me with a sword, a spear, and a javelin, but I come to you in the name of the Lord of hosts, the God of the armies of Israel, whom you have taunted. This day the Lord will deliver you up into my hands, and I will strike you down and remove your head from you. And I will give the dead bodies of the army of the Philistines this day to the birds of the sky and the wild beasts of the earth, that all the earth may know that there is a God in Israel, and that all this assembly may know that the Lord does not deliver by sword or spear; for the battle is the Lord's and He will give you into our hands.'" 1 Samuel 17: 45-47.

Out of Season

When my son Brad was in high school, he had a friend who loved to hunt and did so quite often with his father. It wasn't long into their friendship that Rick convinced Brad to go hunting with him and his dad one weekend. Brad has always been my outdoorsy kiddo, so he readily accepted the invitation and left the house at 3:00 a.m. to meet up with Rick and his father. When he returned home late in the afternoon, Brad announced that he was going to learn to hunt ... rather surprising to me since Brad has always been a huge animal lover, but he assured me that any hunting he did would be for food and not for sport. Over the next few months, he began to accumulate all the gear he needed to become a hunter, including purchasing a shotgun, which, I might add, did not make me extremely happy.

I'm not sure how many times Brad has gone hunting, but I am sure that he has never killed any creature ... not one ... not a single one. I've often wondered when Brad would tell me story after story about another one that got away if the real truth was that he simply did not want to shoot an animal ... he just wanted the camaraderie of being with the guys in the great outdoors. One thing I distinctly remember from Brad's hunting days is that there were different times of the year when it was legal to hunt certain animals. There was quail season, deer season, turkey season, and so on. Though I didn't understand all the particulars of the rules and regulations involved, I knew that Brad would purchase certain licenses to hunt certain animals at certain times of the year.

As is true for much of the United States, it has been unseasonably warm in Kansas City this winter ... a few days ago, the temps were in the upper 60s. It's not uncommon for us to be buried in snow at this time of the year, and yet, I saw folks outside last week in shorts and t-shirts. Each evening when I leave work, I drive under a large concrete overpass that in the spring and fall is a perch for literally hundreds of birds. As I drive out on the other side of the overpass, there is a series of power lines that criss-cross the street I'm driving on and the one that intersects it, and again, in the spring and fall those lines are filled with chirping, fluttering birds. Last week, however, each night when I drove home, I noticed that both the overpass and the power lines were covered with birds ... in January. On Friday evening as I waited for the traffic light to change from red to green, I couldn't help but focus my attention on all the birds that were perched on the power lines ... there were so many I could barely see the lines that were holding them. Those crazy birds are confused by this warm weather, I thought ... they don't know where they are supposed to be because it's so warm ... they should have flown south by now ... it's the wrong season for birds on a wire ... birds on a wire are out of season in Kansas in January.

I haven't been able to get those birds out of my mind, and those of you who read this blog regularly know why that is ... God has a lesson He wants me to learn. The more I've thought about the birds, the more I've thought about the season of life I have found myself in for the last year. Just as the birds are confused by the unusually warm temperatures, just as they haven't been able to fly south as they should have by this time of year, just as their internal compasses are askew ... I'm just like those birds. I'm confused by the failure of this season to change ... my inability to fly where I know I should be flying is frustrating and maddening to me ... and many days I feel as though my internal compass is broken beyond repair. Even as I type those words, I also know to the core of my being that I have a Father who is watching over me, a Father who loves me no matter what season of life I am in, a Father who is faithful ... always faithful ... to complete the work He began in me. The prayer of my heart is that I will hold on to His promises and cling to the truth of His Word ... that I will be faithful to Him as He is faithful to me.

"Being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus." Philippians 1:6