One of my favorite stories in the Bible is found in the book of John ... actually, several of my favorite stories are found in John. I told the ladies last weekend at the event where I spoke that I spent several months studying the book of John after I was saved. I can't remember now who told me I should do that, but I sure am glad that at least for once in my life, I did what I was told to do. You see, John had a gift for recounting events and sharing stories ... a divine gift I would say. So back to the story, the one that is one of my favorites. It's found in John chapter 4, and I'm sure many of you already know the story ... it's known as the story of the woman at the well.
The condensed version of the story goes like this ... Jesus and His disciples were traveling through Samaria, and Jesus was tired from the journey and decided to rest by the well. While He was kicked backed relaxing in the middle of the day under a palm tree (that's what I imagine He was doing anyway), this Samaritan woman came along with her waterpot to draw water from the well. Now there was a reason why this gal came to the well by herself in the heat of the day and not in the morning with the other chicks from town. She didn't fit in with the other women; in fact, she was scorned by them because of the way she lived. She had been married five times and was currently shacking up with a guy she wasn't married to. She came to the well in the middle of the day because she couldn't bear the gossip and stares and condemnation of the other women. Since she was accustomed to being rejected and ostracized by her own people, I can only imagine how surprised she must have been when Jesus struck up a conversation with her. You see, men didn't talk to women in such settings back then, and a Jewish man certainly didn't talk to a Samaritan woman. Jesus draws the woman into conversation, tells her that He knows all about her, tells her He is the Messiah, and tells her about living water.
You should read the story in its entirety ... you can't read that story and come away without a picture of what Jesus was really all about ... compassion, acceptance and forgiveness. Jesus did three really important things in the short time He conversed with the woman at the well. He reversed the norms of society by talking with a woman from Samaria ... that was socially unacceptable behavior. He recognized the woman's need ... He told her He knew who she really was and about the sin in her life. He restored her relationship to God by revealing His identity and offering her forgiveness and salvation. The story ends with the woman racing back to town to tell the men (my guess is she was more popular with the men than the women ... hmmm ... think about that for a minute) that she had met the Messiah and that He had given her living water. At a time in her life when she was trying to hide away from the rejection of the other women and from what she knew was the truth about herself, that's when Jesus stepped in and rocked her world. Yep, I really do love the story of the woman at the well.
I don't believe there are many, if indeed any, coincidences in life for those of us who are believers. I do believe that there are God encounters in every step we take if we care to look for Him in all things and all situations and all circumstances. Therefore, I believe it was very much a God thing that the name of the place where I spoke last weekend was The Well ... an incredible venue for sure; a huge Christian bookstore on the first floor and an amazing conference center on the second floor. I used the story of the woman at the well as one of my examples when I spoke, and all week, I haven't been able to get the story out of my mind. Those of you who read this blog regularly know what that means ... yep, God had a gigantic lesson for me about the heat of the day and wells and thirst and need and surrender and forgiveness and acceptance. See, here's the thing ... I needed to go to The Well last Saturday ... I needed to understand anew that Jesus loves me no matter what I've done or who I am or where I've been or where I'm going. I needed to know that He sees me ... He really sees me ... He sees the me that no one else sees ... He knows the me that no one else knows ... He talks to the me that no one else talks to ... He loves the me that no one else loves.
"Jesus answered and said to her, 'Everyone who drinks of this water will thirst again; but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him shall never thirst; but the water that I will give Him will become in him a well of water springing up to eternal life.'" John 4:13-14.
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
I Promise
Those two little words have gotten me into some tight spots down through the years ... I promise. They have also rescued me from some tight spots down through the years ... I promise. Funny how that works ... promises can make things uncomfortable, and promises can make things real and right.
So here's the story ... I promise I will post a "real" blog within the next couple of days ... I promise. I've been swamped at work and have been bringing work home on the weekends and at night. I'm working on a post that God started churning in my heart last weekend, but tonight it's a stormy night (and you faithful readers know how very much I dislike storms, especially storms at night) so I'm going to bed. That's right, I'm going to pull the covers over me and the hound dogs and hope that I sleep right through the rain and wind and thunder and lightning. I'm beyond tired, so maybe, just maybe, my plan will work. I really, really, really don't like spring in Kansas ... I promise.
Sleep well, friends ... may God keep you safe and give you rest and peace, especially in the storms of life.
So here's the story ... I promise I will post a "real" blog within the next couple of days ... I promise. I've been swamped at work and have been bringing work home on the weekends and at night. I'm working on a post that God started churning in my heart last weekend, but tonight it's a stormy night (and you faithful readers know how very much I dislike storms, especially storms at night) so I'm going to bed. That's right, I'm going to pull the covers over me and the hound dogs and hope that I sleep right through the rain and wind and thunder and lightning. I'm beyond tired, so maybe, just maybe, my plan will work. I really, really, really don't like spring in Kansas ... I promise.
Sleep well, friends ... may God keep you safe and give you rest and peace, especially in the storms of life.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
The Procession
My brother Jerry was a charmer ... everyone who knew him loved him. He had an easy smile and twinkling eyes like our dad, and he looked a lot like Daddy, too. People were initially drawn to Jerry by his laughter and sense of humor, but they stayed because of his caring spirit and generous heart. His position as a junior high school biology teacher and coach of the basketball team was the perfect fit for Jerry ... he was able to instill a love for learning and a desire to dream in countless students through the years. Jerry's love and compassion for his students were evident even on the night he died ... he was on his way home from tutoring a student who was home with a broken leg ... on his way home to change clothes and come pick me and Daddy up to take us to the game he was coaching that evening when he was involved in a car accident. Jerry died later that night, a cold January night when I was 10 years old.
I remember a lot of details from the days that followed Jerry's death, which surprises me somewhat considering it's been more than 40 years. I remember my mom's blank stare and sunken eyes the next morning. I remember Daddy's shaking voice as he told me that Jerry was gone. I remember my sister packing some clothes for me and walking me to the car of the folks who were taking me to their house for a few days. I remember expecting Jerry to walk in and say he was alive and well and that it was all a bad dream. I remember the newspaper article and the picture of Jerry on the front page. I remember the headline ... "Beloved teacher and coach killed in accident on Hixson Pike." I remember the huge Baptist church where Jerry's funeral was held. I remember the smell from the hundreds of flowers that surrounded my brother's casket. I remember there were so many people, the police closed the street in front of the church and people were standing outside. I remember it was cold that day and that there were flurries of snow when we left the church and climbed into the big funeral home cars. But for all the things I remember about those days after Jerry died, I remember the funeral procession from the church to the cemetery the most vividly.
It's about a 10 to 15-minute drive on a normal day from the church to the cemetery where Mom and Dad and Jerry are buried. But on the day of Jerry's funeral, it seemed to take an hour to go from Red Bank Baptist Church to Hamilton Memorial Gardens. Students lined the streets holding signs that said, "We love you, Mr. Dennard," "Rest in peace, Coach," and "Honor and integrity, thank you, Mr. D." I remember Mom and Dad crying in the limousine and Daddy holding Mom's hand as they saw Jerry's students standing along the road. I remember watching the hearse that carried my beloved brother as it drove slowly in front of the big car we were riding in. I remember police cars and motorcycles as they accompanied us on Jerry's final journey. I remember all the cars that were pulled over on the side of the road out of respect for the funeral procession that was passing. I remember all those cars on the side of the road ... stopped on the road so that the drivers and passengers could show their respect for my brother as he passed by.
Yesterday, I spoke at an event in southwestern Kansas, about a 3-hour drive from home. I always allow extra travel time when I drive to a speaking event, just in case there is traffic or an accident or I get lost. I arrived in the town about 45 minutes before the time the leader of the event and I had agreed upon. Almost as soon as I drove into the downtown area and began to look for the place where the event was being held, the car in front of me slowed, pulled off to the side of the road and stopped. I noticed that all the cars ahead were doing the same thing, and when I glanced in my rearview mirror, all the cars behind me were making their way off the road as well. I pulled over, too, wondering if there was an accident and looking at my directions to see how far I was from where I needed to be. When I looked up, I noticed that cars on the opposite side of the street had pulled over, too, and that's when I saw it ... an old-fashioned hearse with its headlights on, driving slowly down the street followed by several cars with their headlights on as well as they traveled behind the hearse.
As I watched the funeral procession pass by, I couldn't help but remember a cold day in January so very many years ago and all the cars that were stopped on the side of the road to honor my brother Jerry. I wondered about the person who had died, and I wondered about the family and friends whose sad faces I saw through the car windows. I wondered if the people in the town who stopped their cars knew the person who had passed away or if was old-fashioned, small-town respect that caused them to pull over. Driving home later in the day, I found myself thinking about the display of honor and respect I had seen along the road that morning ... and I began to think about how it is often after someone has died that many of us demonstrate the honor and respect we should have given while they were living. I wondered how many people die each day feeling as if they are unworthy of honor or respect, or even love.
Love with pure hearts today, friends ... honor and respect and love. Don't wait until it's time to pull over to the side of the road.
"Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor; not lagging behind in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord." Romans 12:9-11
I remember a lot of details from the days that followed Jerry's death, which surprises me somewhat considering it's been more than 40 years. I remember my mom's blank stare and sunken eyes the next morning. I remember Daddy's shaking voice as he told me that Jerry was gone. I remember my sister packing some clothes for me and walking me to the car of the folks who were taking me to their house for a few days. I remember expecting Jerry to walk in and say he was alive and well and that it was all a bad dream. I remember the newspaper article and the picture of Jerry on the front page. I remember the headline ... "Beloved teacher and coach killed in accident on Hixson Pike." I remember the huge Baptist church where Jerry's funeral was held. I remember the smell from the hundreds of flowers that surrounded my brother's casket. I remember there were so many people, the police closed the street in front of the church and people were standing outside. I remember it was cold that day and that there were flurries of snow when we left the church and climbed into the big funeral home cars. But for all the things I remember about those days after Jerry died, I remember the funeral procession from the church to the cemetery the most vividly.
It's about a 10 to 15-minute drive on a normal day from the church to the cemetery where Mom and Dad and Jerry are buried. But on the day of Jerry's funeral, it seemed to take an hour to go from Red Bank Baptist Church to Hamilton Memorial Gardens. Students lined the streets holding signs that said, "We love you, Mr. Dennard," "Rest in peace, Coach," and "Honor and integrity, thank you, Mr. D." I remember Mom and Dad crying in the limousine and Daddy holding Mom's hand as they saw Jerry's students standing along the road. I remember watching the hearse that carried my beloved brother as it drove slowly in front of the big car we were riding in. I remember police cars and motorcycles as they accompanied us on Jerry's final journey. I remember all the cars that were pulled over on the side of the road out of respect for the funeral procession that was passing. I remember all those cars on the side of the road ... stopped on the road so that the drivers and passengers could show their respect for my brother as he passed by.
Yesterday, I spoke at an event in southwestern Kansas, about a 3-hour drive from home. I always allow extra travel time when I drive to a speaking event, just in case there is traffic or an accident or I get lost. I arrived in the town about 45 minutes before the time the leader of the event and I had agreed upon. Almost as soon as I drove into the downtown area and began to look for the place where the event was being held, the car in front of me slowed, pulled off to the side of the road and stopped. I noticed that all the cars ahead were doing the same thing, and when I glanced in my rearview mirror, all the cars behind me were making their way off the road as well. I pulled over, too, wondering if there was an accident and looking at my directions to see how far I was from where I needed to be. When I looked up, I noticed that cars on the opposite side of the street had pulled over, too, and that's when I saw it ... an old-fashioned hearse with its headlights on, driving slowly down the street followed by several cars with their headlights on as well as they traveled behind the hearse.
As I watched the funeral procession pass by, I couldn't help but remember a cold day in January so very many years ago and all the cars that were stopped on the side of the road to honor my brother Jerry. I wondered about the person who had died, and I wondered about the family and friends whose sad faces I saw through the car windows. I wondered if the people in the town who stopped their cars knew the person who had passed away or if was old-fashioned, small-town respect that caused them to pull over. Driving home later in the day, I found myself thinking about the display of honor and respect I had seen along the road that morning ... and I began to think about how it is often after someone has died that many of us demonstrate the honor and respect we should have given while they were living. I wondered how many people die each day feeling as if they are unworthy of honor or respect, or even love.
Love with pure hearts today, friends ... honor and respect and love. Don't wait until it's time to pull over to the side of the road.
"Let love be without hypocrisy. Abhor what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love; give preference to one another in honor; not lagging behind in diligence, fervent in spirit, serving the Lord." Romans 12:9-11
Thursday, February 23, 2012
Southern Comfort
There was a time in my life when I drank alcohol ... lots and lots of alcohol. I'm certainly not proud of those years, and I did some really stupid things when I was under the influence of booze. If there were such things as do-overs in life, I wouldn't have used alcohol to soothe whatever pain I was experiencing at the time. I had two favorite drinks back then, gin and orange juice, and an American liqueur aptly named Southern Comfort. I alternated between the two drinks, depending on how much cash I had ... Southern Comfort was more expensive, so it was often a "treat" to myself when I could afford it. It is a fruity, spicy liqueur with an alcohol content that makes it pack quite a punch. Speaking of do-overs ... I can't help but wonder sometimes if all the alcohol that once flowed through my liver and pancreas at least in part caused me to develop diabetes. Yep, I would take a do-over on that one if I could.
The week after my granddaughter Coraline was born, my son Matt began asking me to bring some food to him and Becca. And Matt being Matt, he was very specific in the food that he wanted ... my mom's chicken casserole (the one that's become famous in my hometown of Chattanooga and is sold at Country Place Restaurant as "Granny's Chicken Casserole"), cheesy potatoes and homemade chocolate chip cookies. The pleading voice of my son convinced me that he would indeed starve if I didn't make his favorite Mom dishes. I got up early on a Sunday morning and made the two-hour drive to deliver food, held C.J. for a couple of hours, and drove back home. Later that night, I got several texts from Matt telling me how delicious the food was. Funny, Matt and Becca have cooked those same food items many times themselves in the four and a half years since they've been married, but according to Matt, the dishes I brought to them on that Sunday were the greatest chicken casserole, cheesy potatoes and cookies he had ever tasted. Now I know full well there was nothing special about the food I took to Matt and Becca that day, nothing special at all. Those dishes were about comfort for Matt ... the comfort of his mom caring enough to ... well, just caring enough to bring him some good old Southern comfort food.
My nephew and his little family called me last weekend, and we talked for almost two hours. I can't remember when I've talked to anyone for more than a few minutes, much less for two hours. Listening to their sweet Southern accents and their laughter was comforting to me and eased the pain in my weary heart, even if it was only for a while. I miss my family back home a lot ... I miss the comfortable feeling I have when I'm in Tennessee. The new doctor I'm seeing talked a lot at my appointment last night about comfort, about acceptance, about love, about fear, about judgment and about pain. As I drove home, I tried to remember the last time my troubled soul was at peace ... I tried to remember the last time I was comfortable, truly comfortable, in my own skin. By the time I pulled into my garage, tears were coursing down my cheeks and dripping onto my shirt as I rolled the doctor's words around in my aching brain. And as I readied myself for bed, I thought about her final words last night telling me that I was going to make it, that it wasn't going to be easy or fast, but that I was going to make it ... I thought about how comforting her words were, about how for the first time in a very long time, I felt a miniscule glimmer of hope pulse in my soul.
So here's the thing ... God always knows what He's doing, especially when I don't see His plan or purpose. The truth is I know myself well enough to know that if I didn't have diabetes or have to take several medications that dictate that I can't consume any alcohol, I would have been very tempted during the roughness of the last year and a half to pop open a bottle of Southern Comfort and throw back a shot ... or 10 or 50. I would have sought comfort in food and drink ... I know myself, and I know that I would have fallen headfirst into that self-destructive pattern. I know myself pretty well ... but God knows me way better. He's my real Southern Comfort ... He's my real chicken casserole ... He's my real family.
The week after my granddaughter Coraline was born, my son Matt began asking me to bring some food to him and Becca. And Matt being Matt, he was very specific in the food that he wanted ... my mom's chicken casserole (the one that's become famous in my hometown of Chattanooga and is sold at Country Place Restaurant as "Granny's Chicken Casserole"), cheesy potatoes and homemade chocolate chip cookies. The pleading voice of my son convinced me that he would indeed starve if I didn't make his favorite Mom dishes. I got up early on a Sunday morning and made the two-hour drive to deliver food, held C.J. for a couple of hours, and drove back home. Later that night, I got several texts from Matt telling me how delicious the food was. Funny, Matt and Becca have cooked those same food items many times themselves in the four and a half years since they've been married, but according to Matt, the dishes I brought to them on that Sunday were the greatest chicken casserole, cheesy potatoes and cookies he had ever tasted. Now I know full well there was nothing special about the food I took to Matt and Becca that day, nothing special at all. Those dishes were about comfort for Matt ... the comfort of his mom caring enough to ... well, just caring enough to bring him some good old Southern comfort food.
My nephew and his little family called me last weekend, and we talked for almost two hours. I can't remember when I've talked to anyone for more than a few minutes, much less for two hours. Listening to their sweet Southern accents and their laughter was comforting to me and eased the pain in my weary heart, even if it was only for a while. I miss my family back home a lot ... I miss the comfortable feeling I have when I'm in Tennessee. The new doctor I'm seeing talked a lot at my appointment last night about comfort, about acceptance, about love, about fear, about judgment and about pain. As I drove home, I tried to remember the last time my troubled soul was at peace ... I tried to remember the last time I was comfortable, truly comfortable, in my own skin. By the time I pulled into my garage, tears were coursing down my cheeks and dripping onto my shirt as I rolled the doctor's words around in my aching brain. And as I readied myself for bed, I thought about her final words last night telling me that I was going to make it, that it wasn't going to be easy or fast, but that I was going to make it ... I thought about how comforting her words were, about how for the first time in a very long time, I felt a miniscule glimmer of hope pulse in my soul.
So here's the thing ... God always knows what He's doing, especially when I don't see His plan or purpose. The truth is I know myself well enough to know that if I didn't have diabetes or have to take several medications that dictate that I can't consume any alcohol, I would have been very tempted during the roughness of the last year and a half to pop open a bottle of Southern Comfort and throw back a shot ... or 10 or 50. I would have sought comfort in food and drink ... I know myself, and I know that I would have fallen headfirst into that self-destructive pattern. I know myself pretty well ... but God knows me way better. He's my real Southern Comfort ... He's my real chicken casserole ... He's my real family.
Sunday, February 19, 2012
Only Today
Today I went to church because I made a promise to two little kids that I would be there. Today I sat between the two of them ... one held my hand, and the other patted me on the back. Today I cried in church but I didn't sob. I chewed the inside of my cheek until it bled, but I didn't sob. I didn't sob because I was determined that I wouldn't lose it in front of those kids. I left before church was over and waited in my car for the kids to join me. I waited because their mom and dad had things they had to do today, and I had promised I would watch the kids. Today I took the little boy and little girl out for lunch. They ate pizza, and I ate a burger wrapped in lettuce. I ate every single bite of my burger because the little kids told me I needed to eat it all. I'm never hungry anymore, and my stomach hurts a lot. I've lost a lot more weight recently, but today I ate all of my burger and most of my salad. The kids reminded me to take my pills as we walked to the car. I took them to Target and bought them candy and sodas. I told them to choose some candy for their mom and dad and older siblings, and I smiled as they bickered over who liked what best. We went to my house, and they played with Julie and Ollie. Julie and Ollie were happy, and the kids were, too. My dogs wagged their tails ... a lot. The kids laughed and squealed ... a lot. I took them to see a 3D Imax movie, and I smiled at the expressions on their little faces as they watched the movie with the big, plastic glasses perched on their noses. I listened to them chatter in the car about all the critters from the movie as I drove them home. I walked them to the door and hugged them. I put the bag of candy on the stairs for the rest of the family. I hugged their mom and thanked her for letting me have the kids for the afternoon. I told her that today was a good day. I didn't tell her how much it means to me that she and her husband continue to allow me to spend time with their children, though they see the depths of my sadness. I didn't tell her how much it means to me that their family still loves me, in spite of my pain and my sorrow. I didn't tell her how desperately I needed to have just one good day, though I suspect that she knew. I smiled when the older daughter opened the door as I walked to my car and hollered out to thank me for the candy I had placed on the stairs. I drove home praying that God would bless their family and shelter their love for one another. I know it was only today ... but today was a good day.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
The Cocoon
When I hear the word cocoon, I think about two things ... the really weird movie about old people who discovered their very own fountain of youth through a bunch of alien pods in a swimming pool (it's sad that I know about that movie in the first place and even sadder that I've watched it enough times to know the storyline quite well), and my Bradley and his infatuation with all things buggy when he was little (countless caterpillars found a temporary home within Brad's tiny wooden bug box that he carried with him everywhere for several years). I'll spare you my thoughts on my first reference to what I think of when I hear the word cocoon, but I do want to share one thing in regard to Brad and his caterpillars. At the end of each day, Brad would release his bugs back into the wild of our back yard. On the days that there was a caterpillar in the mix, I would often tell him that if he wanted to keep the caterpillar until morning it would live and be just fine. And Brad would always have the same answer ... "No, Mom, the caterpillar needs to go so he can make a cocoon. If I keep him, he can't make a cocoon. And if he doesn't make a cocoon, then he can't come out of the cocoon all turned into a pretty butterfly." I maintain that kids have way more wisdom than we adults ever give them credit for ... way, way more.
I know I haven't been writing, and many of you have emailed asking about the new doctor I mentioned in my post from over a week ago. I've seen her twice ... two emotionally gut-wrenching and painful times, topped off by an emotionally gut-wrenching and painful visit to my regular doctor this morning, with the icing on the cake being the most miserable blood draw I've ever experienced. Tonight, both of my hands are throbbing and bruised ... but once again, I digress. The new doctor kept me in her office for two and a half hours Saturday, and then an hour and a half last night. And she insisted that I schedule another appointment, much to my deep dismay and in spite of my own insistence that sitting in her office answering her probing questions and sobbing my heart out is a waste of time and energy. But ... she talked about something last night that has impacted me ... as much as I hate to admit it, she struck a nerve deep within my wounded soul.
My memory isn't so great anymore, so I can't remember what caused her to talk about me being in a cocoon, but I do remember the analogy that she put before me. "You're cocooning, Terrie ... you've created a covering around yourself, withdrawn from the things you previously enjoyed, isolated yourself from those who love and care about you. Your cocoon is a safe place for you to hide from any judgment or condemnation that might come from others, and in many ways, it's the only place where you feel that you can be real. But ... just like the caterpillar ... if the caterpillar doesn't go through the process ... the quite difficult process ... of changing from a caterpillar into a butterfly ... if the caterpillar stays within the cocoon and doesn't come out ... he will surely die." Yep, you can bet those words struck a nerve deep within my wounded soul, alright ... a big old nerve way down deep inside of my soul.
The doctor went on to ask about those in my life who have stuck by me, those who continue to try to reach into my cocoon ... those who desperately want to help me find my way out, and she said she was confident that those who have been steadfast in their love for me will remain, no matter what. I think there's a wealth of truth in that thought ... those who have loved me through the last couple of years deserve a faithful and loyal award for sure because I certainly am not worthy of their love. I wept as she told me that I will be a very different person should I emerge, that I simply will not be able to ever be the person I was before ... that living in such a deep and permeating darkness will change me ... that it will either change me or kill me. My cocoon ... the place I've been hiding in ... if I emerge from it, I will be a different creature than I was before ... a more humble, real and honest creature with a new heart and a deeper, stronger faith ... and if I don't come out, I will most surely die. See that's the thing about cocoons ... either you go through the pain and fear and hurt involved in the process of change and find a way out, or you just die ... you stay buried inside and you just die.
I looked up the word cocoon in the dictionary when I got home last night, and I've been thinking about a couple of the definitions all day, especially after my time with my doctor this morning. "Something that keeps you safe for a season, but that stops you from learning to deal with problems" and "a covering that provides protection but that may also produce isolation." Both the new doctor who has known me for only a week and my doctor who's known me for many years are correct ... I am wrapped deeply within my cocoon. And I am facing the biggest question of my life ... will I find my way out?
I know I haven't been writing, and many of you have emailed asking about the new doctor I mentioned in my post from over a week ago. I've seen her twice ... two emotionally gut-wrenching and painful times, topped off by an emotionally gut-wrenching and painful visit to my regular doctor this morning, with the icing on the cake being the most miserable blood draw I've ever experienced. Tonight, both of my hands are throbbing and bruised ... but once again, I digress. The new doctor kept me in her office for two and a half hours Saturday, and then an hour and a half last night. And she insisted that I schedule another appointment, much to my deep dismay and in spite of my own insistence that sitting in her office answering her probing questions and sobbing my heart out is a waste of time and energy. But ... she talked about something last night that has impacted me ... as much as I hate to admit it, she struck a nerve deep within my wounded soul.
My memory isn't so great anymore, so I can't remember what caused her to talk about me being in a cocoon, but I do remember the analogy that she put before me. "You're cocooning, Terrie ... you've created a covering around yourself, withdrawn from the things you previously enjoyed, isolated yourself from those who love and care about you. Your cocoon is a safe place for you to hide from any judgment or condemnation that might come from others, and in many ways, it's the only place where you feel that you can be real. But ... just like the caterpillar ... if the caterpillar doesn't go through the process ... the quite difficult process ... of changing from a caterpillar into a butterfly ... if the caterpillar stays within the cocoon and doesn't come out ... he will surely die." Yep, you can bet those words struck a nerve deep within my wounded soul, alright ... a big old nerve way down deep inside of my soul.
The doctor went on to ask about those in my life who have stuck by me, those who continue to try to reach into my cocoon ... those who desperately want to help me find my way out, and she said she was confident that those who have been steadfast in their love for me will remain, no matter what. I think there's a wealth of truth in that thought ... those who have loved me through the last couple of years deserve a faithful and loyal award for sure because I certainly am not worthy of their love. I wept as she told me that I will be a very different person should I emerge, that I simply will not be able to ever be the person I was before ... that living in such a deep and permeating darkness will change me ... that it will either change me or kill me. My cocoon ... the place I've been hiding in ... if I emerge from it, I will be a different creature than I was before ... a more humble, real and honest creature with a new heart and a deeper, stronger faith ... and if I don't come out, I will most surely die. See that's the thing about cocoons ... either you go through the pain and fear and hurt involved in the process of change and find a way out, or you just die ... you stay buried inside and you just die.
I looked up the word cocoon in the dictionary when I got home last night, and I've been thinking about a couple of the definitions all day, especially after my time with my doctor this morning. "Something that keeps you safe for a season, but that stops you from learning to deal with problems" and "a covering that provides protection but that may also produce isolation." Both the new doctor who has known me for only a week and my doctor who's known me for many years are correct ... I am wrapped deeply within my cocoon. And I am facing the biggest question of my life ... will I find my way out?
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
What If?
So here's the thing ... sometimes my words are few ... sometimes the words of another are plenty.
"We pray for blessings
We pray for peace
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep
We pray for healing, for prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering
All the while, You hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things
'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise
We pray for wisdom
Your voice to hear
And we cry in anger when we cannot feel You near
We doubt Your goodness, we doubt Your love
As if every promise from Your Word is not enough
All the while, You hear each desperate plea
And long that we'd have faith to believe
'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
And what if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise
When friends betray us
When darkness seems to win
We know that pain reminds this heart
That this is not, this is not our home
It's not our home
We pray for peace
Comfort for family, protection while we sleep
We pray for healing, for prosperity
We pray for Your mighty hand to ease our suffering
All the while, You hear each spoken need
Yet love us way too much to give us lesser things
'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise
We pray for wisdom
Your voice to hear
And we cry in anger when we cannot feel You near
We doubt Your goodness, we doubt Your love
As if every promise from Your Word is not enough
All the while, You hear each desperate plea
And long that we'd have faith to believe
'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
And what if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise
When friends betray us
When darkness seems to win
We know that pain reminds this heart
That this is not, this is not our home
It's not our home
'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindrops
What if Your healing comes through tears
And what if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
What if my greatest disappointments
Or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can’t satisfy
And what if trials of this life
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are Your mercies in disguise" --- Laura Story
What if Your healing comes through tears
And what if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You’re near
What if my greatest disappointments
Or the aching of this life
Is the revealing of a greater thirst this world can’t satisfy
And what if trials of this life
The rain, the storms, the hardest nights
Are Your mercies in disguise" --- Laura Story
What if, Lord? What if?
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
My Hail Mary Pass
I've never been a huge football fan, but every now and then I watch a game on television. You know, one of those games that are so important to a ton of people ... um, what's it called? Oh, yeah, the Super Bowl. So last Sunday night after I read on Facebook about all the parties and get-togethers people were attending to watch the big game together, I flipped to the channel the game was on and watched a few minutes of it with Julie and Ollie snoozing next to me on the couch. Tonight, I can't tell you which team won (yes, I know that some of you are groaning as you read those words); in fact, until I began watching the game, I didn't even know the two teams that were playing. I can tell you, however, that one of the announcers made a comment that caused me to spend a bit of time researching just what a Hail Mary pass is. I've heard the phrase used many times, but I never actually knew where the term originated or what it really meant.
Though they had been used before, the words were made famous when they were used to describe a game-winning touchdown pass by the Dallas Cowboys quarterback Roger Staubach in a 1975 playoff game against the Minnesota Vikings. It was reported that Staubach, who was a faithful Roman Catholic, said that just before he threw the pass, he closed his eyes and whispered a Hail Mary prayer. The dictionary defines a Hail Mary pass as a very long forward pass made in desperation with only a small chance of success, especially near the end of a game. Another dictionary described it as a pass that is thrown with a prayer because the odds against completion are staggering.
Those of you who've been reading this blog for a while know that I Iisten to the little kids say their Bible verses at Awana on Wednesday nights. Every once in a while, the director of Awana asks me if I will do the lesson for the kids during their group time, and tonight was one of those times. The theme for February is God's faithfulness, and she had asked if I would share about a time in my life when God was faithful to me. When she first asked me about delivering the lesson for tonight, I said no, telling her that I didn't want to cry in front of the kids and ... well ... I cry easily and a lot now. But the more I began to pray about her request, the more I knew that there was a story God wanted me to share with the children. So tonight, I stood before the room of little kids and leaders, and I talked about my little J.R. ... about when he entered my life and when he left. And at the end of the story, I brought out little Ollie to give the kids a real, furry visual of how God is always faithful in His love and care for us. I'm not sure how much the kiddos got out of the lesson, but Oliver all decked out in his blue striped sweater and his red harness was a huge hit.
I'm sure you're wondering what in the world the beginning of this post about a Hail Mary football pass has to do with an Awana lesson about God's faithfulness. So here's the thing ... I'm going to see a new doctor on Saturday morning ... a doctor whose specialty is treating women with depression. I don't really have a choice about going; my regular doctor threatened to put me in the hospital if I didn't agree to go, and I absolutely do not want to go to the hospital. I made a decision last week when my doctor put forth her ultimatum ... that going to the new doctor is my Hail Mary pass. I even told the new doctor when she called me to schedule the appointment that I thought my coming to see her was pointless, that it was nothing more than a pass thrown in desperation with only a small chance of success. I'm weary of doctors and I'm weary of drugs and I'm weary of depression. And then the leader of Awana asked me to do the lesson for the kids, and for several days as I prepared to talk to the children, I've had to focus on God's faithfulness ... I've had to think about how and why He brought me and J.R. together ... I've had to wonder if my Hail Mary pass with the new doctor has more chance to succeed than I believe.
I managed to get through the lesson for the kids tonight without crying ... well, at least I didn't cry until I got in my car to leave, and then I sobbed as I drove home and for a good while after I got to my house. And as I close this post, the verse that I shared with the kids at the end of our time together is pounding in my mind. God's faithfulness ... my Hail Mary pass ... lots to think about, friends, lots to think about.
"Your lovingkindness extends to the heavens, O Lord, and Your faithfulness reaches to the skies." Psalm 36:5
Though they had been used before, the words were made famous when they were used to describe a game-winning touchdown pass by the Dallas Cowboys quarterback Roger Staubach in a 1975 playoff game against the Minnesota Vikings. It was reported that Staubach, who was a faithful Roman Catholic, said that just before he threw the pass, he closed his eyes and whispered a Hail Mary prayer. The dictionary defines a Hail Mary pass as a very long forward pass made in desperation with only a small chance of success, especially near the end of a game. Another dictionary described it as a pass that is thrown with a prayer because the odds against completion are staggering.
Those of you who've been reading this blog for a while know that I Iisten to the little kids say their Bible verses at Awana on Wednesday nights. Every once in a while, the director of Awana asks me if I will do the lesson for the kids during their group time, and tonight was one of those times. The theme for February is God's faithfulness, and she had asked if I would share about a time in my life when God was faithful to me. When she first asked me about delivering the lesson for tonight, I said no, telling her that I didn't want to cry in front of the kids and ... well ... I cry easily and a lot now. But the more I began to pray about her request, the more I knew that there was a story God wanted me to share with the children. So tonight, I stood before the room of little kids and leaders, and I talked about my little J.R. ... about when he entered my life and when he left. And at the end of the story, I brought out little Ollie to give the kids a real, furry visual of how God is always faithful in His love and care for us. I'm not sure how much the kiddos got out of the lesson, but Oliver all decked out in his blue striped sweater and his red harness was a huge hit.
I'm sure you're wondering what in the world the beginning of this post about a Hail Mary football pass has to do with an Awana lesson about God's faithfulness. So here's the thing ... I'm going to see a new doctor on Saturday morning ... a doctor whose specialty is treating women with depression. I don't really have a choice about going; my regular doctor threatened to put me in the hospital if I didn't agree to go, and I absolutely do not want to go to the hospital. I made a decision last week when my doctor put forth her ultimatum ... that going to the new doctor is my Hail Mary pass. I even told the new doctor when she called me to schedule the appointment that I thought my coming to see her was pointless, that it was nothing more than a pass thrown in desperation with only a small chance of success. I'm weary of doctors and I'm weary of drugs and I'm weary of depression. And then the leader of Awana asked me to do the lesson for the kids, and for several days as I prepared to talk to the children, I've had to focus on God's faithfulness ... I've had to think about how and why He brought me and J.R. together ... I've had to wonder if my Hail Mary pass with the new doctor has more chance to succeed than I believe.
I managed to get through the lesson for the kids tonight without crying ... well, at least I didn't cry until I got in my car to leave, and then I sobbed as I drove home and for a good while after I got to my house. And as I close this post, the verse that I shared with the kids at the end of our time together is pounding in my mind. God's faithfulness ... my Hail Mary pass ... lots to think about, friends, lots to think about.
"Your lovingkindness extends to the heavens, O Lord, and Your faithfulness reaches to the skies." Psalm 36:5
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
Just a Touch
There are some people who are great cooks, those for whom cooking is just a natural talent. I am not one of those fortunate folks. I'm not a terrible cook, but I'm not a great one either. My friend, Annie, however ... Annie was an amazing cook. Everything she cooked was delicious, but I was especially fond of her meatloaf. No matter how hard I've tried, I've never been able to cook a meatloaf that even came remotely close to tasting as good as Annie's. I remember asking her time and time again how much of certain ingredients to add, and her reply was always the same ... "Just a touch of this and a touch of that." Obviously, Annie's measure of "a touch" must have been different than mine since I've never been able to replicate the deliciousness that she created.
I think there's a ton of truth in the words, "You never know how much you will miss something until it's gone." Whether that something is a person or a beloved pet or a job or health or so many other things in life, it seems to me that we as humans take a lot of things for granted every day ... at least I know that I'm guilty of being unappreciative so many times. Over the last week, I've had reason to be in situations that have caused me to become acutely aware of something that once was such a part of my life but that now, except on rare occasions, no longer exists. In the last week, I have felt the arms of my sons around me and their kisses on my cheek as we said goodbye ... a hug from a friend as sobs wracked my weary soul ... a hand of compassion upon my back attempting to soothe my wounded heart ... the tiny fingers of a newborn baby wrapped around my hand as I held her in my arms. And last week, I realized how much I've missed those moments ... those moments of connection, those moments of contact, those expressions of love and understanding.
To those of you who weren't afraid to hug me, to hold me, to touch me, to love me ... thank you. "Just a touch of this and a touch of that" ... I sure do miss you and your wisdom, Annie ... I sure do.
I think there's a ton of truth in the words, "You never know how much you will miss something until it's gone." Whether that something is a person or a beloved pet or a job or health or so many other things in life, it seems to me that we as humans take a lot of things for granted every day ... at least I know that I'm guilty of being unappreciative so many times. Over the last week, I've had reason to be in situations that have caused me to become acutely aware of something that once was such a part of my life but that now, except on rare occasions, no longer exists. In the last week, I have felt the arms of my sons around me and their kisses on my cheek as we said goodbye ... a hug from a friend as sobs wracked my weary soul ... a hand of compassion upon my back attempting to soothe my wounded heart ... the tiny fingers of a newborn baby wrapped around my hand as I held her in my arms. And last week, I realized how much I've missed those moments ... those moments of connection, those moments of contact, those expressions of love and understanding.
To those of you who weren't afraid to hug me, to hold me, to touch me, to love me ... thank you. "Just a touch of this and a touch of that" ... I sure do miss you and your wisdom, Annie ... I sure do.
Saturday, February 4, 2012
Time's Up
One of my son and daughter-in-law's best friends is a retired professor whom they affectionately call Uncle Bill. His wife passed away several years ago, and so Matt and Becca often have Uncle Bill over to eat a home-cooked meal with them. And he often returns the favor by taking them out to the restaurant of their choice. Uncle Bill has become like family to the kids, and he's been very excited about the arrival of their first child. He is also a numbers guy, not a math guy, a numbers guy ... he is fascinated with numbers and their significance in our lives. Uncle Bill firmly believes that certain numbers carry certain meaning and that they influence people in ways they don't understand or recognize. For months, Uncle Bill has been telling Matt and Becca that little Coraline would make her appearance into the world on 02-01-2012 ... and though at their doctor's appointment the evening before she was born they were told that there was little chance that she would come on her own, my granddaughter was indeed born at 12:09 p.m. on 02-01-2012 just as Uncle Bill said she would. I know ... it kind of creeps me out a bit, too.
I, unlike Uncle Bill, have never thought much about numbers or their significance; truth is, I've never cared much about numbers at all. I've never looked for some mystical hidden meaning behind dates or times ... well, until a few years ago when something weird began to happen to me regarding a certain sequence of numbers. I can't remember when it started, but I do know that it has happened every single day since it began ... I see the numbers 1-2-3-4. I can go for hours and not look to see what time it is, but every day when I glance at the clock, it's 12:34 p.m. Every night I wake up and look at the clock next to my bed, and it's 12:34 a.m. At least once every day and often several times during the day, I encounter them ... 1-2-3-4 ... numbers on a project I'm editing, the time an email was sent to me, the amount of a purchase I've made, and on and on.
When I first started noticing that I was seeing the particular sequence of numbers, it was sort of unnerving to me. And the longer it went on, the more I began to try and determine what the numbers meant and why I saw them every day. I went through several possible scenarios before coming up with the most rational explanation ... when I kick the bucket, it will be at 12:34, or it will be on a date that somehow corresponds to the numbers (but I haven't been able to figure that one out just yet). Yeah, I know ... very rational thinking on my part, but it was the best thing I could come up with. Because you see, for all my years of not thinking or caring about numbers, there absolutely could be no way that my seeing 1-2-3-4 every day now could be random ... there simply must be some meaning in them ... there simply must be.
Last night when I woke up and rolled over, I knew what time would be displayed on the clock by my bed before I even opened my eyes. As I watched the numbers shift from 12:34 to 12:35, it struck me how much difference one minute can make. The creepiness that washes through me when I see 12:34 immediately dissipates when 4 changes to 5. The longer I watched the clock, the more I thought about something my kids used to say when we played games together. If someone took too long to make a move or shuffle the cards or give an answer, one of them would invariably say, "Time's up." Life isn't a game, even though sometimes we treat it like it is. Time passes by ... years become months and months become days and days become hours and hours become minutes until our time is up.
Chances are good that I won't be able to figure out why the 1-2-3-4 sequence of numbers continues to appear in my daily life. And I've decided that though I am certain the numbers carry some sort of significance or meaning, and though it will probably continue to creep me out when I see them, it doesn't matter if I never understand the purpose within them. If they do indeed correspond somehow to the moment my time is up, I guess I'll know it then. Hmmm ... now that I think about it ... maybe the numbers are about food. I haven't had anything to eat tonight so I think I'll go eat 1 olive, 2 spoonfuls of hummus, 3 scoops of Cool Whip and 4 pieces of cheese. Come on ... you all know that's rational thinking in its truest form, and you're wishing you were at my house for dinner.
1-2-3-4 ... hmmmmmmmmm.
I, unlike Uncle Bill, have never thought much about numbers or their significance; truth is, I've never cared much about numbers at all. I've never looked for some mystical hidden meaning behind dates or times ... well, until a few years ago when something weird began to happen to me regarding a certain sequence of numbers. I can't remember when it started, but I do know that it has happened every single day since it began ... I see the numbers 1-2-3-4. I can go for hours and not look to see what time it is, but every day when I glance at the clock, it's 12:34 p.m. Every night I wake up and look at the clock next to my bed, and it's 12:34 a.m. At least once every day and often several times during the day, I encounter them ... 1-2-3-4 ... numbers on a project I'm editing, the time an email was sent to me, the amount of a purchase I've made, and on and on.
When I first started noticing that I was seeing the particular sequence of numbers, it was sort of unnerving to me. And the longer it went on, the more I began to try and determine what the numbers meant and why I saw them every day. I went through several possible scenarios before coming up with the most rational explanation ... when I kick the bucket, it will be at 12:34, or it will be on a date that somehow corresponds to the numbers (but I haven't been able to figure that one out just yet). Yeah, I know ... very rational thinking on my part, but it was the best thing I could come up with. Because you see, for all my years of not thinking or caring about numbers, there absolutely could be no way that my seeing 1-2-3-4 every day now could be random ... there simply must be some meaning in them ... there simply must be.
Last night when I woke up and rolled over, I knew what time would be displayed on the clock by my bed before I even opened my eyes. As I watched the numbers shift from 12:34 to 12:35, it struck me how much difference one minute can make. The creepiness that washes through me when I see 12:34 immediately dissipates when 4 changes to 5. The longer I watched the clock, the more I thought about something my kids used to say when we played games together. If someone took too long to make a move or shuffle the cards or give an answer, one of them would invariably say, "Time's up." Life isn't a game, even though sometimes we treat it like it is. Time passes by ... years become months and months become days and days become hours and hours become minutes until our time is up.
Chances are good that I won't be able to figure out why the 1-2-3-4 sequence of numbers continues to appear in my daily life. And I've decided that though I am certain the numbers carry some sort of significance or meaning, and though it will probably continue to creep me out when I see them, it doesn't matter if I never understand the purpose within them. If they do indeed correspond somehow to the moment my time is up, I guess I'll know it then. Hmmm ... now that I think about it ... maybe the numbers are about food. I haven't had anything to eat tonight so I think I'll go eat 1 olive, 2 spoonfuls of hummus, 3 scoops of Cool Whip and 4 pieces of cheese. Come on ... you all know that's rational thinking in its truest form, and you're wishing you were at my house for dinner.
1-2-3-4 ... hmmmmmmmmm.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Trail of Tears
There are certain events in life that I can't imagine them coming to pass no matter how hard I try, and sometimes I simply have to admit that I can't anticipate or control the emotions that will accompany those events. And it seems that it's when I'm floundering in the mire of my life and at my weakest point, God always has a way of stepping in and saying, "My child, do you not remember that I heal the sick and comfort the brokenhearted ... do you forget that I am the ruler of the universe ... do you choose not to believe that I will make a way for you, that I hold you in the palm of My mighty and all-powerful hand, that I love you in laughter or tears, sickness or health, silence or speech, standing or falling, strength or weakness? I am making a way for you, Terrie ... I am holding you, Terrie ... I will always love you, Terrie. Your part, your part is to believe, to trust, to hold onto Me." And over the last two days, He has stepped in ... He's used my children, my granddaughter, and my friends to whisper in my ear, to wrap me in their arms, to remind me I am loved.
When I received a text from my son Matt early yesterday morning telling me that he and Becca were at the hospital, I was immediately overcome with emotion. Though I've been waiting for that news for months, I didn't anticipate the depth of my feelings when it was actually time for my son's baby to be born. And when he called me in the early afternoon and said, "She's here, Mom ... Coraline Queen is here," I sat at my desk and wept. And when I tried to tell the folks in my office who had been asking me all morning about the baby, I cried some more. And when a friend came by my house last night, I didn't just cry ... I sobbed. But for all the tears I shed yesterday, they paled in comparison to the liquid emotion that poured from my eyes today.
I knew I was in trouble the minute my feet hit the floor this morning as tears immediately filled my eyes when I began to think about meeting my granddaughter for the first time. I decided to just give in and let the tears flow while I was in the shower, thinking I would get the emotion all out of my system before a friend arrived at my house to travel with me. For all my trying to fight it, however, my tears fell like rain ... on the drive out, while my friend and my son Brad and I waited for Matt to come into the lobby and take us to see CJ, as I held that precious baby, on the drive home, and over and over again this evening. I didn't anticipate the emotion that would accompany the birth of my first grandchild ... I couldn't begin to imagine the feelings that would sweep through me when she was placed in my arms.
She is so beautiful, friends ... I wonder who she will become. I whispered in her tiny ear today and told her that I had waited for her. I kissed her soft little forehead and told her that her Granny loves her. I held her small hand and thanked her for letting me meet her. I gazed at her sweet face and tried to sear the look of her into my brain. And I heard Him ... I am making a way for you, Terrie, just as I will make a way for her ... I am holding you, just as you are holding her ... I will always love you, just as you will forever love her.
When I received a text from my son Matt early yesterday morning telling me that he and Becca were at the hospital, I was immediately overcome with emotion. Though I've been waiting for that news for months, I didn't anticipate the depth of my feelings when it was actually time for my son's baby to be born. And when he called me in the early afternoon and said, "She's here, Mom ... Coraline Queen is here," I sat at my desk and wept. And when I tried to tell the folks in my office who had been asking me all morning about the baby, I cried some more. And when a friend came by my house last night, I didn't just cry ... I sobbed. But for all the tears I shed yesterday, they paled in comparison to the liquid emotion that poured from my eyes today.
I knew I was in trouble the minute my feet hit the floor this morning as tears immediately filled my eyes when I began to think about meeting my granddaughter for the first time. I decided to just give in and let the tears flow while I was in the shower, thinking I would get the emotion all out of my system before a friend arrived at my house to travel with me. For all my trying to fight it, however, my tears fell like rain ... on the drive out, while my friend and my son Brad and I waited for Matt to come into the lobby and take us to see CJ, as I held that precious baby, on the drive home, and over and over again this evening. I didn't anticipate the emotion that would accompany the birth of my first grandchild ... I couldn't begin to imagine the feelings that would sweep through me when she was placed in my arms.
She is so beautiful, friends ... I wonder who she will become. I whispered in her tiny ear today and told her that I had waited for her. I kissed her soft little forehead and told her that her Granny loves her. I held her small hand and thanked her for letting me meet her. I gazed at her sweet face and tried to sear the look of her into my brain. And I heard Him ... I am making a way for you, Terrie, just as I will make a way for her ... I am holding you, just as you are holding her ... I will always love you, just as you will forever love her.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
She's Here
All 8 pounds and 4 ounces and 20 1/2 inches of her via C-section at noon today. Becca and Coraline are doing great. My sweet son Matt is proud and happy ... my sweet son Matt has a little girl of his very own ... wow. Granny has cried all day ... big surprise, I know.
Tomorrow I will meet her for the first time. I have a feeling I'll have a few words to write after I do ... if I can see the keyboard through the tears.
I'm a Granny, friends ... no choice on my name, by the way ... my kids chose it for me ... it's what they called my mom. I wonder if she's smiling in heaven ... I wonder.
Tomorrow I will meet her for the first time. I have a feeling I'll have a few words to write after I do ... if I can see the keyboard through the tears.
I'm a Granny, friends ... no choice on my name, by the way ... my kids chose it for me ... it's what they called my mom. I wonder if she's smiling in heaven ... I wonder.
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