Woodpecker Symphony in T Minor

A while back, quite a while back, in fact, I penned several posts about various creatures of the fowl persuasion ... ducks, geese, owls, little black birds, hawks ... and I talked about how I've never cared much for any type of bird. I think maybe my dislike of birds stems from watching the old Alfred Hitchcock movie aptly named The Birds. That movie completely creeped me out, and for years I was always looking over my shoulder for fear that a group of birds would suddenly swoop down and attack me. I don't understand people who like birds ... I mean, come on ... they poop everywhere, including on my head when I'm walking on the trail or through the open sunroof of my car when I'm driving; they are extremely noisy early in the morning and wake me from a rare night of sound sleep; they leave feathers on my deck which in turn makes my dogs go crazy from the scent that's left behind; and they build nests in my gutters, hanging flower baskets and even my grill. There, I've said it, and I apologize to you bird lovers out there ... I don't like birds. Period.

Yesterday, I went for a very long bike ride, an hour and 45-minute bike ride along my beloved walking trail that I've written so much about. The trail is well-known in Kansas City partly because it's almost 17 miles long and follows quite a scenic route through the southern area of town. I rode farther than I have since I took up riding again, covering the part of the trail that runs deep into the woods. I had slowed down to watch some deer through the trees and decided I should stop to take a drink of water and eat a snack when I heard the sound of woodpeckers pounding away on a tree. The deer meandered along, and I rested against a tree on the side of the trail eating, drinking and listening to the loud noise of the woodpeckers. I wonder where they are, I thought as I gazed up into the tall trees. And of course my next thought was, I wonder if they're planning an attack and if they're going to swoop down and peck on my bike helmet ... I should get out of here now!! But in spite of those completely irrational thoughts and the fear that began to creep in around my brain, I stood there ... I stood there eating, drinking and listening to the loud noise of the woodpeckers.

As I finished off my protein bar and gulped the last sip from my first bottle of water (yes, I take more than one bottle for those of you who think I still don't drink enough water), I couldn't help but notice that there was a rhythm to the sound the birds were making. The longer I stood there listening, the more it reminded me of a grand orchestra being led by a master conductor in its playing of the glorious notes of a symphony. I'm not sure how long I stood there listening, but I am sure that God began to speak to me through the sounds of the woodpecker symphony that was resounding all around me. My tears began to flow as He reminded me of how small I am and how big He is, of how weak I am and how strong He is. 

You are the conductor of the orchestra, Father ... of all the parts and pieces of my life, and I'm the symphony .. the symphony in T minor. I'm nothing ... absolutely nothing ... I am so minor in the big picture. You alone, Lord, can make music flow from the pain ... You alone, Lord, can make music flow from the sorrow ... You alone, Lord, can make music flow from the brokenness. Thank You, God, for the woodpecker symphony ... thank You for being so much bigger than me ... thank You for the Woodpecker Symphony in T minor, Lord ... thank You.

I've Got Your Back

Perhaps one of the most exciting parts of going back to school for kids is buying new school supplies. I well remember the madness in the aisles of Walmart each year during the two weeks before it was time for school to start. Between the kiddos and the parents, it approached complete bedlam at times. And each year, I would promise myself that we would start shopping for school supplies in June rather than August. And each year, I would find myself and my three children fighting our way through the crowds ... sometimes the night before they had to go back to school. While the buying school supplies at Walmart ordeal was bad enough, it was a walk in the park compared to the ultimate challenge of back-to-school shopping ... and nope, I'm not talking about clothes, though that would rank way up there in my list of "shoot me now" shopping adventures for sure. What I dreaded most of all was backpack shopping ... it was such a big deal to my children, but I totally dreaded it each year. It always seemed to take forever and involve several arguments over price or color or size or how it felt on their back or any number of things. Looking back now, that's one of those parenting times I wish I could do over, and if I could, I would be a ton more laid back about the whole backpack thing. I would have scheduled one day per child, taken a lawn chair and some snacks, parked myself in the backpack department and let them look as long as they wanted until they found the perfect backpack. I wouldn't have an opinion as to color or size or anything else, and I would have saved enough money throughout the year so that price wouldn't be an issue. You see, back then I didn't understand the importance of those backpacks to my kids, but now, now I have a whole different perspective about backpacks.

A couple of years ago, I was having a ton of diabetes-related issues, including biting the dust one evening when I was out walking with J.R. Before that evening, I never really thought about carrying my testing kit or snacks or glucose pills with me as I walked, but I certainly did after having to be scooped up off the ground and taken home by some friends. It didn't take me long to get in the habit of stuffing my pockets with the supplies I needed should my blood sugar take a dive again, but it also didn't take me long to decide that I needed to find a more efficient way to carry those items. So guess what I did? Yep, I went backpack shopping. And it took forever, and I stood in the sporting goods store arguing with myself over price or color or size or how it felt on my back or any number of things. I finally settled on a Camelbak, finding one that could hold all my stuff and had the added bonus of being a hydration backpack as well. Well ... I only walked once with the backpack bladder filled with water ... that's all it took for me to decide it was too heavy and that it would be easier to carry a water bottle instead. Once I removed the bladder, the backpack was perfect and for a long time, I wore it every single time I walked. But ... as my blood sugar stabilized, my independent spirit (some would call it stubbornness) came roaring back and I stopped wearing my backpack.

Now for those of you who are shaking your heads and pointing your fingers at me, today I started wearing my backpack again. Last Sunday morning, I was out walking with Ollie and I lost my balance and took a pretty good tumble on the trail ... a good enough tumble that there was blood and tears, and probably a little sweat mixed in, too. I'm going to spare you the whole story, but suffice it to say that I was very McGyver-ish in how I took care of myself and got home. I had walked out that morning without my phone, so I couldn't call anyone to help me ... in fact, the only thing I had on me was my garage door opener and my iPod. Everyone who knows me knows that it takes me a while to learn my lesson, though, so of course I've still been biking and walking all week without my backpack. This morning as I was biking, however, I started thinking about what I would do if one of my tires went flat and I was 10 miles away from home. The thought of having to push my bike all the way home was enough to cause me to head to Walmart and buy a mini air pump and some patches. When I got home and tried to decide where to attach the pump to my bike, I had one of those light bulb moments ... you know the kind ... the "well, duh" times in life when something you should have already known suddenly becomes crystal clear to you. I should just put this pump in my backpack, I thought as I stood in the garage looking at my bike. And some snacks, glucose pills, gauze and bandaids, and my Swiss army knife. Well, duh, duh, duh.

Tonight I went for a short bike ride ... with my backpack on. I had hopped on my bike and left the house without my iPod ... yeah, yeah, I know ... I'm going to have to put every single thing I need to take with me all together so I don't forget anything. Without music pounding in my ears, I was left to pedal along with only the sounds of the trail in my ears and the sound of my thoughts in my brain. I began to think about the importance of the pack on my back, and I began to think about the importance of covering each others' backs ... of looking out for each other, of holding each other accountable, of standing up for each other, of taking care of each other ... the importance of backing the pack. The backpack I wear is small in size but powerful in what it carries inside; the contents could literally save my life one day. I couldn't help but recognize the seemingly small things ... like a hug from a little child or a baby's fingers wrapped around mine or the smile of a resident at the retirement home or a phone call from a friend or someone in my family or the text message from a friend each Sunday morning encouraging me to come to church ... the seemingly small things that carry such power within them ... the seemingly small things that are saving my life every day, the small but so very powerful ways that others are covering my back at a time when I need it most.

My kids were right all those years ago, friends ... backpacks are a big deal ... a really, really, really big deal.

To Church or Not to Church

One of my best friends here in Kansas is a Southerner, a transplant from the heart of Kentucky, and she's lived here as many years as I have. We share a kindred spirit in our Southern heritage ... we both understand what Southern hospitality is all about; we know there is only one kind of tea, and that's sweet tea; we agree that the best way to say hello is with the word "hey," and if it's followed by the word "honey," that's even better; we can quote almost every line from Steel Magnolias; and we love, love, love Dolly Parton. She was one of the first friends I made after I moved here, and she's a keeper for sure. Her two sons are the same ages as my sons, and you can trust me when I say that those boys shared some adventures when they were growing up (think cow tipping, and you'll have a good idea of what I mean). Her oldest son now serves as a minister at the church I've attended for more than 20 years, and sometimes he delivers the sermons for the weekend. He's an incredible speaker ... one of the best I've ever heard, and I've heard a lot of speakers over the years. One of the things that always impresses me when he preaches is that he rarely looks at his notes ... he speaks from his heart, and I don't think I've ever heard him speak when I wasn't touched by something he said.

Last Sunday I spent the most of the day stretched out on my couch with the exception of spending a couple of hours taking pictures at a friend's son's graduation open house. I'm way far out of the loop when it comes to what's going on at church, and I didn't know that my Kentucky buddy's son was preaching last weekend. It wasn't until yesterday that she mentioned his sermon from the previous Sunday and said that I should listen to it on the church's website. I did ... and by the end of her son's heartfelt message, I was sobbing ... every word he spoke came straight from his heart ... and every word he spoke went straight to the core of my own. Here's the link ... http://olathechristian.org/teachings/ ... I would encourage you to listen for yourself; I promise you won't be disappointed. While his entire sermon spoke to me, it was something he talked about near the end of his message that really struck a chord deep within my soul.

The core of the sermon was about the story of Pharaoh and how we become like Pharaoh in our actions toward one another ... again, I would encourage you to listen to the message for yourself. But near the end of his sermon after reading about the fruits of the Spirit, the fruits of following Jesus that proclaim how we are really to treat one another, he talked about the 20-something age group and their lack of desire to attend church. Many young people of that age say they like Jesus, but they don't like the church ... and he's correct in that statement, I've heard some young people in my own life utter those very words. Then he went on to say that what people who make that comment really mean is that they don't like someone in the church ... someone in the church oppressed them in some way, someone in the church has been Pharaoh to them. Friends, that's a powerful insight, an insight that has had me thinking and wondering and contemplating if I've been Pharaoh to someone ... if I was the reason someone stopped attending church ... if I behaved in a manner that caused another to want nothing to do with people who call themselves Christians. The young pastor's words have made me get down on my knees and shed more than a few tears.

I'm not exactly sure why, but going to church is really, really, really hard for me now. Two years ago, I was active in many areas of church, from women's ministry to drama to Vacation Bible School. I had more friends than I could count, and I always looked forward to Sundays. Being at church was the highlight of my week ... learning and growing and sharing and worshiping with other believers. And now ... now, I wake up each Sunday and think, do I go to church today or not? Every single Sunday, I battle the "to church or not to church" question. And more often than not, I opt for not going. I know I need to go, perhaps more than I ever have before, and yet, it's so hard to go. I'm embarrassed when I cry there (and I cry a lot when I'm there) ... I'm filled with shame and guilt when I am there ... I'm lonely beyond measure when I'm there. Were it not for a friend who graciously encourages me to join her family at church, I know that I simply would not and could not go there on my own. And yet, at the same time, I miss it so very much, and as I listened to the sermon yesterday, my mind jumped back and forth between two things ... one a prayer, and one a verse from God's Word.

Please forgive me for the times I've been Pharaoh to others, God ... oh, please forgive me for those I've driven away from Your church, those I've oppressed or wounded or let down. Please forgive me for being Pharaoh, Lord, and help me to never be that person again.

"And let us consider how to stimulate one another to love and good deeds, not forsaking our own assembling together, as is the habit of some, but encouraging one another; and all the more as you see the day drawing near." Hebrews 10:24-25

 

Uphill Climb

With each passing day, I'm more and more aware that it won't be long until my oldest son, daughter-in-law and precious granddaughter will move to Canada. I'm certain that's why I've had a ton of Matt memories coursing through my mind and lingering in my heart for the last couple of weeks. This morning on my bike ride, I remembered a conversation I had with Matt recently about something that happened on one of our summer vacations to Colorado. Our friend Sherri went with us on that particular trip, and one morning we decided to pack lunches and hike to a large waterfall. It was a long hike, taking us around an hour or so to reach the falls. We enjoyed our lunches, took lots of pictures and played in the water at the base of the cascading waterfall for a while. It was mid-afternoon by the time we decided to head to the car, and we were about halfway back when it began to rain. The gentle rain quickly turned into a full-blown thunderstorm complete with lots of thunder and lightning. Now before some of you go there on your own ... I wasn't always terrified of storms like I am now (I have a theory as to why I'm so consumed with fear about them now, but it only reinforces my descent into totally irrational thinking so I'm not going to tell you). The five of us were huddled near an indentation in a large wall of rock when it started hailing ... I know ... if that happened to me now, I'd kick the bucket right there on the spot from shear fear. At any rate, we were getting pelted by hail large enough that it hurt, so we decided that we should just try to get back to the car.

Before our trip, Matt had purchased a large hiking backpack, the kind with a metal frame, and he was excited to use it on our hike that day. In fact, we had packed everything that we needed for our outing into his backpack, and he carried it all the way on our journey to the waterfall. We had left our perch in the rocks and walked for a short distance when we came to an open field. Matt was in the lead, and just about the time he stepped out into the open from the trees, a large bolt of lightning struck the ground a few feet in front of him. I'm not sure I've ever seen Matt move as fast as he did that day in Colorado ... he peeled that metal-framed backpack off and hightailed it back to the cover of the trees. For a long time after that experience, he talked about how stupid he was to walk into the open field with a lightning rod strapped on his back in the midst of a thunderstorm. We have since laughed about that adventure many times ... none of us will ever forget Matt and his metal-framed backpack ... which I might add, he refused to touch for the rest of the hike back to the car.

I didn't sleep well at all last night ... seems like that is always the case after I go to my Wednesday evening doctor's appointment; I have a hard time getting my brain to stop processing all she has said and I have a super hard time getting my heart to stop churning with the emotion that accompanies her digging around inside of my soul. I finally decided to get up at 5 a.m. and go for a bike ride ... if you can't sleep, ride ... right? I wasn't long into my ride this morning when I noticed that something felt different to me, but it wasn't until I was on my way home 45 minutes later that I realized it was easier to climb the hills this morning. I realized that my rear wasn't sore from the bike seat anymore. I realized that I wasn't out of breath and my legs weren't hurting. I realized something huge this morning, friends ... I didn't have to work as hard to go the exact same distance as I went yesterday ... my ride was easier because I didn't stop riding. As quickly as that realization pummeled its way into my brain, an even bigger thought pushed its way in right behind it. That's why I had the desire to ride again ... God wants to teach me something big on these bike rides ... that's why, isn't it God? That's why.

As I pedaled toward home, my heart was suddenly acutely aware of lesson after lesson after lesson. Coasting down the hills on my bike is easy, simple and fun ... I don't even have to pedal if I don't want to; I can just fly down the hills and not have to work at all. But climbing the hills is a different matter ... I have to pedal and pedal and pedal or I lose my momentum and either slow down to a crawl or stop altogether. Some hills are easier to climb than others ... some are steeper than others ... some require more strength than others ... some require several shifts of the gears to make it to the top. And another thing I realized about hills this morning? If I look at how big the hill is, it's harder to climb ... if I keep my eyes on the trail in front of me and just pedal, I'm often surprised at how quickly it seems I reach the crest.

My doctor told me last night that recovering from the kind of deep depression that has wrapped its tentacles around my entire being for the last year and a half is often one step forward and five steps back. She said the key is to keep on stepping ... or pedaling, as the case may be. She even talked about some of the major uphill climbs that I'm facing ... climbs that will, in all likelihood, cause me to want to stop pedaling and perhaps even give up bike riding completely. I've thought all day about her words and about the deep truths that God put before me this morning, and tonight after Bingo, I chatted for a while with my friend who works there. You may not realize what a big deal that is, but I don't do much chatting anymore. Conversation is a huge, steep hill for me ... a hill that has become almost insurmountable ... a hill that is laden with guilt and fear and shame. But tonight ... tonight, I could feel the pedals under my feet as we talked ... tonight, I pedaled with every ounce of strength I had in me. 

All my hills are yours, Lord, and I know You are by my side as I climb them. They are steep, God, and sometimes it seems as if I'll never reach the top. Help me to keep pedaling, Father God ... please help me to keep pedaling.

"Therefore, you shall keep the commandments of the Lord your God, to walk in His ways and to fear Him. For the Lord your God is bringing you into a good land, a land of brooks of water, of fountains and springs, flowing forth in valleys and hills." Deuteronomy 8:6-7

Forgive Me, Father

Over a decade ago, yes, a decade, my three children gave me a bicycle for Christmas ... a burgundy, 21-speed, Pacific Odyssey bicycle. They hid the bike at a neighbor's house and then sent me on a scavenger hunt on Christmas morning to find it. I hadn't had a nice bike for many, many years, and I well remember the emotion that swept through me as I ran my hand across the shiny new cycle. I'm not sure I ever told my kids, but there were two things about them giving me the bike that meant a ton to me. First, it made me realize they had listened to my stories about how much I used to love to bike ride ... they had listened not only with their ears, but with their hearts ... they understood the deep meaning their gift would hold for me. Second, it was super special that they wanted the four of us to go on bike rides together ... that they weren't embarrassed to be seen pedaling alongside a large, gray-haired mother who quite often had to lumber off the seat and push her bike up a hill. In case I haven't said it throughout the course of penning this blog, I really do have amazing children.

After not riding my bike for more years than I care to own up to, I decided a week or so ago that I wanted to start biking again. I got no farther than putting on my helmet when I realized that there could possibly be an issue or two that I was going to have to deal with before I could ride off into the sunset. The last time I wore my bike helmet I was, oh, 150 or so pounds heavier than I am now ... yep, even my head has lost weight, and my helmet was way, way too big. And of course it was an older model so it didn't have the cool little adjusting wheel bandy thing that new helmets do. So the first thing I did was buy a new helmet, not because I really thought I needed one since I'm an excellent bike rider but because people I've met on the trail would fuss at me if I didn't wear one. I was about 20 minutes away from home on my first ride (all downhill, by the way) when I came to a slight incline ... that's when I discovered that out of 21 possible speeds, the gears on my bike would only shift into two of those speeds ... hard and hardest. So after I pushed my bicycle up all the inclines and finally got back home, I decided to load it into my car and drop it off at the repair shop the next day. I assured myself as I placed my claim ticket in the passenger seat when I climbed back into the car that all my bike needed was a good cleaning and a tune-up. Well ... suffice it to say that I now have an all-new gear and braking system installed on my beloved bicycle ... along with a new helmet, front and rear lights, a little bag to hold my phone and garage door opener, and some totally cool gloves with gel pockets in the palms.

One of my all-time favorite movies is Dances With Wolves ... I know, I know, you've read those words several times if you've been reading along with me for a while, but there really is a wealth of wisdom and life lessons in that film. In fact, I think one of the most powerful movie scenes I've ever watched takes place near the beginning of Dances With Wolves. The character played by Kevin Costner, Lieutenant John J. Dunbar, is injured in battle during the Civil War, and he hears the surgeons discussing amputating his leg. When the doctors leave to get some coffee before sawing off Dunbar's leg, he manages to pull his boot on his wounded leg and hobble back to the front lines of the battle. As he talks with another soldier, he makes a decision ... he would rather die than to live without his leg. He manages to climb into the saddle of a superior officer's horse and rides across the field in front of the enemy ... giving them every opportunity to kill him. Apparently, the soldiers all had less than stellar shooting skills, because not one bullet even grazed Dunbar. When he reaches the other end of the line of soldiers, he wonders in disbelief that he wasn't hit. While each of those movie moments were powerful and mesmerizing to watch, it was the scene that followed that had a huge impact on me ... enough impact that I still can picture it in my mind today some 22 years after I first saw the film.

With determination etched onto his face, Dunbar kicks the horse's sides and begins another pass in front of the firing guns and shouting enemy soldiers. He whispers the words, "Forgive me, Father," extends his arms and closes his eyes as the horse once again carries him safely across the field and away from the fighting. You see, while the enemy soldiers were distracted by Dunbar's two-time attempt at suicide, the Union army attacked and won the battle against the Confederate soldiers. In an ironic twist of fate, John J. Dunbar became a hero ... he was given the best medical treatment available and allowed to properly recover, received a citation for bravery, awarded with the horse who carried him, and told he could have his choice of locations to finish out his military service. The rest of the story is best told through watching the film for yourself ... but ... but ... but ... on the day when Lieutenant John J. Dunbar was ready to end his life, when he was certain that his life needed to be over ... that's the day his life truly began.

I know you're probably wondering what my bicycle and Lieutenant Dunbar's ride across the field have to do with one another, but again, if you've been reading along with me for any time at all, you know there's usually a connection in my seemingly warped mode of thinking. For some reason when I'm out riding my bike alone, whether in the past or now that I've started riding again, there is always a moment when I think of that scene from Dances With Wolves. And when I think of it, I take my hands off the handlebars, extend my arms and whisper the words, "Forgive me, Father." I did it last night when I rode, and I did it this morning, too. As I was getting ready for work, I had what I believe is a rather profound thought ... that scene and my acting it out as I ride means more to me now than it ever did before. Perhaps it's because I feel the need to utter the words, "Forgive me, Father," now more than at any other time in my life. Perhaps it's because I've been to that field myself, the field where death seemed more appealing than life. Perhaps it's because God simply wants me to understand that He can cause any day ... that He can cause every single day ... to be the day that my life truly begins.

The Other Side of Me

Back when all three of my children still lived at home, I would sometimes (sometimes being the key word) get up on Saturday or Sunday morning and cook them a big breakfast. Lots of times that big breakfast consisted of eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy. But occasionally, I would make pancakes that they would smother in butter and maple syrup when I placed them on their plates. In all humility, I'm a pretty decent cook, not the greatest in the world, but pretty decent. And one of my favorite things in the world to cook used to be pancakes, partly because cooking pancakes in a skillet always reminded me of Daddy standing at the stove in the kitchen with a white apron tied around his waist as he cooked pancakes. But the other reason I loved cooking pancakes is because I was always fascinated with the way they cook ... browning and getting done on the side next to the heat of the burner while the side that was face up would bubble and look like a gooey, yucky, disgusting, inedible mess. The time always arrived, however, when it was time to flip the pancakes ... to turn them over in the skillet so that the gross side could cook and become as golden and delicious as the other side while the inside cooked into a fluffy, sweet, breadlike piece of yumminess. A fascinating process to me, indeed.

This morning as I drove into work, a song that was playing on my iPod caused the memory of pancake cooking to sweep through my mind, and I've thought all day about the two sides of the pancakes in the skillet ... one side looking like a well-cooked pancake should, and the other resembling a glob of goo. And when the lyrics to the song talked about the war between the two sides of our hearts and minds, I couldn't help but think that God must look down at me and think I'm just like those pancakes in the skillet. One side of me is cooking like it should, becoming who He intends for me to be, and the other side is still a bubbling, gooey, disgusting mess. And sometimes ... sometimes I wonder if the battle between the two sides of me will ever end.

But here's the thing, friends ... here's the thing about pancakes. In order for them to become golden and delicious ... for them to become the things we love and long for ... both sides of the pancake must endure the heat of the skillet ... both sides must face the fire ... they aren't real and true pancakes until they do. And the other thing about pancakes? The person cooking the pancakes has to know when to flip them over ... the timing must be perfect and meticulous so that both sides are cooked correctly. God knows the two sides of me ... He knows every stray thought, every unkind word, every burst of anger, every struggle I face. He sees what no one else sees, hears what no one else hears, feels what no one else feels. The side of me that's the cooked pancake is pretty and golden and delicious ... the other side of me, the uncooked side of the pancake ... not so much, not so much at all. And I know ... I know that I can't flip myself ... I can't do that alone ... I need the Master Chef to do the cooking.

Oh, and the song? The song is called "My Own Worst Enemy" by Casting Crowns, and I think it's fitting to end this post with the lyrics.

 "My Own Worst Enemy"
 

God, help me get away
Break the chains and set me free
From the other side of me
I am my own worst enemy

I caught a glimpse in my rearview mirror
Of an old familiar face
Blurry image coming in clearer
Of a past I can’t erase
I could’ve sworn I put him in the ground
But looks like he’s found his way out

God, help me get away
Break the chains and set me free
From the other side of me
I can’t fight this fight alone
I’ll never make it on my own
Lord Jesus, rescue me
From my own worst enemy

I’ll take a step and it’s right behind me
Always fighting for control
There’s a war that’s raging inside me
I feel the battle for my soul
It’s like my shadow is dragging me around
And You are my only way out

God, help me get away
Break the chains and set me free
From the other side of me
I can’t fight this fight alone
I’ll never make it on my own
Lord Jesus, rescue me
From my own worst enemy

Lord, help me feed the life I’m trying to live
And starve the life I’m trying to leave
Help me believe the old is dead and gone
And I am a new creation

God, help me get away
Break the chains and set me free
From the other side of me
I can’t fight this fight alone
I’ll never make it on my own
Lord Jesus, rescue me
From my own worst enemy

Bag of Hammers

I'm sure many of you who are members of my generation remember the 80s sitcom Family Ties. And I'm sure many of you, like me, watched the program faithfully each week. Perhaps because I grew up on the fringe of hippie times or perhaps because my three children were born during the years the show aired, I could identify with the parents Elyse and Steven Keaton. While each member of the cast was a star in his or her own right throughout the run of the comedy, it was the young actor who played the role of Elyse and Steven's young Republican son, Alex P. Keaton, who ultimately became the most famous and well known. Michael J. Fox won three consecutive Emmy Awards for Outstanding Lead Actor in a Comedy Series for Family Ties, and then he went on to star in the Back to the Future film series. In recent years, however, Mr. Fox has become known for something other than acting ... he was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease at the young age of 30 and has since become a strong advocate for research into finding a cure.

While I don't agree with all of his beliefs concerning methods that should be pursued in trying to find a cure, I have a ton of respect for the way Mr. Fox has dealt with having Parkinson's disease. My dad had Parkinson's, and it's a really cruddy disease ... for those who have it, they know what's coming down the path; and what's coming down the path isn't something anyone would want to face. It is also impressive to me that Mr. Fox has been married to his wife Tracy Pollan for almost 24 years, and by all accounts, they have a phenomenal marriage and are loving and committed parents to their four children. I watched an interview yesterday with Mr. Fox, and he uttered a statement concerning his Parkinson's disease that I've heard him say before ... a statement that moves me every time I hear it or read it. "You know everybody gets their bag of hammers. This is just my bag of hammers, and I can handle it." Talk about putting things in perspective and having a good attitude about an illness that isn't fair, that shouldn't have struck him at such an early age, that has changed every single thing about his life. "This is just my bag of hammers, and I can handle it."

As I type those words, I find myself wishing that I were more like Mr. Fox ... that I could see my disease as just my bag of hammers, just my bag of hammers that I can handle. Oh, some days I feel that way, I suppose, but there are also days when I walk around feeling pretty darn sorry for myself. You know, days when I whine and complain all day long about how much I would like to eat an entire cheesecake or drink a hundred Starbucks cafe vanilla frappucinos with ... well, those of you who've been reading for a while already know about the caramel part. And here's the thing ... if God asked me which bag of hammers I'd rather lug around, mine or Mr. Fox's, I'd choose mine every single time.

Thinking about hammers in bags causes me to think about some hammers from long ago ... hammers that pounded spikes into the hands and feet of my Lord. And you know what? My own sin was those hammers ... my own sin pounded those heavy nails into my precious Lord ... my own sin placed Him on the cross ... my own sin caused Him to sacrifice His life.

Just my bag of hammers, friends ... just my bag of hammers, indeed.  

 

Dirty Words

Someone asked me recently if I had kept a count of how many events I've spoken at over the last decade, and my answer was a quick, "Nope." She then promptly told me that I should have kept a record of where my speaking engagements were, what type of group it was, what subjects my topics addressed, and so on. The more I've thought about her comments, the more I think she's correct ... I should have kept a journal about my speaking adventures, and from here on out, I'm going to do just that. One of the coolest things about being a speaker for various women's events is that I often get the opportunity to hear other speakers, whether it's through sharing the responsibilities of speaking for the main events or I get the chance to sit in on workshops that others are leading. I've heard some phenomenal speakers, men and women who are truly gifted orators. 

Former Secretary of Defense Robert Gates gave the commencement address at Matt's Ph.D. graduation ceremony last week, and while his entire speech was well-delivered and filled with wonderful advice for the graduating master's and doctoral students, one statement he made struck me in a big way. I can't recall the context of the words that made such an impression on me, but I haven't been able to get what he said off of my mind. "The words compromise and sacrifice have become dirty words in today's world." If you take some time and think about them, I think you will agree with me that those are powerful words, words that in and of themselves imply action and change. The more I've thought about Mr. Gates' statement, the more I've found myself wondering which of the two is most difficult ... to compromise or to sacrifice ... and the truth is that I'm just not sure. I've also found myself wondering why he chose to link those two words together ... compromise and sacrifice, so of course I went to the dictionary to check out their meanings. Compromise ... to solve a problem or end an argument by agreeing that you can't have everything you want. Sacrifice ... to give up something valuable or important for the greater good of another. Here's the thing that strikes me as I've pondered those definitions ... compromising and sacrificing both involve giving of oneself ... giving of oneself in situations and circumstances when human nature would make a person want to do just the opposite. In our often me-oriented world, Mr. Gates is correct in saying that those are dirty words, dirty words indeed.

I think there are a lot of words that could be placed on the dirty words list ... words like loyalty, faithfulness, honesty, compassion ... words that also invoke the necessity of giving of oneself, of putting the needs of others before my own. The more I think about it, the more profound I believe the words of Mr. Gates truly were. And the more I try to wrap my arms around his statement, the more I know that I'm going to be chewing on those words for a while to come ... compromise and sacrifice ... I'm going to be contemplating whether I treat them as dirty words or whether I embrace the still, small voice deep within my soul that says, "Give, give, give ... and then give some more."

Yep, I'm gonna chew on them for a while ... "The words compromise and sacrifice have become dirty words in today's world."  

In Memory

I grew up in a little town called Red Bank, Tennessee, a suburb of Chattanooga. I've written quite a bit about my growing up years, but I haven't really written much about my school experiences from my youth. I'm not sure why I haven't penned much about some of the things I remember so vividly from my years at Red Bank Elementary, Red Bank Junior High and Red Bank High. Some of those memories are tender and sweet, like walking to the furniture store where my mom worked that was just a block away from the elementary school. Once we got to the store, mom would give me and my friend Cindy each a quarter and let us walk across the street to the Red Bank Drug Store where we would sit on stools at the fountain counter and drink real cherry cokes and eat penny candy. Some of those memories center around my teachers, like my junior high English teacher who took me under her wing and challenged me to write from my heart. And some of those memories involve my renegade behavior from when I was in high school, like going under the bleachers during Friday night football games and sneaking a smoke or kissing boys. It's funny how I can close my eyes and picture those scenes in my mind as if they happened yesterday ... I can see the entrance to Red Bank Elementary at the end of the long drive up the hill; I can hear the squeak of Converse shoes on the basketball court at Red Bank Junior High; I can smell the old wooden plank hallways of Red Bank High. Lots and lots of memories from my school years for sure.

A couple of years ago, I stumbled upon a Facebook group called In Memory - Red Bank High School, a page where people could post information about folks who had either attended or taught at the school and have since passed away. After reading through several of the postings, I decided to post a comment asking if anyone remembered my brother Jerry. A few people replied saying what a great guy my oldest brother was, and then for over a year, there was no more commentary in response to my original post. A few weeks ago, however, people began commenting again and telling me what an awesome teacher Jerry was ... weird because it had been so long since anyone wrote anything. Just yesterday, a lady who taught with Jerry left a very sweet comment that ended with the words, "Jerry was a very special person." I think most of us who have lost loved ones hope they are remembered and thought of fondly, but when I realize that people are telling me of the impact my brother had upon them ... get this ... 40 years ago ... Jerry died 40 years ago ... it is both honoring and humbling at the same time. You see, my brother made a difference to people, he changed people's lives, he gave more than he took, and the people who knew him loved and respected him.

Those of you who've been reading my blog for a while know that I don't believe there are many things in life that happen by chance. Instead, I tend to view all of the events of my life as being God-things ... lessons He wants me to learn, truths He wants me to absorb, directions He wants me to follow. So for the last couple of days, I've found myself wondering just why people have been commenting about my brother on the In Memory site; in fact, when I read the lady's post yesterday, I said out loud to Julie and Ollie, "What's up with that, dogs? Wonder why God has me thinking about Jerry so much all of a sudden?" By the time I went to bed last night, I was waffling between sane thoughts (it's just a fluke that people have started posting again, not God, not a lesson, nothing but a fluke) to irrational ones (maybe they aren't just random posts, maybe they are from Jerry and he's trying to communicate with me) ... oh, don't worry ... the places my brain goes now scares me, too. 

After my quick walk this morning, I turned on my laptop to check my bank account and decided to hop on Facebook for a minute to look at some photos a friend had texted me about last night. The message icon indicated that I had a message, so I clicked on the tab to open it. I didn't recognize the name, but the subject line was "Your dear brother Jerry," so I figured it wasn't junk or spam or some malicious virus that would destroy the entire universe. My eyes immediately filled with tears as I read the first line of the message ... "You don't know me, but I knew your brother, Jerry." And as I continued to read, the tears flowed and flowed and flowed. "I worked with Charlotte at the hospital and my husband and me were good friends with Jerry and Charlotte. We shared so many fun times together, and I want you to know that your brother was a special man. He loved Charlotte and his sons so much, and he loved being a teacher. There are many of us who still live in Chattanooga who think of him often and remember the night of his accident. I remember that night very well because I was working that night. I was one of the nurses in the operating room. I was there when your brother passed away." 

Her note went on to tell me of how many lives Jerry had touched in his 30 years of life, of students who attributed part of their success in life to a teacher and coach named Jerry. Needless to say, I shed a lot of tears as I got ready for work this morning and I couldn't help but ask God as I stood weeping in the shower ... "Why now, God? Why all this about Jerry now?" And as He often is, God was silent ... no answer, no nudge, no quiet inner voice. It was as I was driving home tonight this evening that I began to hear Him whispering to me. "Remember the tree house Jerry built for his sons and you?" I thought ... Of course I remember. That's why I named my blog The Tree House ... because it was in that tree house that I first told Jerry that I wanted to be a writer one day. It was in that tree house that I dreamed big dreams and watched the stars and ate cheese sandwiches and listened to my big brother read stories to his two young sons. It was in that tree house that I finally cried over his death. It was in that tree house that I begged God to bring him back to me. Of course I remember the tree house, God ... of course I remember the tree house. By the time I pulled into my garage, tears were once again streaming down my cheeks as memories of times with Jerry in the tree house swept through my mind. I laid my head back on the headrest in my car as His whisper became a thundering truth pounding in my brain and spilling over into my heart.

"Climb into the branches of my grace and love, child ... climb into the tree house and rest in me. Remember the peace that embraced you as the wind blew through the tree and Jerry whistled in time with the breeze ... remember the safety that held you as Jerry wrapped a blanket around you in the cold ... remember the love, Terrie ... remember the love your brother gave so freely to you. Climb the ladder, Little Bit ... climb the ladder and come into the tree house with Me."

Lay it Down

Back when my three children were all in junior high and high school at the same time, I always had mixed emotions when school conferences came around twice each year. You see, unless I used vacation time, I had to go straight from work to their schools and try to speak with 18 or 21 teachers during the two evenings that conferences were scheduled. While it was awesome to hear the teachers tell me how smart my kids were and how well they were doing in school, I was always exhausted by the time I was done. But every year, I went to those parent teacher conferences ... every year, I went to those conferences because I loved my children and was determined to do my part to support them in receiving a good education.

Yesterday I sat between my daughter Meghann and my son Brad, and together we watched Matt as he received his Ph.D. ... his Doctor of Philosophy in Human Ecology. I wondered what thoughts were running through Brad and Meghann's minds as they watched their brother, if they were remembering times from their childhood or if they were contemplating the future. For some reason, I couldn't help but think about school conferences from when the three of them were young, about the teachers who had impacted my children's lives, about the deep love Matt has for learning, about the fact that Matt will soon be teaching students of his own in Canada.

The ceremony lasted a little over two hours, and after snapping a few pictures, we headed to Matt and Becca's apartment. They had decided a month or so ago that they wanted to have a cookout at their place to celebrate his graduation, and Matt had asked if my kiddos and I, along with Becca's parents, would hustle over to help get everything ready before their guests arrived. I should probably back up a bit and tell you that I had spent a good part of the night before and that morning throwing up, not because I was ill, but because I was nervous and anxious. My ex-husband, his girlfriend and his parents had come in from out of town to attend the ceremony and planned to attend the cookout as well. I'm not going to give details about my marriage ... I've said that before ... but in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent ... suffice it to say that not only did we have a bad marriage, anytime we've been forced to attend events together such as graduations or weddings, you could cut the tension between us with a knife ... a dull knife, in fact. It's one thing to experience that from a distance across a crowded reception hall or university arena, it's another thing altogether to experience it in the close quarters of a back yard or small apartment.

I've come to realize in the last few weeks that tension for me is no longer about anger or hurt, though it was in the early years after our divorce. The tension that exists for me now is about fear ... plain old unmitigated fear. So last night as I was sitting on the patio eating, I drew in a deep breath when I saw them walk through the gate ... and I thought, "Oh boy, here we go." My heart began to pound, and I felt goosebumps rise on my arms. And then, something happened ... all of a sudden, I realized that I wasn't afraid. Before I knew it, I stood up, put my plate down on my chair, and walked over to my former in-laws. I hugged and kissed them, and told them it was good to see them. I extended my hand to my ex-husband's girlfriend and introduced myself. And then ... then I extended my hand to my ex and said, "Hi ... how are you? I'm so very proud of our son today." Now before you think that the rest of the evening was perfect and filled with uplifting conversation between the two of us ... I said I wasn't afraid anymore, I didn't say that I suddenly became a saint. He and I didn't talk again until I was leaving and I went over and said goodbye to him. I did, however, spend most of my time at the cookout chatting with my ex in-laws ... and it was good, relaxed and tension free.

Yesterday was about Matt, all about Matt, and God in His infinite mercy chose to remove the fear and tension from my heart and replace it with grace. As I drove home alone after dropping Brad and Shelby off at his house, I couldn't help but recall the words of my doctor ... "You can't experience the kind of deep depression that you have and not be changed. It's impossible for it not to change you ... you will never be the same person again ... that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger, you know. You will be a stronger, more honest, more real person than you have ever been before. It will change you, Terrie, it will." It scares me more than a little, you know ... it scares me as to what those changes will be, and it scares me as to the pain that may accompany them. But last night ... last night, God helped me to lay down one enormous bag of fear, and I know in the deepest part of my soul that I won't be picking it up again. Remember my last post about baby steps? Just so you know, I'm still terrified of storms and airplanes and grass ... baby steps, friends ... baby steps ... baby steps ... baby steps.

God is good ... God is good ... all the time ... He is good.

Baby Steps

Twenty-six or so years ago (at least if I remember correctly, he was around a year old), I watched my son Matt take his first steps across the living room floor at our house on Boy Scout Road in Hixson, Tennessee. That sounds like such a long time ago, but today ... today, it feels like it was only yesterday that all three of my children were but babies in my arms. Each time I see my granddaughter C.J., even if it's only been a couple of weeks, she has grown and changed. In three short months, she's become a little person with her own unique personality and opinions. There's probably not a parent who hasn't said the words, "They grow up so fast." Because kids do, you know ... they do grow up so fast. Tomorrow, I will watch my son Matt walk across the stage in an arena and receive his Ph.D. ... tomorrow, my little boy who toddled across the living room will become a doctor.

Wednesday, I had appointments with both of my doctors, and both of them talked to me about baby steps ... more than a bit interesting in light of the fact that I've been thinking about the steps of babies since Matt, Becca and C.J. were here last Sunday. As I watched Matt talking and laughing with the people who came to wish him well as he and Becca prepare to move to Canada, I didn't see a young man about to receive his Ph.D. and start a new journey in his life. As I watched him across the room, my mind flashed back to him taking his first steps, to him reaching for my hands as he neared me, to him needing my help to get back up when he took a tumble. I thought about when C.J. would take her first steps and how Matt and Becca will watch her ... I thought about how far away they are moving and about the huge steps they will be taking over the next few months. I watched him ... and I thought about how much I love my son.

Baby steps ... small, tenuous steps. Baby steps ... a few at a time, falling time and time again, helping hands reaching to pick us up and encouraging us to give it another try ... baby steps may be the hardest ones we ever take in life, especially for those of us who aren't babies anymore, those of us who've been knocked down a time or two in life, those of us who are struggling to walk at all. Here's to little steps and big steps and all the steps in between ... here's to you, Dr. Mattie ... may God guide the steps you'll be taking not only tomorrow ... may He guide all the steps of your life. Here's to you, Dr. Mattie, and your baby steps from long ago ... here's to you, Dr. Mattie, and the man you have become.

Dear Fat Buddy

I've been thinking about you a lot lately for some reason, little fat buddy ... a whole, whole lot. There hasn't been a day go by since that fateful day in November of 2010 ... the day I cradled you in my arms and you took your final breath ... there hasn't been one day that I don't think about you, my furry friend. But for the last few weeks, my heart and mind have drifted toward you over and over again each day. It's weird, I know, and some people who read this post will think I've gone off the deep end for sure ... but today I read an article about the brains of dogs and the uncanny connection that sometimes forms between a human and a dog, and so I don't care if people think I'm crazy for writing you a letter. Heck, a ton of people already do think I'm loony, so what difference does it make if a few more join the group?

So many times  I wish that I could go for a long walk with you on our trail and tell you everything that's on my heart right now ... that I could pour out all the stuff in my soul to you like I used to when we walked together. I miss the way you would cock your head and look up at me, seeming not only to listen to every word I said as I talked but to understand as well. I miss those walks with you, J.R., I miss them so very much. I love to walk with Ollie, too, but it's different ... he's too busy peeing on everything and barking at all the big dogs we pass to listen to me. He's funny alright, and he makes me smile every single day. I'm so very thankful that he's with me, but Ollie's not the listener you were, little buddy ... no one, human or canine, is the listener you were.

A friend and I talked a couple of weeks ago about you being in heaven ... I can picture you there in my mind, fat buddy ... running and jumping and wagging your tail. I never told you, but one of the hardest parts of the week before you died was when you couldn't wag your tail anymore. I remember the first time you wagged your tail at me, just a little bit, and then more and more with every passing day. The truth is you didn't have much to wag your tail about before you found me, J.R. ... your few years of life had brought you nothing but pain, and humans had hurt you time and time again. I think that's part of why you were meant to be with me ... so that I could love you the way you deserved to be loved, so that you could learn to trust again, so that the last 15 months of your life would be happy ones. I hope your spot in heaven is filled with Cheetos and Milk Bones and butterflies and soft fleece blankets. I hope when you snuggle in for a nap that your little doggie mind dreams about an old gray-haired gal who wrapped you in a blanket and rocked you when it stormed, who rubbed your hurting little back, who read to you and talked to you and watched you play with Julie. I hope you dream about the day you'll see me again, and that you wait at the gates of heaven, wagging your tail and watching for me, fat buddy. 

The truth is it's been a rough couple of years for me, J.R., and sometimes I've wondered if I'll ever be able to really find my smile again. Oh, I can put it on when I have to ... you remember how good I am at covering up my pain, just like you were, buddy ... just like you were. I know that you hurt way more than you let me know, and now I know why, too. You chose to stay with me until you knew that I could go on without you, until you knew that I would keep walking, until you knew that I would wage a strong battle against diabetes. When I tell our story and that you died on World Diabetes Day, people say they get goosebumps ... even they know that was no coincidence or accident ... that was God's way of giving me a lasting reminder of how He used you to save me. You and I both know that's the biggest part of why you came to me, so that I would find out how sick I was. My doctor was right when she said you saved my life, little buddy ... you saved my life. I so wish I could have saved yours in return, furry friend, I so wish I could have saved yours.

I know I thanked you many times when you were with me, but I want to thank you again for what you did for me, J.R., because there's a very special little girl in my life now ... a very special little girl that I wouldn't have ever known if it weren't for you. I wish you were here to meet her ... C.J. is my granddaughter, J.R., and she's pretty incredible. She was at my house on Sunday, and she laughed out loud at me, buddy ... when she laughs, she kind of sounds like the ducks you and I used to see in the creek by the trail. She's moving to Canada in a few weeks with her mom and dad ... Matt's a doctor now, J.R., and he's going to be a professor at a university there. I have lots of reasons to thank you for saving me, fat buddy, but if I had no other reason, C.J. is worth a universe full of thank yous.

There's been a lot of big life stuff that's happened since you left, little guy, and I find myself so often longing that you were here to walk through it all with me. Even as I type those words, fat buddy, I know your spirit will be with me as long as I live ... and I want you to know ... I'm not giving up, J.R. ... I'm not giving up. Thank you, little warrior dog ... thank you.

Aloha

My nephew Charlie is one of the finest young men you will ever meet, a kind man, a noble man, a man of honor, a man of integrity ... and a man with an incredibly warped sense of humor. He once took a picture of his arm, made it look just like a person's butt cheeks and set it as the wallpaper on my phone, and it took me a month to figure out how to erase it. When he graduated from college, Charlie and his wife, Allison, moved to Hawaii for a few years ... what a place to be stationed for military duty, huh? I didn't get to talk to Charlie very often while he lived on the island ... that was before the days of unlimited cell phone minutes ... but when I did call him, he would answer the phone with a lilting "Aloha," the Hawaiian word for hello. And when we finished talking, Charlie would close our conversation with, "Love you ... aloha." You see, in Hawaiian, aloha means both hello and goodbye ... which I think is completely weird. I mean, come on ... it seems to me that I would always be wondering whether I was coming or going.

Yesterday afternoon, several people dropped by my house to say hello to little C.J. ... and to say goodbye to Matt and Becca, and wish them well in their move to Canada. Meghann and my son-in-law Barrett, and Brad and his girlfriend Shelby were here, and it was good to have them all home for the day; in fact, it's been a long time since we were all together here at my house ... and I was very aware as I watched my kiddos yesterday that it will be a long time before it happens again. I had gone to bed completely exhausted Saturday night, with every single muscle in my body aching after working in the yard and cleaning house all day. As I watched my children talking and laughing and hugging all the people who came and went throughout the afternoon, I knew that all my hard work was worth it ... it was so, so worth it to see their smiles and hear their voices as they recalled memory after memory with those who have been such big parts of their lives down through the years.

It was a bittersweet time for me ... knowing that every person who walked through my front door yesterday was coming to say hello to C.J., but also to say goodbye to Matt and Becca. Those of you who have been reading along with me know that tears seem to never be far away from the surface for me now, and I had ducked into the bathroom several times yesterday to throw cold water on my face in an attempt to keep myself from crying. It ended up not working, of course, and before the afternoon was over, I was a weepy mess. But ... but ... but ... Matt and Becca were having such a good time ... smiling, laughing, hugging ... they are so excited about the adventure they are getting ready to embark upon. And C.J. ... C.J. is perfect ... she laughed out loud at her old Granny, probably because she knows just how crazy I really am.

Our day ended with the plans we had to go to dinner to celebrate Meghann's birthday being changed ... most of us spent the evening in my basement with the tornado sirens sounding and the weather reports saying that a tornado had touched down not far from my house. I say most of us because Meghann and Barrett had gone on to the restaurant in spite of the sirens, and they had a great steak dinner without us. They will tease us for as long as we live about being weenies and hunkering down in the basement ... with my Julie and Ollie, three additional wiener dogs, and my neighbors and their cat. And yes, for those of you who are wondering, I was in total panic, freak-out mode, and my children had a front row seat to witness my irrational storm behavior. I cried buckets after all the kids left, and I made each of them promise to call me when they got to their respective homes. I finally drifted off to sleep, albeit a fitful one, around midnight, in spite of the still rumbling thunder that growled in the sky and the flashing lightning that filled my bedroom with light. And my last thought as my eyes began to droop ... the final picture in my tired and weary mind was of Matt ... holding his precious daughter as he beamed with pride and joy, laughing and smiling as he saw old friends, shooting looks of adoration to his equally adoring wife, savoring his time and making the most of each moment.

So thank you  ... thank you to all of you who came to say hello and goodbye, for the support and encouragement you've given to my family over the years, for loving us in the good times and the bad ... thank you for being our friends and for allowing our family to be part of yours.

The Bad Egg

Pancakes smothered in butter and syrup. French toast with powdered sugar on top. Buttery cinnamon toast with white sugar. Brown sugar cinnamon oatmeal. Grits with butter and honey. S'mores Pop-Tarts. Chocolate chip muffins. Cinnamon Life cereal. Biscuits and gravy. All of those yummy food items (plus a few others I could list ... think two pieces of toasted bread slathered with peanut butter, sliced bananas and honey) used to be among my favorite things to consume for breakfast ... "used to be" being the key words in that statement. Used to be my favorite breakfast items before diabetes came calling ... actually, in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, I sometimes ate S'mores Pop-Tarts for dinner, too ... I really, really, really liked Pop-Tarts.

My love for the breakfast meal goes way back to when I was a kid; it was always, and still is, my favorite meal of the day. Back when I was young, though, loving breakfast really had little to do with what I ate and everything to do with the morning ritual that took place between me and Mom and Daddy. Mom would make breakfast for me and Daddy, hand it to us through the pass-through opening in the cabinets while we sat at the bar, and then she would stand at the opening and eat her own breakfast from the counter as her and Daddy chatted about the day ahead. Looking back now, I can't help but wonder why we did breakfast that way ... I can't help but wonder why we didn't all sit together at the table and eat. Maybe that's one of those "when I see them again in heaven" questions to ask. At any rate, when Daddy and I finished eating, he would gather my plate and his and take them to the sink. He would pack up the things he needed for the day, including his lunch that Mom had packed for him into his metal lunchbox along with his giant Stanley thermos filled with coffee. And then ... then he would pat me on the head and give me a hug and tell me to have a good day and to behave (I have no idea why he felt the need to add the "behave" comment every day), and he would wrap his arms around Mom and plant a big kiss on her lips. For many years, I would say, "Gross!" but as I aged, I grew to understand and appreciate the love and affection Daddy's daily morning kiss conveyed to Mom.

With the exception of when I've been traveling, I have eaten the exact same thing for breakfast for the last two and a half years ... three eggs over easy mixed with chive and onion cream cheese, and a glass of almond milk with sugar-free chocolate syrup. I've mentioned many times that food is just food to me now; I rarely get excited about meals like I used to ... except for breakfast. That's the only meal I look forward to every single day, even now when I have little to no appetite because of my new medication ... until Wednesday morning anyway. For all the eggs I've eaten, I have never experienced what I did on Wednesday. I sprayed my skillet with olive oil, cracked the first egg and almost threw up when the egg fell from the shell. Instead of the yolk being yellow and intact, it was ... it was ... well, it was bloody and runny and disgusting. I immediately grabbed the skillet and washed the bad egg down the garbage disposal in the sink, and then I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed my small skillet to make sure there was no trace of grossness left in it. I put it back on the stove and cracked three more eggs ... perfectly normal, good eggs ... and cooked them just like I do every morning. But here's the thing ... I could not bring myself to eat those eggs because of the one bad egg that had preceded them. I tried for a half hour to eat those eggs, friends, and I just couldn't do it. One bad egg had ruined the only meal I enjoyed ... one stupid little egg had taken away the only food joy I had left, and I ended up eating peanut butter for breakfast while I prayed that I wouldn't throw up as I drove to work.

I finally ate eggs again this morning, and as I sat on my couch eating, it struck me that perhaps there was a huge, gigantic, enormous lesson in that bad egg from Wednesday. And the more I've thought about it today, the more convinced I am that there is indeed something God wants to teach me. That disgusting egg was probably rotten, and had I eaten it, there is no doubt that it would have made me sick. Just coming near it ... just looking at it ... just the very thought of it made me sick, so had I actually consumed it ... just thinking about what could have happened makes me queasy all over again. And the lesson God has for me? Sin is a lot like that bad egg ... it only takes one sinful thought or action to sicken my heart. Even if all my other thoughts or actions are pure, the rottenness of sin can cause a detachment and separation from what is good or holy in my life. It shouldn't surprise me, I suppose, that God would choose to use something as small as an egg to teach me about something as big as sin ... it shouldn't surprise me at all.

"Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things." Philippians 4:8

Grass vs. Weeds

I'm pretty sure the only time I ever really enjoyed mowing the yard was when I was a kid and got to mow with Daddy's Snapper Comet riding lawn mower. That was more like riding a go-kart for an hour and a half than it was actually performing a chore. I can still remember that mower ... going as fast as I could on the straight parts and waiting until the last moment to slow down on the curves. But what I remember even more was that Daddy would let me do the easy part and ride on the Snapper and mow while he would do the hard part and use the push mower to do all the trimming. You know ... there are some things you don't realize when you're young ... like how lonely Mom must have been all those years she lived alone ... alone when Daddy was so sick with Alzheimer's, bedridden and having no idea who she was ... alone after he died, in that big old house all by herself. Or how much Daddy's legs hurt as he grew older ... how he would put hot towels on his calf muscles when they would cramp and ache ... how his legs must have hurt as he walked behind the push mower around his large yard. Yep ... there are some things you don't realize when you're young ... and when you finally understand them as an adult ... there are some things you wish you could go back and change.

Since I didn't feel too great last weekend, I didn't mow my yard like I normally do most Saturdays and Sundays during the spring and summer months. The weather guys were predicting storms and rain last night (yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, but after my favorite weather guy said there wasn't going to be severe weather, I slept in my bed instead of in the basement in my fort), so I hustled home from work, took care of Julie and Ollie, ate dinner, and headed outside to mow. I knew that if it rained, the grass would grow quickly and I didn't want to have to bag the clippings ... I hate it when the grass gets too tall and I have to bag it. It takes me three times as long to mow when I have to do that, and I hate the whole process of bagging ... stopping and emptying the heavy lawn mower bag into paper lawn bags, starting the mower over and over again, dragging the full bags to the curb for pickup. Thankfully, I just had to mow last night and not bag ... I'll have to mow again this weekend, but I'd rather mow twice than bag once.

I've been in a nostalgic mood lately, and as I pushed the mower through the grass last night, I couldn't help but think about how different my children were when it came to yard work when they were young. Matt loved working in the yard and growing flowers, and my yard always looked great when he lived at home. Brad hated mowing, planting, raking, gardening, mulching ... you name it, he simply hated working in the yard. And Meghann fell kind of in the middle ... she enjoyed mowing and she liked eating the vegetables from the garden, but she didn't care much for planting or weeding. As I mowed and thought about those days when the kids were here ... yep, I got pretty teary. All my kids will be here on Sunday ... a few people are coming over to meet C.J. and say goodbye to Matt and Becca before they move to Canada, and Meghann's birthday is on Monday so we'll get to celebrate with her while we are together, too. I couldn't help but think that the times when we will all be together will probably not happen very often once Matt, Becca and C.J. move ... yep, more tears.

When I finished mowing, I walked around the yard pulling weeds from the mulch around my shrubbery and lilies, and I looked at the flowers I had planted in my hanging baskets and pots on the deck. I sure wouldn't have so many weeds in the yard if Matt were taking care of the yard, I thought. He always knew how to stop the weeds from taking over the grass ... and now I've got more weeds than grass. I kicked off my yard-mowing shoes in the garage, put on my slippers and took Julie and Ollie outside to play for a while before it got dark and the rain came. Grass vs. weeds, I thought ... grass vs. weeds. Tossing the ball to Julie and smiling as Ollie tried his best to beat her to it, I began to think about the weeds in my life ... about how easy it is to let the weeds overrun the grass of my heart ... about how quickly those weeds can sprout and choke out the grass ... about how much I need to soak in the fertilizer of God's Word, how much I need to accept the weed killer of His correction and conviction, how much I need the rain of His forgiveness and the sunlight of His love.

"So I said, ‘I have been expelled from Your sight. Nevertheless I will look again toward Your holy temple.’ Water encompassed me to the point of death. The great deep engulfed me, weeds were wrapped around my head. I descended to the roots of the mountains. The earth with its bars was around me forever, but You have brought up my life from the pit, O LORD my God." Jonah 2:4-6