I Still Love You

There were times, a few times anyway, during my children's youth, when they misbehaved. And some of that misbehavior was, especially when they were teenagers, serious enough to warrant difficult confessions on their part ... those are the kinds of conversations every parent dreads, I suppose, but they are also ones that drew us closer together and ones that will never be forgotten. It's funny ... there are a few of those talks that are so seared into my brain that I can tell you where we were sitting and what clothing my kids were wearing at the time. While most of those types of conversations involved some type of inappropriate behavior one of my children had participated in of their own free will, I also remember a couple of talks that involved something that truly wasn't within their control, something they couldn't prevent or change or overcome no matter how hard they tried. I remember a lot from those emotional exchanges with my kids, but one of the things I remember most is how no matter what their confessions were about, I still loved my children. There may have been the need to reprimand them or even place some tougher restrictions on them ... but I still loved them ... no matter what ... I still loved them, and I always made a point of speaking those words to them at the end of those often tough and tear-filled talks. You see, nothing my children did or were or will ever do or ever be will change my love for them ... I will still love them ... no matter what ... I will always still love them.

Over the last couple of weeks, I've been attempting to carry out the directions of my doctor in completing my past-due homework assignments. Some of the tasks have been easier to accomplish than others, for sure, but the hardest has been the one that dictates I have some serious conversations with a few people ... people I love and care about, people who haven't given up on me and choose to still seek me out even during the deep darkness of the last year or so. To say that it's been humbling to look into people's eyes and confess and admit and apologize ... the word humbling doesn't even begin to scratch the surface in my feeble attempt to describe the work God is doing in my heart in this, friends ... doesn't even scratch the surface at all. It's hard for me to own certain parts of myself, and to then take that ownership and place it on the table in front of others and pray they don't hate me or run screaming into the night ... that definitely ranks well up the list of "Hardest Things I've Ever Had to Do" ... well up there, for sure.

There's a type of freedom and cleansing that follows confession, and perhaps that is why the saying, "Confession is good for the soul," has been quoted for centuries. I've learned some important things in my conversations from the last couple of weeks, not the least of which is that there is great power in certain words ... great power indeed. It's hard to appreciate the words, "I forgive you," until you are on the receiving end of forgiveness. It's difficult to understand the words, "Please don't hate me," until you are speaking them from an overwhelming place of fear of condemnation. It's impossible to comprehend the words, "I still love you," until you hear them spoken over and over and over again from those who really and truly do love you. God has taught me so many lessons in the last couple of weeks, but perhaps the greatest is that of staying, of not leaving. Two different friends spoke almost the same words to me ... "I'm not going anywhere, friend. Trust me ... I'm not leaving you. I still love you." And for as much as those dear friends demonstrated their love and faithfulness to me, my mind has settled on three verses from Romans ... verses that remind me that no matter what I've done or who I was or what I will do or who I will be ... God reminds me over and over and over that nothing can separate me from His love. He remains steadfast as He tells me ... "I still love you. I still love you. I still love you."

"But in all these things we overwhelmingly conquer through Him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor any other created thing, will be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord." Romans 8:37-39

The Grateful Leper

There are some experiences a mother never forgets ... experiences such as when all three of my children had chicken pox at the same time. Matt was seven, Brad was four, and Meghann was three when Matt came home from school one day and said he had a bunch of bug bites that itched really bad. Within just a few hours, he was covered with the itchy spots and running a high fever. And by the next evening, both Brad and Meghann had begun to blister and scratch ... that was a fun week for sure, almost as much fun as the week when all four of us got a stomach virus within a few hours of each other. But back to the chicken pox week ... I remember putting my kiddos into the tub so they could soak in oatmeal baths several times each day, and putting socks on their hands to keep them from scratching the itchy sores that covered their little bodies. There's one thing in particular that sticks in my mind, however, when I think about chicken pox week with my children ... the isolation that accompanied the illness. We were stuck in the house for a week, and my friends with children who had not yet had chicken pox certainly were not willing to walk through my door ... and for good reason. As I thought about when my kiddos had chicken pox, I began to think about a story from God's Word ... a story about 10 guys whose disease made chicken pox look like a walk in the park.

The story is found in Luke 17:11-19, and I especially like the way it is recounted in The Message translation. "It happened that as he made his way toward Jerusalem, he crossed over the border between Samaria and Galilee. As he entered a village, ten men, all lepers, met him. They kept their distance but raised their voices, calling out, 'Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!' Taking a good look at them, he said, 'Go, show yourselves to the priests.' They went, and while still on their way, became clean. One of them, when he realized that he was healed, turned around and came back, shouting his gratitude, glorifying God. He kneeled at Jesus' feet, so grateful. He couldn't thank him enough -- and he was a Samaritan. Jesus said, 'Were not ten healed? Where are the nine? Can none be found to come back and give glory to God except this outsider?' Then he said to him, 'Get up. On your way. Your faith has healed and saved you.'"

There are so many lessons in this story, friends ... so many lessons. Each time I read it, it seems that God speaks to my heart about something different and over the last week, He's been speaking to me in a big way about acceptance and faith ... in a really big way. Read the story again ... the only leper who returned to express his gratitude to Jesus was the outsider, the one who was different from all the others, the one who was considered a lesser member of society ... not because of his illness, but because of who he was ... a Samaritan ... a man scorned by the Jews because he was born a Samaritan. And yet, Jesus accepted him ... accepted him and healed him and commended him for his faith. Yep, it was the outsider ... it was the one who was the outcast who was the most grateful for the touch of Jesus.

A few days ago, one of my friends posted a song by Casting Crowns on Facebook ... a song that I immediately downloaded onto my iPod, and I've probably listened to it at least a hundred times. The lyrics are powerful ... and they are true ... and I think they should be sung in every church in every land. Jesus is the Friend of sinners, and those of us who call ourselves by His name ... those of us who are Christians ... should love like He does. We should put down our swords, open our hearts, stop judging, welcome the outcasts ... we should love like He does, friends ... we should love like He does.

"Jesus, Friend of sinners, we have strayed so far away
We cut down people in your name but the sword was never ours to swing
Jesus, Friend of sinners, the truth's become so hard to see
The world is on their way to You, but they're tripping over me
Always looking around but never looking up, I'm so double-minded
A plank-eyed saint with dirty hands and a heart divided

Oh Jesus, Friend of sinners
Open our eyes to the world at the end of our pointing fingers
Let our hearts be led by mercy
Help us reach with open hearts and open doors
Oh Jesus friend of sinners break our hearts for what breaks yours

Jesus, Friend of sinners, the One whose writing in the sand
Made the righteous turn away and the stones fall from their hands
Help us to remember, we are all the least of these
Let the memory of Your mercy bring your people to their knees
Nobody knows what we're for, only what we're against when we judge the wounded
What if we put down our signs, crossed over the lines and love like You did

You love every lost cause; you reach for the outcast
For the leper and the lame; they're the reason that You came
Lord, I was that lost cause, and I was the outcast
But you died for sinners just like me, a grateful leper at Your feet

'Cause You are good, You are good And Your love endures forever
You are good, You are good and Your love endures forever
You are good, You are good and Your love endures forever
You are good, You are good and Your love endures forever

Oh Jesus, Friend of sinners
Open our eyes to the world at the end of our pointing fingers
Let our hearts be led by mercy
Help us reach with open hearts and open doors
Oh Jesus, Friend of sinners, break our hearts for what breaks Yours

And I was the lost cause, and I was the outcast
You died for sinners just like me, a grateful leper at Your feet."

Snow Baby

When my son Matt first began sending resumes and telling me where some of the universities were located where he was seeking a position, my heart did a flip-flop. And the night that he told me where he would be interviewing ... Utah, California and Canada ... my heart did an even bigger flip-flop. Truthfully, I remember exactly where I was and what I was doing when he called that evening. I was walking on my treadmill, and when I hung up from our call, I cried like a baby at the thought of my firstborn and his little family moving so far away. I've been spoiled all these years by having all three of my children living within a two-hour drive from me. And I've been guilty of allowing the days and months and years to slip by and life to get too busy and not taking advantage of their nearness and spending more time with them. Remember my post about secret regrets a few days ago? Well, I'm now experiencing a ton of regrets, and not so secret ones either, about taking it for granted that my children would always live near me.

Matt was offered a position on Friday at the university in Canada ... and he accepted, as he should because it's an incredible opportunity for him. The school is among the top research universities in the world ... yep, the world. Matt will be working and teaching alongside some of the greatest professors in the world ... yep, the world. My mind is so very proud of him and knows that he has worked hard for many years to obtain such an outstanding position. My heart, on the other hand, can't even begin to think about the day when I will have to say goodbye to my sweet son, wonderful daughter-in-law and precious little C.J.

I managed to hold it together on the phone with Matt when he called Friday night to tell me his exciting news, but the minute we said goodbye, I broke down and sobbed for most of the night. I think I finally went to sleep around 2 a.m., with puffy and swollen eyes and an aching heart, and the tears washed over me again off and on all day yesterday. I haven't spoken with Matt since that call, but when I do, I will summon all the strength that remains within me and be the mom he deserves ... one who loves him more than he will ever know, one who wants only the best for him and his family, one who will encourage him to pursue his dreams and live his life to the fullest. I will be the mom who will always love him, near or far ... I will be his mom who loves him with all my heart.

At the end of our conversation Friday evening, Matt said, "C.J.'s gonna be a snow baby, Mom ... she's gonna be a snow baby." My little angel will soon be making snow angels with her Mommie and Daddy ... in Canada ... wow ... my son is moving to Canada.

Risky Business

Perhaps one of the most iconic movie scenes of the 1980s is the one that featured Tom Cruise, clad only in white socks, tighty whitey underwear, white dress shirt and sunglasses, dancing to the strains of Bob Seger's "Old Time Rock and Roll" in the film Risky Business. The storyline of the movie involves Mr. Cruise's character (a high school student) getting into more than a bit of trouble when he is left alone at home while his parents are away traveling. To say that he participates in a big old chunk of risky behavior during his time without parental supervision would be a grand understatement, and suffice it to say that the storyline of the film certainly would not qualify it as a family-friendly movie by any means.

I've never been much of a risk taker, I suppose, outside of my raucous college years. Oh, but wait, I did recently post an entry that talked about my night spent in the Red Bank slammer, and there was that time I dangled over eight lanes of traffic to spray paint the overpass ... OK, so other than those times, I've pretty much always been a cautious, just maintain the status quo, play it safe, don't rock the boat kind of gal. No swimming way out in the ocean or skydiving or playing golf during a thunderstorm for me ... no, no, no. I've always stayed close to shore, kept my feet on the ground and hunkered down in the basement with a mattress over my head. I suppose I thought that taking risks was for folks who had nothing to lose, folks who had no fear, folks who were thrilled with danger. At least that's who I used to be and what I used to think anyway.

Maybe it's a side effect of growing older, missing my youth and deep psychological stuff like that ... or maybe it's more simple and related to the medications the doctors have me taking ... or maybe it's super complicated and is connected to the deep, dark mystery that is depression, but my inhibitions and fear of taking risks seem to have gone by the wayside over the last couple of weeks. I've said and done things that I would never have dreamed of saying or doing a month ago. Seriously ... when I mentioned a couple of them to my new doctor, she raised her eyebrows ... no, really, she raised her eyebrows, friends. I've been seeing her long enough to know that it's serious stuff when she raises her eyebrows.

I can't decide just yet whether saying and doing risky things is good or bad ... I guess it depends on what those risks involve and if they fall within the way I am commanded to live according to God's Word. One thing I have become acutely aware of during this season of my life is that people have a multitude of differing opinions when it comes to what is honest or deceptive, right or wrong, godly or sinful, healthy or destructive, controllable or random, chemical or willful ... and honestly, many times I don't know whose thinking is correct and whose is false. For all the things I don't know, however, one thing I do know for certain. The risky business of life is impossible to survive without a personal relationship with God ... at the end of the day, it's between me and Him ... it's His will, His Word and His way ... at the end of the day, He sees my heart ... He knows my mind ... He watches my every move ... He hears my soul. At the end of the day, it really is just between me and Him.

"O Timothy, guard what has been entrusted to you, avoiding worldly and empty chatter and the opposing arguments of what is falsely called 'knowledge' -- which some have professed and thus gone astray from the faith." 1 Timothy 6:20-21

Secret Regrets

Several years ago, I had the honor of meeting a young man in Iowa who left a huge impression on me. He has a heart for people, and more specifically, a heart for helping people find a way to verbalize the secret regrets of their lives. He created a website (http://www.secretregrets.com/) and invited people to anonymously post their biggest regrets ... the only identifier listed with a post is the person's age and sex. A question that appears in the heading of the website asks, "What ONE thing would you change if you had a second chance?" Kevin, the founder of Secret Regrets, has gone on to do some amazing things since I met him in Iowa all those years ago. The website led to a published book of the same name, an appearance on Dr. Phil, and being featured on CNN and in Psychology Today magazine. But what is so much more important is that Kevin's Secret Regrets project is helping thousands of people, through the freedom that accompanies the release of their secrets and the advice that is offered up by others who may choose to comment on the posts.

Each day, I pop in to read the "Secret Regret of the Day" ... let me tell you, some of the things that people regret will tear your heart out. Giving a child away ... pretending not to know about a spouse's infidelity ... living with addiction ... experiencing the pain of broken relationships ... not sharing Christ with loved ones ... remaining in an abusive marriage ... and the list goes on and on. Some of the ones that touch me the most deeply are the regrets that folks have concerning not taking the time to let the people they love know that they loved them ... before it was too late. So many people with so many regrets ... so many people who would like to have a second chance ... a chance to do things differently. I think if the truth be told, we all have regrets in life; in fact, I believe that is one commonality that we as humans all share. Some of us have fewer regrets than others, but I think each one of us can point to at least one event in our lives and say, "I wish I would have done that differently." And I will go one step further and say that people who say they have no regrets at all in life are deceiving themselves in a big way.

I've had the regrets issue on my mind a lot lately, perhaps because the new doctor I'm seeing is digging into my past and forcing me to remember and talk about a lot of things that I've spent years trying to bury deep within my heart and mind. And the more she makes me talk about various areas of my life, the more I've found myself wishing I had a second chance on some things. Some of my regrets I will probably carry with me to my grave. Some I am beginning to open up about and share with my doctor. Some I will eventually share with the people I love. But every single one of my regrets, I share with my God ... you see, He already knows about them anyway and wants me to allow Him to heal the wounds they have caused.

Kudos to you, Kevin, and to your vision and wisdom in creating Secret Regrets. I pray that you will continue to allow God to use your heart to help the hurting hearts of the world ... it's a good thing you're doing, my friend, a very good thing.

"Bear one another's burdens, and thereby fulfill the law of Christ." Galatians 6:2



 

Satan's Specialty

For those of you who are as old as I am, you probably remember Flip Wilson, a comedian who had his own hugely successful comedy variety show on television back in the 70s. He played host to some of the most famous entertainers of the time, including The Jackson Five and The Temptations. He greeted all of his guests with the Flip Wilson Handshake ... four hand slaps, two elbow bumps and two hip bumps. Flip created several comedic characters, and his most popular was Geraldine Jones ... a wise-cracking gal whose line, "The devil made me do it," became a national expression, one that is repeated even today more than 40 years later. You see, Geraldine was forever and always doing or saying or thinking things that she shouldn't, and she seemed to always get caught when she did. As much as I can remember, Geraldine never took responsibility for misbehaving ... she blamed the devil for anything she did wrong.

While Mr. Wilson's characterization of Geraldine was comedic in nature and elicited laughter from his audience and great praise from his peers, there's a very serious lesson to be gleaned from the famous line, "The devil made me do it." We make jokes about the devil causing us to participate in ungodly behavior, but I believe we grossly underestimate just how cunning and deceptive Satan really is. I've often heard it said that Satan cares way more about those of us who have a personal relationship with Christ than those who don't ... he's already got the unbelievers in his grasp, and he would like nothing more than to destroy the faith of the ones who follow after God.

I've learned a lot over the last couple of years about various doctors ... way more than I ever wanted to for sure. Every time I'm sent to a different type of physician, it always strikes me that each one of them has a particular line of medicine they specialize in, and I often wonder how they chose which specialty to study. The ear, nose and throat guy I see doesn't ever check my A1C, and the endocrinologist never looks in my ears. The orthopedic surgeon didn't ask about my state of mind, and the counselor doesn't insist that I have a cortisone injection in my shoulder. Just as each doctor specializes in a different field, I think Satan specializes in attacking Christians, and I think he's more than sneaky in the weapons he chooses to use against us. For me, I know where he gets me, where there are chinks in my armor, and how he zings his fiery arrows straight for those spots. He's a master at distorting and twisting the truth as he attempts to negate God's plan for holy living that is laid out in His Word. There is none that can best him in creating dissension and strife among believers as he tries to pit us against one another through criticism, judgment and anger. And he's a genius in planting doubt, fear, guilt and shame within our hearts in his effort to destroy us from the inside out and make us believe that our sin is too great to be forgiven.

There's an old song that talked about "the devil in blue jeans," and I think there is a ton of truth in those words. He certainly isn't a cartoon character dressed in a red suit with horns and a pitchfork. The devil is ... well ... he is exactly who God's Word says he is.

"Be of sober spirit, be on the alert. Your adversary, the devil, prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. But resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same experiences of suffering are being accomplished by your brethren who are in the world." 1 Peter 5:8-9

Busted

When I was in high school, I got busted by the Red Bank police and had to spend a night in jail. There it is for all of you to read ... I did time in the big house. My crime? I was with a group of friends who were throwing snowballs at cars. I didn't actually throw the snowballs, I just made them and handed them to the guys and they threw them. It didn't matter, though, that my arm didn't wing the snowballs, I was an accomplice to criminal activity. None of the cars were damaged, and no one had an accident because of the snowballs. But someone got ticked and called the police on us, and then we did something really smart ... we tried to run ... we never stopped to think that we were leaving a very distinct trail in the snow. Guess where we were when we got busted? At the church's teen hangout, of course. Yep, the Red Bank cops came into the Red Bank Baptist coffee house and arrested us ... that was fun for sure. One more thing ... I was the only one who had to spend the night in jail. While all the other kids' parents came and picked them up, my dad thought I would learn more by having to spend the night than by going home. And he was right ... this jailbird has never spent another night in jail, and I don't ever intend to.

It's funny which events from my youth I remember so well, the ones that taught me the biggest life lessons. I'm sure that Daddy had a lot to say to me that night and in the days that followed about my behavior, but the dialogue with him that I remember most was this ... "Did you throw any snowballs?" "No, I just made them." "So then you were a part of it, right?" "I guess so." "You may not be guilty of throwing the snowballs, but you are guilty of not doing the right thing and walking away. I'll pick you up in the morning." And he left ... he left me in the Red Bank jail to ponder my actions and accept my guilt. And guess what? Getting busted by my dad for not doing the right thing was much, much worse than getting busted by the Red Bank cops for making the snowballs that were lobbed at the passing cars ... much, much worse.

Today, I got busted by someone about what I posted last night in response to my anonymous commenter. She reminded me that I choose to write this blog and put it out there for everyone to read, and therefore, I have to be willing to accept all the commentary, positive or negative, that comes my way in response to what I write. She encouraged me to have a more open mind on how others perceive what I write, and she suggested that perhaps I should pray more about my own responses and make sure that I don't offer up a knee-jerk reaction when my feelings get hurt or my heart gets stung by the words of others. And guess what? She's totally right. She's totally right, and I'm totally busted and guilty as charged. And guess what else? I'm so very thankful that God put her in my life to love me and challenge me and call me out. You know who you are, and I hope you know how much I love you.

All day as I've thought about her words and prayed about whether to continue writing this blog ... trying to decide if what I write is helping or harming those of you who read along ... thinking about how strongly I have felt called to put myself out there ... a verse from Ephesians has been pounding in my head. I'm going to close with that verse, but I'd also like to ask you guys to weigh in ... and I'd like to ask you to be honest, gut honest ... do I continue to pen this blog, or do I stop?

"Let no unwholesome word proceed from your mouth, but only such a word as is good for edification according to the need of the moment, so that it will give grace to those who hear." Ephesians 4:29

Dear Anonymous

When I began writing this blog, I had no idea of the plan that God had for it ... no idea of the subjects I would feel led to write about ... no idea of the direction life would take me. I've tried my best to write from my heart, and sometimes my heart is funny ... sometimes my heart is hurt ... sometimes my heart is thankful ... sometimes my heart is grumpy ... sometimes my heart is happy ... sometimes my heart is weary. I started penning this blog because the guy who designed my website for my speaking ministry said I needed to blog, but that's not why I blog now. I blog now because I feel that God has called me to blog. And though I don't understand why, I have felt that He has called me to be honest about my journey ... the good and the bad and everything in between.

I know that being a Christian affects how I write ... being a mom and grandmother affects how I write ... being a sister affects how I write ... being a daughter affects how I write ... being a writer affects how I write ... being a friend affects how I write ... being a diabetic affects how I write ... being depressed affects how I write ... being single affects how I write ... being me affects how I write. I don't mean to sound harsh, but this blog contains the thoughts and feelings and emotions that belong to me ... it's my blog, and I'm writing what I feel God places on my heart at the time. And I believe that God has used the words that have filled these posts to His glory, not because of me but in spite of me, to speak to some of you who are currently fighting or have struggled with the same things I have.

For the most part, the comments and messages I receive concerning my posts are positive and encouraging in nature, and to those of you who send those, you will never know how much they mean to me. So many of you I've never met and never will this side of heaven, and yet God has brought us together. Every now and again, though, I receive comments that are ... well ... suffice it to say that they are not exactly positive and encouraging. I know that the folks who send along those types of comments probably do so from hearts that are in the right place and they don't necessarily intend to hurt or wound me with their words. And some would say it's constructive criticism and that I should have a better attitude about receiving it. But to that I say again ... I've tried to write from my heart ... and this blog contains the thoughts and feelings and emotions that belong to me.

So, to the anonymous person who left a comment earlier on the entry I posted last night ... I removed your comment. You mentioned another person whom we both obviously know, and you used her first and last names ... not cool, even though your reference to her wasn't derogatory in any way ... using first and last names is something I never do in my posts, nor will I ever. It's also pretty obvious, by the way, considering the person you named, that you are someone who is either from my church or attended there in the past ... you obviously know me, but since you choose to refer to yourself as anonymous, I don't know who you are. And by the way, "attention-seeking" and "drama-filled" ... it's words like those that make me think I should never pen another blog ... it's words like those that make me want to never leave my house again ... it's words like those, my friend, that pour salt into my already sorely wounded heart. If attention-seeking and drama-filled is who you or others think I am, or what people think the last couple of years of my life has been about ... then I suppose there's nothing left for me to say.

"... for God sees not as man sees, for man looks at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart." 1 Samuel 16: 7b

Buttoned Up

In my dresser, I have a box of buttons, a box of buttons of all different colors and shapes and sizes. Most of them I got whenever I purchased a new shirt ... you know what I mean ... you buy a new shirt, and there's a little bag attached to the tag that has an extra button or two in case a button comes off and you lose it. But there are a few buttons in the box that are special buttons, buttons that I keep in a separate compartment in the box because I don't want them to get mixed in with the regular buttons. Those special buttons belonged to my grandmother ... collected over years and years and years, passed down to my mom and then to me. There's nothing that makes those buttons especially unique ... they aren't worth a lot of money, and some of them are plain old ugly. Granny was a mender and a darner and a stitcher, and when I look at the old buttons that were once hers, I can picture her sitting in her green recliner mending a ripped pair of pants, darning a hole in a sock, or stitching a replacement button onto a shirt. When it comes to sewing, my own skills are simple to assess ... I can sew on a button in a pinch if I have to, but I much prefer to use Super Glue to attach replacement buttons or hem pants.

I've never really had a good sense of style about clothing, as my sweet daughter would readily agree. I like what I like ... button-up, collared shirts with a soft cotton shirt underneath, jeans and my now favorite Converse tennis shoes. The only attire that is better is a pair of almost worn-out shorts and a polo shirt. I've written before about how much I don't like to dress up, so my description of my favorite outfits shouldn't surprise those of you who read my blog on a regular basis. And I know that those of you who know me are nodding your heads because you've seen what I like to wear. It seems, however, that I may be forced into relinquishing my love of button-up shirts, at least on some days. You see, one of my diabetes issues is that there are times when the dexterity in my fingers is basically nonexistent and I can't perform certain tasks very well ... tasks like buttoning the small buttons on my shirts. I don't know what I'll wear when the day arrives that I can no longer button my beloved button-up shirts, t-shirts I suppose, unless I can enlist someone at work to button me up.

Over the last year and a half, I've come to realize that I have lived a good portion of my life all buttoned up emotionally. Rarely did I cry, and if I did, I tried really hard not to let anyone see my tears. If I was hurt or angry or embarrassed or ashamed or sad, I put on my happy face and buried all those emotions deep inside. The shirt that covered my heart had to be buttoned up and neatly pressed ... I couldn't risk anyone seeing my fear or weaknesses ... I couldn't risk anyone thinking I didn't have it all together. And now ... now, there are times when I can't button my shirt. Now, I can't always hold the tears in or cover the emotions that lie just beneath the surface. Now, my weaknesses are overshadowed only by my fear. Now ... there are times when I can't button my shirt.

The more I think about it, the more I think I understand the lesson God has for me and maybe for a few of you. I think perhaps He wants my heart shirt to no longer be all buttoned up ... He wants me to know that He sees beyond my attempt to cover my emotions ... He wants me to be real, to be humble, to know with all of my being that it is when I am at my weakest, most unbuttoned place in life that He demonstrates His strength in mighty and powerful ways.

Hmmm ... maybe my heart needs more t-shirts and less buttons ... maybe it does indeed.

Baby Fresh

When my mom was 85, she decided to sell the house she had lived in for 47 years ... the house I grew up in ... and move to Kansas City to live near me and my children. My brother hired a man to drive a U-Haul truck with Mom's possessions, and it arrived a couple of days before Mom did. One of my most vivid memories of the process of setting up Mom's apartment is scent related ... I will never forget the emotion that washed over me when the guys from our church raised the door of the truck and I breathed in the smell of Mom. As we unpacked all of her things and filled her little apartment, I cried a lot as my kids and I talked about how quickly the three small rooms began to smell like Granny's house. The space that would soon be Mom's new home became Mom even before she stepped through the door ... the apartment was filled to the brim with the scent and the essence of Mom.

Last Saturday, Ollie the wiener dog and I left our house early in the morning and headed out to Matt and Becca's so that I could spend the day with them. OK ... that's completely not true ... I went to Manhattan to spend the day with C.J. Yes, Matt and Becca were there, but I went to see my granddaughter. I haven't spent much time with her, which was evidenced when Becca put her in my arms when I arrived ... I turned her around so that I could talk to her, and her little lip began to quiver and then she screamed like her little heart was breaking. She eventually calmed down and even smiled at me a time or two later in the day. She snuggled on my shoulder and took a nap, and I gave her a bottle when she woke up.

We all went for a walk in the afternoon sun ... C.J. in her stroller with Becca pushing her; Matt walking their two wiener dogs, Andy and Chloe; and me bringing up the rear with my overweight (according to Matt and Becca) wiener dog, Ollie. We were quite a sight as we paraded across the K-State campus, and we received more than a few comments from intoxicated students adorned with green t-shirts who were celebrating what is known in the little town as "Fake Patty's Day" ... a celebration that is held each year the weekend prior to St. Patrick's Day before the students head out of town for Spring Break. I've never before in my life seen so many drunk college kids in one place, and I found myself being grateful that Matt and Becca never participated in the raucous event when they were in college.

I didn't notice it several weeks ago when I visited their apartment after C.J. was born, but the minute I set foot in their home this time, I realized that there is a new aroma that wafts throughout their living quarters. Their place no longer smells like Matt and Becca and Andy and Chloe ... their place now smells like a baby ... their place smells like little C.J., and it's the most wonderful scent ever. I'm sure there's some massive scientific explanation as to what makes babies smell so good, but all I know is that she ... smells ... completely ... and ... totally ... awesome. From the top of her little baby hair down to the ends of her little baby toes, C.J. smells like a baby and now, so does the home she shares with her mom and dad and wiener dog buddies.

I'm not sure why, but it's getting more and more difficult to say goodbye whenever I part with any of my children ... perhaps because I have more of a sense now of just how quickly life as I know it can change, perhaps because I've glimpsed my own mortality over the last couple of years, perhaps because my children are adults and one of them has a child of his own. I want to hold on to every moment I have with them, and as I drove home from Matt and Becca's last Saturday, I found myself wishing that the sweet baby scent of C.J. that lingered on my shirt from where I had held her would stay with me forever. I can't help but think about the lyrics to a song from the Christmas Eve service at church ... a baby changes everything ... a baby changes everything. 

The Man (or Woman) in the Mirror

All three of my children have musical talent ... Meghann is an amazing singer; Brad is a beast on the guitar; and Matt can sing and play the viola and guitar. My house was always filled with music when they lived at home, either from their blasting CD players or from their own performances. I've often wondered where their musical gifts came from because their father and I certainly don't possess the music genes that we could have passed down to them. My dad was a good singer, and my ex's mother is a good piano player ... perhaps those particular music genes skipped a generation and landed in my kids. I remember a few of the artists my kiddos liked ... Elton John, Whitney Houston, Jennifer Knapp, DC Talk ... but I especially remember when my Brad went through what we affectionately termed his MJ phase. You see, there was a time when Brad listened to Michael Jackson almost nonstop ... and he wore leather pants and danced, too ... sorry, Bradley, but you know it's true. And I must admit, when I heard the MJ music blasting from Brad's room so often, I found myself singing along and ... dare I say it ... dancing in the kitchen as I cooked dinner.

I know some of you probably have very strong opinions concerning Mr. Jackson and the controversy that surrounded his actions ... and let me say ... so do I. But, there is no denying the fact that he was a musical genius and one of history's greatest entertainers. And the lyrics to some of his songs are really quite moving and inspirational, and deserve to be appreciated for simply that ... they are wonderful, incredible, phenomenal lyrics. One of his songs in particular has been running through my mind since I saw the doctor last Wednesday evening, because of one of the pieces of homework she gave me. I've never liked doing homework, by the way, and I most certainly do not in any way, shape, form or fashion enjoy doing most of what this new doctor asks me to do. One of this week's assignments has proven to be especially difficult for me to follow through on, even more so than a couple from the prior week that I still haven't completed yet.

And here's the thing ... all I'm supposed to do is look at myself in the mirror and say some things out loud. Yep, that's it ... look in the mirror and say a handful of words out loud ... and it may well be one of the hardest, most painful tasks anyone has ever asked me to perform. I've tried over and over and over, and I haven't been able to do it yet ... and I have to "report" when I see her on Wednesday evening. It's crazy, I know ... it's not like there's anyone in my house to hear me or see me, unless, of course, you count Julie and Ollie. I would say they don't care, but they have been sitting in the hallway with their heads cocked to one side watching me lean on the bathroom sink and look in the mirror ... my poor dogs probably think I've finally gone off the deep end for sure. And even though my furry friends are the only ones watching and listening, I still cannot speak the lines the doctor requested me to speak ... I simply cannot. What I do say as I stand gazing into my own blue eyes staring back at me is this ... Well, God ... here I stand again, here I stand trying this again and failing miserably ... am I ever going to be able to do this ... really, God, am I? Am I ever going to feel normal again ... really, God, am I? And even as the words leave my lips, I hear the words of the Michael Jackson song ringing in my ears ... and I think ... I should go face the mirror and try again ... I should go try again.

"I'm starting with the man in the mirror
I'm asking him to change his ways
And no message could have been any clearer
If you wanna make the world a better place
Take a look at yourself and then make a change."

Driving Miss Daisy

Jessica Tandy as Miss Daisy ... a grumpy, well-to-do, 72-year-old white Jewish woman living in the deep South in 1948. Morgan Freeman as Hoke Colburn ... an easy-going, confident, 56-year-old African American gentleman who had worked for many years as a chauffeur for a local judge until the judge passed away. Dan Aykroyd as Boolie ... Miss Daisy's wise-cracking, opinionated, adult son who (after his mom has an accident while driving her car), hires Hoke to be his mom's driver. The film won four Academy Awards, including Best Picture and Best Actress, and for my younger readers ... you should Netflix it or Hulu it or whatever it is you guys do to watch old movies ... it is one of the greatest movies of all time, filled with meaning and depth and emotion. There are so many lessons about friendship and trust and aging and life and death in Driving Miss Daisy that I couldn't begin to even scratch the surface in this post. But as I watched the movie last weekend, one particular truth seemed to jump right off the television screen and into my heart.

When Boolie first told Miss Daisy that he had hired a driver for her, she protested adamantly, saying that people would think she was elderly or that she was loaded with money ... funny thing is that both of those things were indeed true. Miss Daisy was a stubborn gal, and when Hoke first came to work as her driver, she took off on foot and walked to the local Piggly Wiggly with Hoke following behind her in the car. By necessity she is forced into allowing Hoke to drive her to the various places she needs to go, and as the story progresses, Miss Daisy and Hoke become the best of friends. The movie ends with Hoke visiting Miss Daisy in the retirement home where she went to live when she developed dementia ... Hoke is 97 and Miss Daisy is 113, and the final scene shows Hoke feeding Miss Daisy a piece of pumpkin pie as he remembers the years he spent as her driver.

As I watched the movie with tears streaming down my face ... I don't think I've ever been able to watch that film without crying, by the way ... I was struck with how hard Miss Daisy fought against having Hoke be her driver. She was a strong, independent woman, and to allow someone else to drive her around went against everything in her. But ... but ... but ... Hoke driving Miss Daisy was to keep her safe, to protect her ... it was for her own good. And Miss Daisy eventually not only realizes that she needs Hoke to drive her, she also forges a lasting friendship with him that spans several decades and holds strong even when they are both nearing the end of their lives. Laying on my couch sobbing, I couldn't help but notice the similarities between Miss Daisy and myself. There was a time in my walk with diabetes that I had a ton of blood sugar issues ... issues that dictated that someone else would take the keys to my car from me and drive me home. I had a gigantically tough time with that ... with relinquishing control, with allowing someone else to drive me, with losing some of my independence. When I had to have fasting blood work, someone had to drive me to the doctor, and yes, I was a bear about it ... throwing a fit and threatening every time to drive myself. I've finally given up on that one, though ... someone always drives me to those fasting appointments.

So here's the thing ... just like Miss Daisy, I came to a point of acceptance that there were times that I simply shouldn't be behind the wheel of a car. I didn't worry about having an accident and hurting myself, but I did begin to worry about having an accident and hurting someone else. And just like Miss Daisy, it was after I reached the point of acceptance that I was able to appreciate the gift God had given me in people who were not only willing to drive me when I needed to be driven but who cared enough about me to step in and insist on doing the driving from time to time. And now? Now I actually breathe a sigh of relief and gratitude when I don't have to drive, when someone else is with me and I can toss them my keys and say, "You can drive." And it's not because I'm having blood sugar issues, it's because I've learned that not being in the driver's seat is sometimes for my own good.

Hey, God ... here are my keys ... You can drive.

Just Be

First things first ... there's a wiener dog trying really hard to lay his head on my keyboard as he twists and turns in my lap, alternating between pawing at me with his tail threatening to wag off of his backside, and trying desperately to plant a wet dog kiss on my mouth. I've been trying to teach him for ... oh, a year or so ... to only lick my chin ... um, suffice it to say he's not learning that lesson very well at all. Julie, on the other hand, is being the perfect lady and is stretched out next to me on the couch with one paw behind my back and her big old head resting calmly on my shoulder. Those two dogs are as different as day and night ... there is nothing similar about them except that they both have fur. Julie is big, and Ollie is little. Julie is calm, and Ollie is active. Julie is old, and Ollie is young. Julie is blond, and Ollie is brown. Julie pees a lot, and Ollie must have a bladder the size of a horse. Julie would eat until she was sick and licks up every crumb of her food, and Ollie only eats until he is full and leaves the rest. And yet, in spite of all their differences, those two dogs love each other and they love me. And I love them right back.

I've long believed that God uses my hound dogs to teach me lessons, or sometimes to reinforce a lesson that he's put before me through some other avenue. That's definitely the case today ... God has used Julie and Ollie to make sure I follow an instruction given to me on Wednesday evening from my new doctor, and that I learn the lesson He has for me within her instruction. At the end of my appointment, she told me that for the next week she wanted me to ... just be. "Take a break from beating yourself up; take a break from trying to live up to the expectations others have of you; take a break from fighting the battle that is raging within your mind. Take the next week and ... just be. Nothing more, nothing less ... just be." She followed that instruction with some additional homework (including completing the things I decided were too hard and didn't do from the week before), which in my mind seemed to be a bit contradictory to her instruction to just be. Just being seems to not include doing homework if you ask me.

Now here's where Julie and Ollie come in ... since I'm sure you were wondering. I've spent a good deal of time today stretched out on the couch reading a book the doctor asked me to read a couple of weeks ago ... yeah, yeah, I know, but at least I'm finally caving in and reading it. It struck me as I watched Julie and Ollie playing or sleeping or climbing on me that they don't have to think about being dogs ... they just are. They don't beat themselves up because they aren't cats or because they aren't the same as they were when they were pups. I honestly don't think they spend one minute of their doggie lives feeling like they aren't living up to my (or anyone else's for that matter) expectations of them. Their minds are free from any battles or conflicts or turmoil or stress. They just are. Nothing more, nothing less ... they just are. And in just being ... they are content and at peace. Yep, it's just like God to use my dogs to cement a truth He has for me ... just like Him to put that truth in front of me in both human and canine ways ... just like Him.

Now that I think about it, I can't help but think how difficult that is for so many of us ... to just be. To just be the men and women God created us to be ... to just be in His love ... to just be in His grace ... to just be in His mercy ... to just be in His forgiveness. We get so caught up in the day-to-day ups and downs of living, in the busy-ness of all we have to do, in trying to measure up to whom others expect us to be, in our own troubles and problems ... we get so entangled in life that we no longer even know how to ... just be. And I think it probably saddens God's heart that we can't or won't or have forgotten to ... just be in Him.

Just be, friends ... just be.