Gatlinburg, Tennessee, is a quaint little town near the entrance to Great Smoky Mountains National Park. It's filled with shops, restaurants, hotels and log cabins, and even a ski resort (though if you've ever been skiing in Colorado, it's more like skiing a hill than a mountain ... but great fun nonetheless). I've visited Gatlinburg many times in my life, and Brad, Meghann and I spent a few days there over Thanksgiving the year my mom passed away. While several of my Gatlinburg trips contain sweet memories for me, there is one in particular that holds a very special place in my heart. I was young, maybe seven or eight years old, when Mom and Dad and I went there for a weekend. Kids being kids, I begged and begged for every toy I saw, and was thrilled when Daddy finally consented to buy me a stuffed, plush, furry Smokey Bear. From that day forward, Smokey slept in bed with me, rode in the car with me, sat in a chair at the dinner table next to me ... for ... a ... lot ... of ... years. I loved Smokey, so much that when he became worn and threadbare, Mom sewed patches on him for me. Go ahead and laugh or make fun of me ... I slept with that Smokey Bear until I was in college ... OK ... until I was a senior in college.
I think it was when I was in junior high or maybe early high school that I developed an affinity for the Peanuts comic strip, and in particular, I was crazy about the dog Snoopy. In an attempt to get me to part with my ratty, worn-out, dingy Smokey Bear, Mom bought me a stuffed Snoopy ... obviously since I was still snuggling with Smokey when I was in college, her plan didn't pan out. Oh, don't get me wrong ... I loved the stuffed Snoopy a ton, and quickly added him into my nightly sleeping routine. For the life of me, I can't remember whatever happened to Smokey and Snoopy, but I'm assuming that Mom eventually tossed them into the trash. Mom didn't have much of a sentimental streak when it came to possessions, unlike me who still has boxes of stuff in the basement from when my kids were young.
I'm not sure why, but I started thinking about Smokey Bear and Snoopy as I drove home from lunch with my kiddos on Thursday ... our last time together as a family before Matt left for Canada yesterday. Perhaps it was because I was longing for something to comfort my aching heart; perhaps it was because I was wishing I could turn back time; perhaps it was because I was thinking about Mom; perhaps it was because I was remembering the times that I would cuddle my Smokey Bear and Snoopy and cry myself to sleep. We had a great time together, by the way, my children and I. The food was delicious, and the fellowship was sweet. We did some shopping and had some tasty frozen yogurt (no sugar added blueberry for me). I gave C.J. lots and lots of Granny kisses on her cute little cheeks and told her how much I'm going to miss her. And yes, I cried big time when the time came to hug Matt and say goodbye.
I had appointments with both of my doctors on Thursday morning before I went to meet my kids ... and yes, I know the doctors planned those appointments deliberately to help me get through the day. The second doctor said something that struck a chord deep within me ... some things in life are big, especially when you're a mother ... today, you don't have to be strong ... today, you can cry all the tears you need to cry ... today is one of the big things in life. I sobbed at both of those appointments, by the way, which is probably why I was able to hold it together for most of the time I was with my children ... until the goodbyes, of course, and then the floodgates opened. I've thought again today about her words ... some things in life are big ... and I've realized something. Even if I still had them, Smokey Bear and Snoopy wouldn't comfort me the way they did when I was young ... back then, I hadn't experienced very many of life's big things. It was easy to seek refuge and solace in my room with my head buried under the covers, holding tightly to my favorite stuffed animals.
Life is way more complicated now than when I was young, and it's filled to the brim with big things. And now more than ever, I know there's only one place to find refuge and solace ... only one place to bury my heart and soul ... only One to hold tightly, One to go to for comfort, One in whom to place my trust.
Thank You, Father, for always being with me ... for Your comfort ... for Your love ... for Your grace ... for Your mercy ... for Your protection ... for Your forgiveness. Thank You for being with me in the big things of life ... the great big things of life.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Dear Mom
Sitting on the table next to your chair the night you passed away was a list ... for as far back as I can remember, you were a list maker. You often said that lists helped to keep life in order. Right now, Mom, my life is kind of out of whack, so I thought maybe I should make a couple of lists ... a couple of lists for you, Mom.
Things I didn't understand about you, Mom:
I didn't understand how you loved me before you even knew me. I didn't understand why you wouldn't eat until you made sure I was fed. I didn't understand the nights you laid in your bed wide awake until I came home. I didn't understand the way you would patiently read to me for hours and hours and hours. I didn't understand why you wanted me to always wear clean underwear in case I was in an accident. I didn't understand what it meant to you when I graduated from college with honors. I didn't understand how important your advice to me about choosing my friends wisely really was. I didn't understand all the times you managed to clean me up when I was sick without getting sick yourself. I didn't understand how it wounded your soul when I hurled hurtful words at you. I didn't understand why you wanted me to look both ways before I crossed the street. I didn't understand your tears on my wedding day. I didn't understand your insistence that the toilet paper should roll from the top. I didn't understand how lonely you were after Daddy was gone. I didn't understand why you told me to wash my hands a lot. I didn't understand the sadness that permeated your heart when I moved far away from you. I didn't understand how much you missed spending time with your grandchildren. I didn't understand that you always wanted the best and most incredible life for me, no matter where that life took me. I didn't understand your unconditional, unfailing, unending love for me.
Things I understand about you now, Mom ... because I'm a mom, too:
Every single thing in the first list ... every single thing.
Things I didn't understand about you, Mom:
I didn't understand how you loved me before you even knew me. I didn't understand why you wouldn't eat until you made sure I was fed. I didn't understand the nights you laid in your bed wide awake until I came home. I didn't understand the way you would patiently read to me for hours and hours and hours. I didn't understand why you wanted me to always wear clean underwear in case I was in an accident. I didn't understand what it meant to you when I graduated from college with honors. I didn't understand how important your advice to me about choosing my friends wisely really was. I didn't understand all the times you managed to clean me up when I was sick without getting sick yourself. I didn't understand how it wounded your soul when I hurled hurtful words at you. I didn't understand why you wanted me to look both ways before I crossed the street. I didn't understand your tears on my wedding day. I didn't understand your insistence that the toilet paper should roll from the top. I didn't understand how lonely you were after Daddy was gone. I didn't understand why you told me to wash my hands a lot. I didn't understand the sadness that permeated your heart when I moved far away from you. I didn't understand how much you missed spending time with your grandchildren. I didn't understand that you always wanted the best and most incredible life for me, no matter where that life took me. I didn't understand your unconditional, unfailing, unending love for me.
Things I understand about you now, Mom ... because I'm a mom, too:
Every single thing in the first list ... every single thing.
Sunday, June 24, 2012
The Brotherhood
Some of the memories I have from the days of my youth seem rather odd to me ... not the memories themselves, but the fact that I remember every single detail of some pretty inconsequential events and yet for the life of me can't remember the specifics about some of the most life-altering ones. For example, I don't remember much at all about my dad's funeral service, but I remember very well the times I tossed firewood off the back of his truck to him so he could stack it on the wood racks under the shed. If I close my eyes, I can't picture the church on the day of his funeral or who was there or who I sat with or what the minister said. But if I close my eyes and think about tossing the firewood ... I can see the green of Daddy's truck and recall the smell of the wood and picture the gloves and overalls we wore and recall the way Daddy would take out a handkerchief and wipe the sweat from his brow as we worked. While I'm sure that my lack of being able to remember certain events in detail may have some deep psychological root or meaning, it may also simply mean that I'm getting old and just can't remember as well as I used to. Within the group of memories that seem to have no real significance or philosophical truth resides one about a basketball ... a red, white and blue basketball.
Daddy was forever building things, and one of the things he built was a basketball goal for me. It wasn't one of the fancy ones that most kids have nowadays ... Daddy made it from some old pipes that he welded together and a piece of wood that he cut and painted for the backboard. The only thing he bought from a store was the hoop and the net, and could he have come up with a way to have created those, I'm sure he would have. I remember the day that Daddy installed the goal at the end of the long driveway that went from the street down to the detached garage ... I was beyond excited to have my very own goal where I could hone my basketball skills. When he was finished, Daddy had a twinkle in his eye as he told me to go check the front seat of his truck. My excitement shifted into overdrive when I saw the basketball ... a red, white and blue basketball ... just like the Harlem Globetrotters used to play with ... a real leather basketball, too, not a cheap rubber one ... a red, white and blue real leather basketball. Daddy and I played a game of one-on-one that evening, and I totally let him win ... seemed like the right thing to do after how hard he worked to make the goal for me and bought me such an awesome basketball. I remember every single detail of that day ... every single one, friends.
I had a wonderful day yesterday loving on C.J. ... she is a precious little girl ... beautiful, happy, and a genius of course. Matt grilled steaks and chicken for lunch, and we spent most of the afternoon hanging out around the pool. I had picked up Brad and Shelby on my way to Manhattan, and I enjoyed listening to my sons laugh and talk and enjoy their time together. Several times throughout the day, my eyes would well with tears and a lump would form in my throat, but thankfully, I was able to hold it together for most of the day. For all the sentimental feelings that flooded my heart yesterday, however, it was what happened when we returned to Matt and Becca's after dinner that touched me to the core of my soul. Matt and Becca have lived for the last few years in an apartment over the garage of the home of the gentleman who was the owner of the apartment building they moved into when they first got married. He quickly grew to consider Matt and Becca as family, and when his garage apartment became available, he offered it to them and even helped them move. Four of the man's grandchildren live in the house right next door, and Grandpa made sure to have a basketball goal at the side of his driveway so the kids could shoot hoops whenever they wanted. As we got out of the car when we got back to Matt and Becca's, Brad said, "I want to play basketball." Matt raised the goal to big boy height, and Brad, Matt and Shelby began to shoot baskets. It's really hot in Kansas right now, and after a few minutes, Becca, C.J., Shelby and I went inside and watched Matt and Brad through a large window in their living room that gave us a perfect view of the boys as they played.
Needless to say, it was a short hop from watching my adult sons playing basketball yesterday to remembering the two of them and their sister playing basketball on our driveway so many years ago. (And by the way, Meghann could always whoop up on her brothers in basketball ... always.) As I watched them, I realized they weren't just goofing around, they were competing ... each one trying his best to steal the ball from the other, to block shots, to make baskets, to win. My heart was heavy as I acknowledged deep within that it will be a long time ... and that I may indeed never see my sons playing basketball together again. But as I gazed at them, I realized something far more important ... something that had nothing at all to do with basketball and everything to do with them being brothers. Matt and Brad have gone through some rocky times over the years, as did Meghann and her brothers ... so rocky that I feared the three of them would never find their way back together. I remember that time well, and I remember how much it hurt my heart. And ... and ... and ... I can't begin to tell you how much it means to me that my children are now close once again.
For all the times I've felt like a failure as a mom, yesterday was one time when I felt like maybe I at least did a few things right along the way. Thursday, we will all gather together for lunch one last time to say our goodbyes before Matt, Becca and C.J. move to Canada, meeting in the town where Brad lives because he has to work later in the afternoon. My little family will all be together ... all six young adults and my baby granddaughter. I'm sure there will be laughter ... I'm sure there will be tears ... I'm sure there will be love.
I want you to know, kiddos, that your presence in my life is the sweetest thing I've ever known ... I'm proud of all of you, of who you are and who you are becoming. For all the changes that will come your way in life, one thing will never change ... my love for each one of you. Here's to basketball games and fishing in Colorado and peeing on the tree in Granny's front yard and watching Dawson's Creek and Survivor and Gilmore Girls and outings with Gramma Sherri and singed hair from lighting the grill and sneaking out bedroom windows and driver's license tests and cleaning at church and ski trips and 19-year-old smelly dogs and playing games at Annie's house and going to midnight movies and eating way too much pizza ... here's to the three most amazing people I've ever known ... I love you more than words can ever tell.
Daddy was forever building things, and one of the things he built was a basketball goal for me. It wasn't one of the fancy ones that most kids have nowadays ... Daddy made it from some old pipes that he welded together and a piece of wood that he cut and painted for the backboard. The only thing he bought from a store was the hoop and the net, and could he have come up with a way to have created those, I'm sure he would have. I remember the day that Daddy installed the goal at the end of the long driveway that went from the street down to the detached garage ... I was beyond excited to have my very own goal where I could hone my basketball skills. When he was finished, Daddy had a twinkle in his eye as he told me to go check the front seat of his truck. My excitement shifted into overdrive when I saw the basketball ... a red, white and blue basketball ... just like the Harlem Globetrotters used to play with ... a real leather basketball, too, not a cheap rubber one ... a red, white and blue real leather basketball. Daddy and I played a game of one-on-one that evening, and I totally let him win ... seemed like the right thing to do after how hard he worked to make the goal for me and bought me such an awesome basketball. I remember every single detail of that day ... every single one, friends.
I had a wonderful day yesterday loving on C.J. ... she is a precious little girl ... beautiful, happy, and a genius of course. Matt grilled steaks and chicken for lunch, and we spent most of the afternoon hanging out around the pool. I had picked up Brad and Shelby on my way to Manhattan, and I enjoyed listening to my sons laugh and talk and enjoy their time together. Several times throughout the day, my eyes would well with tears and a lump would form in my throat, but thankfully, I was able to hold it together for most of the day. For all the sentimental feelings that flooded my heart yesterday, however, it was what happened when we returned to Matt and Becca's after dinner that touched me to the core of my soul. Matt and Becca have lived for the last few years in an apartment over the garage of the home of the gentleman who was the owner of the apartment building they moved into when they first got married. He quickly grew to consider Matt and Becca as family, and when his garage apartment became available, he offered it to them and even helped them move. Four of the man's grandchildren live in the house right next door, and Grandpa made sure to have a basketball goal at the side of his driveway so the kids could shoot hoops whenever they wanted. As we got out of the car when we got back to Matt and Becca's, Brad said, "I want to play basketball." Matt raised the goal to big boy height, and Brad, Matt and Shelby began to shoot baskets. It's really hot in Kansas right now, and after a few minutes, Becca, C.J., Shelby and I went inside and watched Matt and Brad through a large window in their living room that gave us a perfect view of the boys as they played.
Needless to say, it was a short hop from watching my adult sons playing basketball yesterday to remembering the two of them and their sister playing basketball on our driveway so many years ago. (And by the way, Meghann could always whoop up on her brothers in basketball ... always.) As I watched them, I realized they weren't just goofing around, they were competing ... each one trying his best to steal the ball from the other, to block shots, to make baskets, to win. My heart was heavy as I acknowledged deep within that it will be a long time ... and that I may indeed never see my sons playing basketball together again. But as I gazed at them, I realized something far more important ... something that had nothing at all to do with basketball and everything to do with them being brothers. Matt and Brad have gone through some rocky times over the years, as did Meghann and her brothers ... so rocky that I feared the three of them would never find their way back together. I remember that time well, and I remember how much it hurt my heart. And ... and ... and ... I can't begin to tell you how much it means to me that my children are now close once again.
For all the times I've felt like a failure as a mom, yesterday was one time when I felt like maybe I at least did a few things right along the way. Thursday, we will all gather together for lunch one last time to say our goodbyes before Matt, Becca and C.J. move to Canada, meeting in the town where Brad lives because he has to work later in the afternoon. My little family will all be together ... all six young adults and my baby granddaughter. I'm sure there will be laughter ... I'm sure there will be tears ... I'm sure there will be love.
I want you to know, kiddos, that your presence in my life is the sweetest thing I've ever known ... I'm proud of all of you, of who you are and who you are becoming. For all the changes that will come your way in life, one thing will never change ... my love for each one of you. Here's to basketball games and fishing in Colorado and peeing on the tree in Granny's front yard and watching Dawson's Creek and Survivor and Gilmore Girls and outings with Gramma Sherri and singed hair from lighting the grill and sneaking out bedroom windows and driver's license tests and cleaning at church and ski trips and 19-year-old smelly dogs and playing games at Annie's house and going to midnight movies and eating way too much pizza ... here's to the three most amazing people I've ever known ... I love you more than words can ever tell.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
The Little Apple
I've never been to New York City ... the Big Apple ... and I'm not so sure I ever want to go either. I have, however, made many trips to Manhattan, Kansas ... known here in the Midwest as the Little Apple (they actually have a big New Year's Eve celebration each year and have been featured on television on the big night). Since Matt moved there to attend Manhattan Christian College nine years ago, I've made the two-hour drive more times than I can remember. I'm leaving in a few minutes to make the drive one more time so that I can spend the day loving on my sweet granddaughter C.J. before she becomes an official Canadian. I'm quite sure that this day will be a bittersweet one for me for sure, but I fully intend to soak in every moment and kiss C.J.'s fat little baby cheeks a ton before I make the two-hour drive home tonight.
So have a good weekend, friends ... I pray that you all get to spend some time with those you love ... I pray that you savor every moment ... I pray God's blessings for each of you as you go through your day.
So have a good weekend, friends ... I pray that you all get to spend some time with those you love ... I pray that you savor every moment ... I pray God's blessings for each of you as you go through your day.
"Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous! Do not tremble or be dismayed, for the Lord your God is with you wherever you go." Joshua 1:9
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Hey, Batter Batter
Sometimes I wonder how many hours of my life I've spent at softball and baseball fields, both when I played and when I watched the games of all three of my children. As much as I loved playing second base for many, many years, the joy and excitement of those games paled in comparison to the first time I saw each one of my kiddos walk onto the diamond in their adorable little uniforms. I have so many memories of them playing ... so many sweet and precious memories. Sometimes they were on teams that won all of their games in the season and went on to win the tournament, and sometimes they were on teams that didn't win a single game all season long. It didn't matter to me, however, if my kids' teams won their games or not ... I just loved watching them play.
There's a baseball field next to the trail where I walk or ride my bike; in fact, my sons played many games on that very field. Last night, I decided to take Ollie for a short walk since he was going crazy in the house. I think Julie was happy when I took him away from her for a little while because he was pestering the daylights out of her in a big way. I woke up teary yesterday morning, and I had fought all day against completely losing it while I was at work. I'm sure part of it was that I'm always more emotional for a couple of days after I have fasting blood work, but more than anything, it was because it's only a little over a week until my son Matt leaves for Canada. Ollie and I hadn't walked very far at all until tears filled my eyes and spilled out onto the trail beneath my feet, and by the time we reached the baseball field, I was crying my heart out. I looked toward the field and saw that there was a game being played ... a baseball game was being played by little boys in adorable uniforms. Stopping dead in my tracks, I said to Ollie, "Look, wiener dog ... look at the little boys playing baseball. My little boy is leaving, Ollie bear ... he's leaving and he's going very far away." Ollie and I stood at the edge of the trail for a long while watching the little guys play ... him wagging his tail and tugging on his leash, and me trying to wipe my tears with the top of my t-shirt as memories of my children's softball and baseball games raced through my mind.
By the time I finally told Ollie that it was time to go home, the sun was beginning to dip low in the sky and was creating one of the beautiful Kansas sunsets I've grown to love living out here on the Plains. As I pushed the button to open my garage door, I sighed deeply. Next week is going to be hard, Ollie bear, really hard. I can't stand to think about saying goodbye to Matt and Becca and C.J., buddy ... I can't stand the thought of it. Coming into the house and seeing my old Julie creep up off the floor and lumber toward me, I rubbed her head and looked deeply into her golden eyes. "I don't like goodbyes, Julie girl ... I don't like them at all." I've had so many Matt memories pounding in my mind for the last couple of weeks, and as I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed, I thought about the little boys I had watched playing baseball ... I thought about my little boys and my little girl. I closed my eyes and tried to recall the sound of their voices ... "Hey, batter batter! Hey, batter batter ... swing!"
I'm going to miss you, Mattie ... I'm going to miss you a whole lot. But ... you hit a home run in scoring your professorship, buddy, and it's almost time for you to run around the bases and step on home plate. Hey, batter batter ... I'm proud of you, son.
There's a baseball field next to the trail where I walk or ride my bike; in fact, my sons played many games on that very field. Last night, I decided to take Ollie for a short walk since he was going crazy in the house. I think Julie was happy when I took him away from her for a little while because he was pestering the daylights out of her in a big way. I woke up teary yesterday morning, and I had fought all day against completely losing it while I was at work. I'm sure part of it was that I'm always more emotional for a couple of days after I have fasting blood work, but more than anything, it was because it's only a little over a week until my son Matt leaves for Canada. Ollie and I hadn't walked very far at all until tears filled my eyes and spilled out onto the trail beneath my feet, and by the time we reached the baseball field, I was crying my heart out. I looked toward the field and saw that there was a game being played ... a baseball game was being played by little boys in adorable uniforms. Stopping dead in my tracks, I said to Ollie, "Look, wiener dog ... look at the little boys playing baseball. My little boy is leaving, Ollie bear ... he's leaving and he's going very far away." Ollie and I stood at the edge of the trail for a long while watching the little guys play ... him wagging his tail and tugging on his leash, and me trying to wipe my tears with the top of my t-shirt as memories of my children's softball and baseball games raced through my mind.
By the time I finally told Ollie that it was time to go home, the sun was beginning to dip low in the sky and was creating one of the beautiful Kansas sunsets I've grown to love living out here on the Plains. As I pushed the button to open my garage door, I sighed deeply. Next week is going to be hard, Ollie bear, really hard. I can't stand to think about saying goodbye to Matt and Becca and C.J., buddy ... I can't stand the thought of it. Coming into the house and seeing my old Julie creep up off the floor and lumber toward me, I rubbed her head and looked deeply into her golden eyes. "I don't like goodbyes, Julie girl ... I don't like them at all." I've had so many Matt memories pounding in my mind for the last couple of weeks, and as I brushed my teeth and got ready for bed, I thought about the little boys I had watched playing baseball ... I thought about my little boys and my little girl. I closed my eyes and tried to recall the sound of their voices ... "Hey, batter batter! Hey, batter batter ... swing!"
I'm going to miss you, Mattie ... I'm going to miss you a whole lot. But ... you hit a home run in scoring your professorship, buddy, and it's almost time for you to run around the bases and step on home plate. Hey, batter batter ... I'm proud of you, son.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Visiting the Vampire
I've never cared much for vampire stories (sorry to all you Twilight fans out there), but there is one vampire movie that I will stop and watch anytime it's on television ... Interview with a Vampire starring Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise. It's a movie not for the faint of heart, for sure, but it's a film laden with lessons about life and death, love and hate, compassion and cruelty. Each time I watch the movie, I am always struck by both the beginning and the ending of the story. The story begins in the then Spanish Louisiana
in 1791, when the protagonist Louis (Brad Pitt) was 24 and suffering from a death
wish after the death of his wife in childbirth along with the baby. The
vampire Lestat de Lioncourt (Tom Cruise) offers him a chance to be reborn as a vampire, and he accepts. Lestat turns Louis and teaches him how to live as a vampire. The story returns full circle in its ending with Lestat offering the dying reporter Malloy (who is the interviewer telling the story, hence the name of the film) "the choice he never had" to become a vampire and live forever. There's a ton of story that happens between the beginning and the end, but those opening and closing scenes are among the most powerful to me ... the first about a man wanting to die, and the last about a man wanting to live.
This morning, I was a wobbly mess when my friend arrived to drive me to the doctor's office for my much-hated and dreaded fasting blood work. I haven't had the tests for several months ... I think my doctor didn't want to push me off the deep end by insisting that I have them done as frequently as I had before. I suppose, however, that my extended lapse in testing and the need to know what's going on inside my body caused her to decide that the possibility of me jumping off a cliff was worth the risk. Diabetes and fasting is just not a good combination for me; when my blood sugar gets really low, I shake and sway ... and believe it or not ... cry a lot, say things I shouldn't and am quite a grump. I have a hard time remembering what I say or do, and I always worry that I'll say something revealing or inappropriate or do something just plain stupid. In fact, I think I remember running into a chair in the doctor's office this morning and calling one of my son's dogs a not so nice name. One of these days, my friend is going to say she's done putting up with me ... and I wouldn't blame her one little bit.
This morning, I was a wobbly mess when my friend arrived to drive me to the doctor's office for my much-hated and dreaded fasting blood work. I haven't had the tests for several months ... I think my doctor didn't want to push me off the deep end by insisting that I have them done as frequently as I had before. I suppose, however, that my extended lapse in testing and the need to know what's going on inside my body caused her to decide that the possibility of me jumping off a cliff was worth the risk. Diabetes and fasting is just not a good combination for me; when my blood sugar gets really low, I shake and sway ... and believe it or not ... cry a lot, say things I shouldn't and am quite a grump. I have a hard time remembering what I say or do, and I always worry that I'll say something revealing or inappropriate or do something just plain stupid. In fact, I think I remember running into a chair in the doctor's office this morning and calling one of my son's dogs a not so nice name. One of these days, my friend is going to say she's done putting up with me ... and I wouldn't blame her one little bit.
As is often the case, my blood didn't want to cooperate this morning, and the nurses had trouble getting enough to fill all the tubes needed for all the various tests and it seemed to take forever. I've been told so many times that I'm a "hard stick" ... it's almost impossible for the nurses to get blood from my arms, so they've learned to put the needle in the top of my hand (and yes, that hurts worse than the arm, friends, much, much worse). Sitting with my head resting on the arm of the chair thinking that the nurses were never going to be finished and wondering if they were draining every ounce of blood from my body, I started thinking about vampires ... more specifically, I started thinking about the Interview with a Vampire movie ... I started thinking about the beginning and the ending ... one man wanting to die and one man wanting to live. I wondered if it hurts to become a vampire ... I wondered if there really are such things as vampires ... I wondered about wanting to die ... I wondered about wanting to live ... I wondered why anyone would choose to make their living sticking needles into people and sucking their blood into little glass tubes ... I wondered about beginnings and endings, life and death, love and hate, compassion and cruelty.
The best part of fasting blood work is getting to eat a McDonald's breakfast burrito after my friend and I leave the doctor's office ... I'm not sure how that tradition started, but it's definitely my favorite part of the vampire visit mornings. I usually just eat the inside of the burrito and not the tortilla, but this morning I ate every single bite, tortilla and all ... and my friend even stopped and got me a Starbucks iced soy decaf latte with sugar-free caramel ... in case I haven't mentioned it before, I miss Starbucks ... a lot. After my friend took me home, I took a long nap ... and I dreamed about blood and food and vampires. And ever since I woke up, I've not been able to shake the overriding thoughts that have filled my mind today ... thoughts of beginnings and endings, of life and death, love and hate, compassion and cruelty ... thoughts of the power that my own blood has over me ... thoughts of the life-changing power of the blood that was shed for me by the only Son of God. Maybe visiting the vampire this morning wasn't totally bad after all ... it caused me to end my day thinking about the sacrifice that Jesus made to save me ... and somehow, that makes the needle in my hand and my blood being sucked into tubes worth it. And as I type those words, I'm breathing a prayer of gratitude ... a prayer of gratitude that when God looks at me now, He sees me only one way ... covered and washed in the soul-cleansing blood of the Lamb.
"Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you washed in the blood,
In the soul cleansing blood of the Lamb?
Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
In the soul cleansing blood of the Lamb?
Are your garments spotless? Are they white as snow?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you walking daily by the Savior’s side?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Do you rest each moment in the Crucified?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Do you rest each moment in the Crucified?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
When the Bridegroom cometh will your robes be white?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Will your soul be ready for the mansions bright,
And be washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Will your soul be ready for the mansions bright,
And be washed in the blood of the Lamb?
Lay aside the garments that are stained with sin,
And be washed in the blood of the Lamb;
There’s a fountain flowing for the soul unclean,
O be washed in the blood of the Lamb!"
And be washed in the blood of the Lamb;
There’s a fountain flowing for the soul unclean,
O be washed in the blood of the Lamb!"
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Speed vs. Endurance
The first thought I had this morning when I woke up was of my dad and all the Father's Day celebrations I shared with him through the years. Memories flooded my mind as I went about taking care of Julie and Ollie, and cooking my breakfast. I thought about Daddy sitting on the back porch with a ball cap perched on his white hair ... I thought about him tossing a softball with me in the backyard ... I thought about the twinkle in his eyes ... I thought about how much he loved it when harvest time came for his garden ... I thought about the way the little kids at church would clamor around him every time they saw him ... I thought about the day he taught me to ride my bike without training wheels ... I thought about the day he taught my son Matt to ride his bike without training wheels ... I thought about the man that he was and about all the people whose lives were blessed by knowing him.
It didn't take me long after I started riding my bike again a month or so ago to realize that there is a sort of "biking culture" of folks who ride. Some people ride simply for pleasure ... they pedal along slowly, often not wearing helmets, leisurely taking their time, just enjoying the ride. Some people are competitive bikers ... they pedal as fast as they can, clothed from head to toe in the latest and greatest bike wear, always in a hurry, hunching over to make themselves more aerodynamic, training for their next race. And then there are people who bike for exercise ... they pedal at a medium pace, wear helmets, may or may not wear padded biking shorts, occasionally chatting with those they pass on the trail, focusing on their ride but also enjoying just being out on the trail. I definitely fall into the third group, and yes, I wear padded biking shorts so that my behind doesn't hurt. But ... I don't wear those fancy, colorful bike shirts that cost a ton of money ... I bought four $5 nylon shirts at Walmart (the kind that wick the sweat away from my body).
Last week as I was riding, it struck me that though I don't ride really fast when I bike, I generally bike for a long distance. And that caused me to start thinking about which is more important in biking, speed or endurance. I'm sure that an argument could be presented for either with legitimate reasons to support the importance of each one. The more I thought about speed vs. endurance in biking, the more I began to think about speed vs. endurance in life. I thought about how often I try to race through the difficult times of life, going as fast as I can hoping that I'll get to the end of them as quickly as possible. But here's the thing ... when I try to speed through the tough stuff, I think I miss out on all the things God may be trying to teach me on the trail of tribulations. I think He may have a whole different view of speed vs. endurance when it comes to following Him ... a whole different view indeed.
As I rolled all of those thoughts around in my mind again today, I thought of Daddy ... I thought of the many years that he was sick. I thought of how hard he worked throughout his life. I thought of how faithful he was to his Lord ... every ... single ... day ... in ... every ... single ... circumstance. My dad was an incredible example of endurance, of going the distance, of allowing God to be the master of his time and his speed. I may never determine which is best in bike riding, speed or endurance, but my dad taught me which is most important in life ... fighting the good fight, finishing the course, keeping the faith, enduring until the end.
Happy Father's Day in heaven, Daddy ... I know your reward was huge and your crown filled with many jewels.
"I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith; in the future there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day; and not only to me, but also to all who have loved His appearing." 2 Timothy 4:7-8
It didn't take me long after I started riding my bike again a month or so ago to realize that there is a sort of "biking culture" of folks who ride. Some people ride simply for pleasure ... they pedal along slowly, often not wearing helmets, leisurely taking their time, just enjoying the ride. Some people are competitive bikers ... they pedal as fast as they can, clothed from head to toe in the latest and greatest bike wear, always in a hurry, hunching over to make themselves more aerodynamic, training for their next race. And then there are people who bike for exercise ... they pedal at a medium pace, wear helmets, may or may not wear padded biking shorts, occasionally chatting with those they pass on the trail, focusing on their ride but also enjoying just being out on the trail. I definitely fall into the third group, and yes, I wear padded biking shorts so that my behind doesn't hurt. But ... I don't wear those fancy, colorful bike shirts that cost a ton of money ... I bought four $5 nylon shirts at Walmart (the kind that wick the sweat away from my body).
Last week as I was riding, it struck me that though I don't ride really fast when I bike, I generally bike for a long distance. And that caused me to start thinking about which is more important in biking, speed or endurance. I'm sure that an argument could be presented for either with legitimate reasons to support the importance of each one. The more I thought about speed vs. endurance in biking, the more I began to think about speed vs. endurance in life. I thought about how often I try to race through the difficult times of life, going as fast as I can hoping that I'll get to the end of them as quickly as possible. But here's the thing ... when I try to speed through the tough stuff, I think I miss out on all the things God may be trying to teach me on the trail of tribulations. I think He may have a whole different view of speed vs. endurance when it comes to following Him ... a whole different view indeed.
As I rolled all of those thoughts around in my mind again today, I thought of Daddy ... I thought of the many years that he was sick. I thought of how hard he worked throughout his life. I thought of how faithful he was to his Lord ... every ... single ... day ... in ... every ... single ... circumstance. My dad was an incredible example of endurance, of going the distance, of allowing God to be the master of his time and his speed. I may never determine which is best in bike riding, speed or endurance, but my dad taught me which is most important in life ... fighting the good fight, finishing the course, keeping the faith, enduring until the end.
Happy Father's Day in heaven, Daddy ... I know your reward was huge and your crown filled with many jewels.
"I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith; in the future there is laid up for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day; and not only to me, but also to all who have loved His appearing." 2 Timothy 4:7-8
Friday, June 15, 2012
The Old Galoop
June 15, 2005 was a Wednesday ... a Wednesday that began with me stopping by the little apartment that my mom had moved into when she moved from Tennessee to Kansas City six weeks earlier. I was dropping off some food and some roses for Mom, and I was quiet as I placed the food in her fridge and the flowers in a vase on her kitchen table. I went into her bedroom and smiled at her tiny sleeping body in the bed that seemed so huge around her. She was snoring ... Mom was always a snorer ... as I kissed her gently on her forehead and lingered for a few moments soaking in the beauty of her 85-year-old face. I slipped out to head to work for the day after I left a note on the table next to the flowers. I remember thinking about Mom and the joy she had brought to me and my children during the six weeks she had lived near us several times throughout the day as I worked. I had lived away from Mom for more than 15 years, and I was cherishing every moment I was able to spend with her only five minutes from my house. And I know that my children made memories with their Granny during that time that will stay in their hearts forever. It was a sweet and precious time for us ... a sweet and precious time indeed.
That same evening, my Mom went home ... not to Tennessee ... Mom went home to be with her Lord. I had talked with her only a half-hour before my son Brad and I entered her apartment and discovered she was gone. I remember one of the paramedics taking my hand and telling me that Mom went peacefully ... the plate with the apple she was eating when I spoke with her on my way home from work still perched in her lap and Wheel of Fortune was showing on the TV. He said, "Your mom closed her eyes in sleep, maam, and woke up in glory." I'll never forget that gentleman's words ... never ever.
Those of you who've been reading my blog for a while probably recall times when I've written about my son Matt's penchant for nicknaming people, dogs, cars ... he nicknames just about anything really. Poor little C.J. ... his favorite nickname for my granddaughter is "Milky" ... I can only hope that she will give her daddy a fit for that when she's older. Matt had a nickname for Mom that stuck with her for many years ... he called her Galoop. I have no idea where he came up with that moniker for his Granny, but I do know that it always made her smile whenever Matt would say, "Hey, Galoop!" I got very weepy at work today thinking about Mom and Matt, and how much she loved him. Mom and Matt ... seven years ago today, Mom left her home in Kansas and headed to her new home in heaven ... two weeks from today, Matt will leave his home in Kansas and head for his new home in Canada. Mom would have been so proud of Matt, and she would have been tickled pink to see that C.J. looks so much like her daddy.
I miss you, Galoop ... I miss you in a big, big way.
That same evening, my Mom went home ... not to Tennessee ... Mom went home to be with her Lord. I had talked with her only a half-hour before my son Brad and I entered her apartment and discovered she was gone. I remember one of the paramedics taking my hand and telling me that Mom went peacefully ... the plate with the apple she was eating when I spoke with her on my way home from work still perched in her lap and Wheel of Fortune was showing on the TV. He said, "Your mom closed her eyes in sleep, maam, and woke up in glory." I'll never forget that gentleman's words ... never ever.
Those of you who've been reading my blog for a while probably recall times when I've written about my son Matt's penchant for nicknaming people, dogs, cars ... he nicknames just about anything really. Poor little C.J. ... his favorite nickname for my granddaughter is "Milky" ... I can only hope that she will give her daddy a fit for that when she's older. Matt had a nickname for Mom that stuck with her for many years ... he called her Galoop. I have no idea where he came up with that moniker for his Granny, but I do know that it always made her smile whenever Matt would say, "Hey, Galoop!" I got very weepy at work today thinking about Mom and Matt, and how much she loved him. Mom and Matt ... seven years ago today, Mom left her home in Kansas and headed to her new home in heaven ... two weeks from today, Matt will leave his home in Kansas and head for his new home in Canada. Mom would have been so proud of Matt, and she would have been tickled pink to see that C.J. looks so much like her daddy.
I miss you, Galoop ... I miss you in a big, big way.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Hating the Hated
I'm sure those of you who are parents of multiple children have heard one of your children at some time or another say the following words to a sibling ... "I hate you." I know those words were spoken a time or two in their younger years to one another by my own children. And ... believe it or not ... even once or twice, one of the kiddos uttered that phrase to me as well. Suffice it to say that the times my children chose to use the "hate" word toward a member of our family never precipitated a happy ending for them. More often than not, their punishment included the dreaded newspaper "apology, love and forgiveness" square. I would make them stand on a square of newspaper face-to-face until the offending sibling could apologize to the one who was word-wounded, say the words "I love you," and ask to be forgiven. The little wounded-heart warrior would in turn have to apologize for their part in whatever behavior had sparked the hate word being played, and say "I love and forgive you." Yep ... I was a terribly mean old mom back in those days ... I won't even tell you what their punishment was when they said "I hate you" to me.
I can think of a lot of things that I dislike a great deal ... the color green, swallowing pills, bumper-to-bumper traffic, stepping in gum, having blood drawn, wearing dresses, unsweetened tea, misspelled words, double-sided tape, high humidity, cooked spinach, and on and on. But when I try to come up with a list of things I really and truly hate, I find that the word hate is simply too strong to describe my dislike, even my extreme dislike, of certain things ... except, of course, severe weather thunderstorms ... I do really and truly hate those. And as I think about it and type about it and ponder about it, the things I strongly dislike or even hate are just that ... things. I can't honestly think of one person on this earth whom I hate ... there are some I really, really, really don't like very much, but no one whom I hate.
In my previous post on Sunday, I wrote about the sermon the minister preached ... the one about Jonah trying to run away from God's call to go to the city of Nineveh and warn them of God's impending judgment. I'm still thinking about the three points of his sermon that I listed at the end of that post, and I'll be writing a post soon concerning those thoughts. The preacher made another observation, however, that was separate from his three main points ... an observation that I haven't been able to get off of my mind or out of my heart. I guess I always thought Jonah didn't want to go to Nineveh because he was afraid the people wouldn't listen or perhaps he feared they would hurt or even kill him when he delivered God's message. But the minister talked about how Jonah truly hated the people of Nineveh ... really and truly hated them. He was raised to hate them ... the culture he lived in dictated that he must hate the Nineveh people. All of Jonah's people hated the people from Nineveh ... he was just hating those who were already hated. The preacher had some great insight into a part of Jonah that I had never before considered ... not only did he try to run from God, he hated the people of Nineveh, he got very angry with God and even told Him he'd rather be dead. That's pretty intense stuff, friends, pretty intense indeed. You can view the sermon online at olathechristian.org, and I would encourage you to not only watch it but to listen with your heart.
For the last two days, I've been thinking about what the minister said about Jonah and his hatred for the folks in Nineveh. Jonah didn't think those people deserved to be saved, and he was beyond mad when they repented and God spared them from destruction. And here's the thing ... so many of us are just like Jonah ... we say we love God and are willing to follow him completely, but then when He puts someone from Nineveh in front of us, we run like the wind with hearts full of hate for the already hated. I think sometimes it's easier for some people to hate rather than love, especially when a culture or friends or society or family or even religion teaches them to hate. The truth is that sometimes it takes a lot of work to love ... sometimes it means going against the flow to love ... sometimes it involves staying and standing by someone who's hated rather than jumping on a boat and sailing away. Look at the people around you, friends ... people who are facing hatred, people who are experiencing judgment, people who are sitting at the edge of destruction ... people who need to know they are loved ... by God and by you. I'm pretty sure that God isn't about hate at all ... I'm pretty sure He is about mercy and grace and forgiveness and compassion ... I'm pretty sure He is about love.
Most of the time when I list Scripture at the end of a post, I use the New American Standard translation. But tonight, I'm going to use The Message ... I'm pretty sure that no matter what version you read them from, these verses say, "Don't hate. Don't run. Do love."
"If anyone boasts, 'I love God,' and goes right on hating his brother or sister, thinking nothing of it, he is a liar. If he won't love the person he can see, how can he love the God he can't see? The command we have from Christ is blunt: Loving God includes loving people. You've got to love both." 1 John 4:20-21
Most of the time when I list Scripture at the end of a post, I use the New American Standard translation. But tonight, I'm going to use The Message ... I'm pretty sure that no matter what version you read them from, these verses say, "Don't hate. Don't run. Do love."
"If anyone boasts, 'I love God,' and goes right on hating his brother or sister, thinking nothing of it, he is a liar. If he won't love the person he can see, how can he love the God he can't see? The command we have from Christ is blunt: Loving God includes loving people. You've got to love both." 1 John 4:20-21
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Run Along Now
I'd be willing to bet that most of you have either had the phrase said to you, or you've said it to someone else ... run along now. When I was a kid, it was often accompanied by the words and play. And though I don't remember Mom or Daddy saying them, I'm sure they thought other accompanying phrases as well ... so the adults can 1) have some peace and quiet, or 2) talk about things that we don't want you to hear. As a parent, I've uttered the phrase to my own children and I'm sure they will one day speak the words to their children as well. It's funny how things change, though, as I age ... now I find myself often wanting to say something completely different to my children whenever I get to spend time with them. Stay.
I woke up in a major funk this morning, and I'm not sure why because I actually had a very good day yesterday. My daughter and son-in-law were in town to meet with a couple who is getting married next weekend, and when their meeting was finished, they picked me up and we spent the afternoon shopping and then went out to dinner. We haven't had the opportunity to spend a leisurely day together in a long time, and I enjoyed every moment. I slept pretty well last night, but the second I opened my eyes this morning, I was sad. I decided after breakfast to go for a bike ride, thinking that perhaps some time on the trail deep in the woods would lift my spirits. I rode for a little over an hour, and after I got home and parked my bike in the garage, I climbed back into bed with my dogs and cried my heart out. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I finally got up and took a shower, put my p.j.s back on and drank a cup of coffee. While I was out riding, I had already told God that I wouldn't be going to church today ... nope, nope, nope, not going. But as I grabbed a book and walked toward my bedroom, my phone dinged that I had a text message. A text message that said simply, "Coming?" And my reply was, "Getting dressed." Um, yeah ... I went to church.
It shouldn't surprise me that the times when the last thing in the world I want to do is go to church are the times that God has the minister preach a sermon that is like a fiery arrow shot straight into my heart. I sat with my head down through most of the service, but I listened intently to every word the preacher said. His sermon was about Jonah ... about Jonah trying his best to run away from God. All speakers know that you should have three major points when you speak, and the minister had three huge points this morning ... points that I'm sure I'll be thinking about for many days to come, points that I'm going to close this post with because I have a gut feeling that I'm not the only person God wants to speak to through them. I need to roll the truths around in my head and my heart for a while, but don't be surprised if I have more to say about them in an upcoming post.
I woke up in a major funk this morning, and I'm not sure why because I actually had a very good day yesterday. My daughter and son-in-law were in town to meet with a couple who is getting married next weekend, and when their meeting was finished, they picked me up and we spent the afternoon shopping and then went out to dinner. We haven't had the opportunity to spend a leisurely day together in a long time, and I enjoyed every moment. I slept pretty well last night, but the second I opened my eyes this morning, I was sad. I decided after breakfast to go for a bike ride, thinking that perhaps some time on the trail deep in the woods would lift my spirits. I rode for a little over an hour, and after I got home and parked my bike in the garage, I climbed back into bed with my dogs and cried my heart out. I couldn't go back to sleep, so I finally got up and took a shower, put my p.j.s back on and drank a cup of coffee. While I was out riding, I had already told God that I wouldn't be going to church today ... nope, nope, nope, not going. But as I grabbed a book and walked toward my bedroom, my phone dinged that I had a text message. A text message that said simply, "Coming?" And my reply was, "Getting dressed." Um, yeah ... I went to church.
It shouldn't surprise me that the times when the last thing in the world I want to do is go to church are the times that God has the minister preach a sermon that is like a fiery arrow shot straight into my heart. I sat with my head down through most of the service, but I listened intently to every word the preacher said. His sermon was about Jonah ... about Jonah trying his best to run away from God. All speakers know that you should have three major points when you speak, and the minister had three huge points this morning ... points that I'm sure I'll be thinking about for many days to come, points that I'm going to close this post with because I have a gut feeling that I'm not the only person God wants to speak to through them. I need to roll the truths around in my head and my heart for a while, but don't be surprised if I have more to say about them in an upcoming post.
- When you run from God, you usually run as far away as possible.
- When you run, God will work to get your attention.
- Even when you run, God gives you a second chance.
Friday, June 8, 2012
Soldier Up
For my readers from my home town in Tennessee ... remember the Red Bank Army Store on Dayton Boulevard? I sure do. The first time I was in the store was with my dad; if I remember correctly, he was looking for some boots for himself. There were countless more trips to the tiny store that was filled to overflowing with Army supplies and clothing, both with Daddy when I was young and then with my friends when I was a teenager. Those of you who grew up during the time period when I did probably well remember the whole Army clothing craze when we were in high school and college. We all wore Army clothes ... I can't remember why now, but if you were cool, you wore Army clothes. (Now that I think about it, I think maybe the craze had something to do with the popularity of the television show Mash.) I was especially fond of green Army pants, and if they were actually used ones that had come from a real soldier, that was even better. I think I wore green Army pants five out of seven days each week for several years, and I also had a heavy green Army jacket that I wore during the fall and winter ... let me tell you, I was cooler than cool back then for sure. And guess what? If I had a pair of green Army pants today, I'd totally wear them ... I'm beyond sure that I'm no longer cool, but I'd wear them for the nostalgia factor alone.
For the last three weeks or so, I've been leaving my house before dawn to ride my bike. It only took a few days of the pre-dawn, two-wheeled excursions for me to be hooked ... there's a peace and freedom that washes over me when I'm riding alone in the moments just before the sun begins to rise, and the truth is that I don't experience a great deal of peaceful or freedom-filled moments right now. I've been struck each morning by the quiet of the streets as I begin my ride on the pavement ... I'm pretty brave and stubborn, but I'm skiddish about riding on the trail until there's enough light for me to see what's along the path around me. There aren't many cars out on the road at 5 a.m., a few, but not many. As I pedal along, my tires make a rhythmic sound beneath me, and I feel the wind caress my face. I don't listen to my iPod when I ride in the mornings ... I like the silence of my morning rides, the solitude of my morning rides, the seclusion of my morning rides. When I do pass other people, no one tries to stop me to chat or visit; they simply nod and allow me to continue riding ... alone with my thoughts and alone with my God.
It's when I'm almost home each morning that the silence of my ride is broken by a rather unusual sound. The first morning the sing-song chant filled my ears, it took me a few minutes to determine what it was and where it was coming from. But now ... now I look forward each morning to the melodious sound, and I smile when I hear it, knowing that I will soon be upon the group lifting their voices in unison as they jog along the path. They are all dressed in the same attire, black shorts and black t-shirts with an Army logo, and I'm always amazed at how they never seem to miss a step as they run in perfect cadence with one another. What strikes me the most about the group, however, is what they do when I get near them on the trail. They fall in behind one another in small groups of two in order to allow me to safely pass them, and almost as if they were one being, they all nod their heads and say, "Good morning, maam." And every single time, I reply, "Good morning," and hope they don't see the tears that always quickly spring to my eyes. It's a powerful and very moving way to end my morning ride ... powerful and moving indeed.
When I passed the group of soldiers this morning, a thought ... you know, one of those God kind of thoughts ... ripped through my mind. You need to soldier up, child ... soldier up for the battle. And of course I had to question that thought and that direction. What is that supposed to mean, God? Don't tell me to soldier up ... it's almost the weekend ... You know how hard the weekends are ... You know what a hard, hard week this has been ... soldier up? For real? Soldier up? And as quickly as I questioned Him, He answered deep within my soul. Soldier up, child ... soldier up. Stay in step with Me ... and soldier up.
You know the group of soldiers crossing my path each morning wasn't an accident, right? You know God placed them there at the right moment at the right time so that He could speak to me, right? You know it ... and so do I. Soldier up, friends, soldier up.
For the last three weeks or so, I've been leaving my house before dawn to ride my bike. It only took a few days of the pre-dawn, two-wheeled excursions for me to be hooked ... there's a peace and freedom that washes over me when I'm riding alone in the moments just before the sun begins to rise, and the truth is that I don't experience a great deal of peaceful or freedom-filled moments right now. I've been struck each morning by the quiet of the streets as I begin my ride on the pavement ... I'm pretty brave and stubborn, but I'm skiddish about riding on the trail until there's enough light for me to see what's along the path around me. There aren't many cars out on the road at 5 a.m., a few, but not many. As I pedal along, my tires make a rhythmic sound beneath me, and I feel the wind caress my face. I don't listen to my iPod when I ride in the mornings ... I like the silence of my morning rides, the solitude of my morning rides, the seclusion of my morning rides. When I do pass other people, no one tries to stop me to chat or visit; they simply nod and allow me to continue riding ... alone with my thoughts and alone with my God.
It's when I'm almost home each morning that the silence of my ride is broken by a rather unusual sound. The first morning the sing-song chant filled my ears, it took me a few minutes to determine what it was and where it was coming from. But now ... now I look forward each morning to the melodious sound, and I smile when I hear it, knowing that I will soon be upon the group lifting their voices in unison as they jog along the path. They are all dressed in the same attire, black shorts and black t-shirts with an Army logo, and I'm always amazed at how they never seem to miss a step as they run in perfect cadence with one another. What strikes me the most about the group, however, is what they do when I get near them on the trail. They fall in behind one another in small groups of two in order to allow me to safely pass them, and almost as if they were one being, they all nod their heads and say, "Good morning, maam." And every single time, I reply, "Good morning," and hope they don't see the tears that always quickly spring to my eyes. It's a powerful and very moving way to end my morning ride ... powerful and moving indeed.
When I passed the group of soldiers this morning, a thought ... you know, one of those God kind of thoughts ... ripped through my mind. You need to soldier up, child ... soldier up for the battle. And of course I had to question that thought and that direction. What is that supposed to mean, God? Don't tell me to soldier up ... it's almost the weekend ... You know how hard the weekends are ... You know what a hard, hard week this has been ... soldier up? For real? Soldier up? And as quickly as I questioned Him, He answered deep within my soul. Soldier up, child ... soldier up. Stay in step with Me ... and soldier up.
You know the group of soldiers crossing my path each morning wasn't an accident, right? You know God placed them there at the right moment at the right time so that He could speak to me, right? You know it ... and so do I. Soldier up, friends, soldier up.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Plank-eyed Saint
When my three children were young, we lived in a house that had an awesome finished basement where the kiddos spent countless hours playing. They played normal games like Monopoly or Twister or Battleship, but they also often played games they created within their active little minds. Games like "Ride the Mattress Down the Stairs and Live to Tell About it" or "Put Water on the Tile Floor and Slide Across it Until Meghann Falls and Hits Her Head and Has to Go to the E.R. Because She Has a Concussion" ... you know ... fun, creative, totally safe games like that. I will forever remember one particular game the kids used to play over and over, even though they got in trouble each time I caught them in the act. They would take a piece of wood and place it on top of the fort/pink house thing their dad built for them, weighting down the short end (more often than not with one of their bodies) while the long part of the wood dangled precariously in mid-air. Then they would begin their game of "Pirates Making Someone Walk the Plank and Jump into the Pretend Water That's Actually the Hard Basement Floor and the Plank Isn't Attached to a Ship That Weighs Several Tons." Suffice it to say the pirate game didn't have many happy endings, especially for the poor soul who was chosen to be the plank walker. And I distinctly remember what I would say to my children when someone would come up the stairs wailing because they had gotten wounded ... "Why in the world do you guys keep playing a game that always ends up hurting someone? I cannot understand why you don't just stop playing that game."
For all the things that impressed me about my dad, one of the greatest was his knowledge of God's Word ... Daddy knew his Bible. I well recall the minister saying at Daddy's funeral how sad Daddy was when he had to give up teaching Sunday School because he had forgotten how to read. It always amazed me, though, how even when he was deep in the throes of Alzheimer's disease, Daddy could remember and quote verse after verse after verse. I remember how I used to listen to him and think ... more than Daddy was in the Word, the Word was in Daddy. Something Daddy used to say about the Bible has been pounding in my brain for the last week or so ... he always said that you couldn't just take part of the Bible, you had to take it all. Daddy believed that there was nothing in the Bible by accident, but that every word of it was divinely inspired by God and there for a reason. And when he would talk about certain verses that many of us wished weren't part of the Bible, he would often talk about the verses in Matthew 7 ... the ones that speak about not judging each other ... the ones that instruct me to stop looking at the speck of sawdust in the eyes of others and worry about the plank of wood that is in my own. And here's the thing ... I just read that verse again and the ones that precede it, and I realized that I'm both ... the plank and the sawdust ... the person who judges and the person who is judged.
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."
For all the things that impressed me about my dad, one of the greatest was his knowledge of God's Word ... Daddy knew his Bible. I well recall the minister saying at Daddy's funeral how sad Daddy was when he had to give up teaching Sunday School because he had forgotten how to read. It always amazed me, though, how even when he was deep in the throes of Alzheimer's disease, Daddy could remember and quote verse after verse after verse. I remember how I used to listen to him and think ... more than Daddy was in the Word, the Word was in Daddy. Something Daddy used to say about the Bible has been pounding in my brain for the last week or so ... he always said that you couldn't just take part of the Bible, you had to take it all. Daddy believed that there was nothing in the Bible by accident, but that every word of it was divinely inspired by God and there for a reason. And when he would talk about certain verses that many of us wished weren't part of the Bible, he would often talk about the verses in Matthew 7 ... the ones that speak about not judging each other ... the ones that instruct me to stop looking at the speck of sawdust in the eyes of others and worry about the plank of wood that is in my own. And here's the thing ... I just read that verse again and the ones that precede it, and I realized that I'm both ... the plank and the sawdust ... the person who judges and the person who is judged.
I recently closed a previous post titled The Grateful Leper with the lyrics of a song by Casting Crowns, and I'm going to close this post with the verses from Matthew and with the words of the song once again. Read the words of Scripture, and read the words of the song. But do more than read them, friends ... do more than read them.
“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye?" Matthew 7:1-3
"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
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
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."
Saturday, June 2, 2012
Going Too Far
No intro story tonight because I'm pooped and going to bed early, but I want to share a lesson God taught me today. Actually, I think it may be an ongoing lesson ... you know the kind I'm talking about ... lessons God knows I need to learn again and again and again because I usually don't get it the first or second or third time He tries to teach me.
I left my house early this morning to go for a bike ride ... it was beautiful out, nice and cool, and not a cloud in the sky, the perfect day for a long ride. I rode and rode and rode, listening to John Denver on my iPod and being surprised that there were so many people on the trail so early ... guess they had the same idea that I did, the day was too beautiful not to be outside surrounded by nature. The farther I rode, the more I thought, I should probably turn around now; I'm a really long way from home ... I should probably turn around. And the more that thought crossed my mind, the more I kept pedaling. When I finally did stop to head back toward home, I looked at my watch and realized that I had been riding for almost an hour ... which meant I had to ride an hour back. I pulled over to the side of the trail, leaned my bike against a tree and sat in the grass to eat a snack and take a drink.
After I got home from my two-hour ride, I took Ollie for a short walk, played ball with Julie and then worked in my yard for most of the afternoon. I finally took a shower about 4:00, rested for a while, cooked dinner and made myself eat. Those of you who read my post last night know that weekends aren't easy for me, and when I sat down on the couch after I ate, I knew that I needed to do something ... something to fight the "I'm alone on another Saturday night" feeling that was washing through my heart. Ollie didn't want to walk with me, and I didn't want to drag him along on the trail, so I decided I would go for a short bike ride ... just along the part of the trail where I usually walk, the part of the trail that is more out in the open and not deep in the woods. It isn't often that I get spooked about being out on the trail by myself, but every once in a while, something or someone will frighten me and make me think about the fact that I'm all alone ... on a trail, deep in the woods, and no one knows I'm there. For the most part, though, I don't worry about something happening to me while I'm out walking or biking ... if I bite the bullet on the trail ... well, that's just about my favorite place in the world, so I can't think of a better place to be if that happens.
I had already ridden my normal walking route and was about to turn around and ride it again when I ran into a friend and her daughter on their bikes. I joined them and we rode together along the same route I had just ridden, talking as we pedaled leisurely along the trail. I mentioned to the little girl that I had gone for a long ride this morning, telling her the name of the street where I stopped. She asked me how far that was, and I said I wasn't sure and asked my friend if she knew how far it was. She didn't miss a beat as she said, "I don't know, but too far for you to go alone." I made the "blah, blah, blah" motion with my hand and changed the subject, but I couldn't get her comment off of my mind and I've thought about it all evening. Here's the thing ... she didn't know it, but God had a huge lesson for me in her words ... a lesson that has nothing at all to do with riding my bike too far into the woods by myself, a lesson that has everything to do with walking too far in life by myself ... by walking too far alone in life without Him.
So many times, Father ... so many times, I go too far alone. So many times, my sin separates me from You ... so many times, I go too far alone. So many times, Lord, I doubt the depth of Your forgiveness ... so many times, I go too far alone. So many times, I can't see Your plan for me ... so many times, I go too far alone. So many times, God, I don't understand why You still love me ... so many times, I go too far alone.
"Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid or tremble at them, for the LORD your God is the one who goes with you. He will not fail you or forsake you." Deuteronomy 31:5-7
I left my house early this morning to go for a bike ride ... it was beautiful out, nice and cool, and not a cloud in the sky, the perfect day for a long ride. I rode and rode and rode, listening to John Denver on my iPod and being surprised that there were so many people on the trail so early ... guess they had the same idea that I did, the day was too beautiful not to be outside surrounded by nature. The farther I rode, the more I thought, I should probably turn around now; I'm a really long way from home ... I should probably turn around. And the more that thought crossed my mind, the more I kept pedaling. When I finally did stop to head back toward home, I looked at my watch and realized that I had been riding for almost an hour ... which meant I had to ride an hour back. I pulled over to the side of the trail, leaned my bike against a tree and sat in the grass to eat a snack and take a drink.
After I got home from my two-hour ride, I took Ollie for a short walk, played ball with Julie and then worked in my yard for most of the afternoon. I finally took a shower about 4:00, rested for a while, cooked dinner and made myself eat. Those of you who read my post last night know that weekends aren't easy for me, and when I sat down on the couch after I ate, I knew that I needed to do something ... something to fight the "I'm alone on another Saturday night" feeling that was washing through my heart. Ollie didn't want to walk with me, and I didn't want to drag him along on the trail, so I decided I would go for a short bike ride ... just along the part of the trail where I usually walk, the part of the trail that is more out in the open and not deep in the woods. It isn't often that I get spooked about being out on the trail by myself, but every once in a while, something or someone will frighten me and make me think about the fact that I'm all alone ... on a trail, deep in the woods, and no one knows I'm there. For the most part, though, I don't worry about something happening to me while I'm out walking or biking ... if I bite the bullet on the trail ... well, that's just about my favorite place in the world, so I can't think of a better place to be if that happens.
I had already ridden my normal walking route and was about to turn around and ride it again when I ran into a friend and her daughter on their bikes. I joined them and we rode together along the same route I had just ridden, talking as we pedaled leisurely along the trail. I mentioned to the little girl that I had gone for a long ride this morning, telling her the name of the street where I stopped. She asked me how far that was, and I said I wasn't sure and asked my friend if she knew how far it was. She didn't miss a beat as she said, "I don't know, but too far for you to go alone." I made the "blah, blah, blah" motion with my hand and changed the subject, but I couldn't get her comment off of my mind and I've thought about it all evening. Here's the thing ... she didn't know it, but God had a huge lesson for me in her words ... a lesson that has nothing at all to do with riding my bike too far into the woods by myself, a lesson that has everything to do with walking too far in life by myself ... by walking too far alone in life without Him.
So many times, Father ... so many times, I go too far alone. So many times, my sin separates me from You ... so many times, I go too far alone. So many times, Lord, I doubt the depth of Your forgiveness ... so many times, I go too far alone. So many times, I can't see Your plan for me ... so many times, I go too far alone. So many times, God, I don't understand why You still love me ... so many times, I go too far alone.
"Be strong and courageous, do not be afraid or tremble at them, for the LORD your God is the one who goes with you. He will not fail you or forsake you." Deuteronomy 31:5-7
Weekend Warrior
I've never been much of a jewelry wearer; in fact, I'm not very foo-fooey at all. I have worn the same three rings for many years, a signet ring with my initials engraved on it and two plain silver ones. I only wear unassuming silver earrings, and one of the two necklaces around my neck holds a medical identification tag and the bone-shaped tag from my little J.R.'s collar. My other necklace, however, is a journey necklace ... a beautiful, diamond-filled journey necklace that my daughter Meghann gave me several years ago. The only times that necklace has been off my neck since she gave it to me are the times I clean it. You see, that necklace carries with it a ton of meaning for me, and I still have the card Meghann gave me on Christmas morning the year she gave me the sparkling reminder of the journey she and I had shared. That necklace will forever remind me of my daughter and the path we traveled together that particular year ... a journey both tender and tough ... a journey that neither of us will ever forget.
As much as I've never had an affinity for most types of jewelry, I must say that I do have a thing for bracelets ... between my two wrists, I wear five different ones. In my own defense, one of those five is a medical ID bracelet ... a medical ID bracelet that I fought against wearing for several months after I was diagnosed with diabetes. I saw wearing medical identification as being branded, and it took a few serious blood sugar issues and my doctor chewing me out to get me to finally cave in and buy a bracelet. And before any of you email me to ask why I wear a medical bracelet and a necklace, it's because all my "stuff" won't fit on one tag. For the last several years, I also wore a bracelet that I purchased at a Women of Faith conference ... braided leather bands with a silver bar in the middle with writing on it. It was very "me," and I loved that bracelet. It had become way big on my wrist, though, because I've lost so much weight, and the leather bands were getting worn and frayed so I knew that the time was coming when I would no longer be able to wear it.
A few weeks ago, I received a package in the mail at work. That surprised me, because the only time I get mail of any type at work is when I order something online and have it shipped to my office. I knew I hadn't purchased anything, so again, I was surprised when our receptionist brought the padded envelope to me. I was even more perplexed when I opened the package ... inside was a card with a message printed on it ... a message without a signature. There was also a small velvet bag that contained an engraved stainless steel bracelet with a leather band ... it's me ... very, very, very me. It didn't take me long to guess who sent the gift, but it did take me a while to figure out what the engraving was and what it meant. I'm not going to share all of what the bracelet says ... it's engraved on the front and the back ... but I will share this much. The front of the bracelet is engraved in Hebrew, and one of the words is "warrior." A very special note ... a very special bracelet ... a very special friend.
The weekend used to be my favorite part of the week ... spending time with friends, going shopping, worshiping at church ... not so much anymore. The weekends are the hardest days of the week for me now, and I spend most of them at home lying on the couch watching mindless television. Some weekends are harder than others, and I don't know why. As the afternoon wore on today, though, I could feel the darkness swirling around me ... the "I'm going home and climb in bed and pull the covers over my head and not come out until Monday morning" darkness. Sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic as I made my way home this evening, I looked down at the bracelet on my wrist, and I thought of the words in the note that accompanied my now favorite bracelet. I've found myself often removing the bracelet from my arm, holding it in my hand and running my fingers back and forth across the engraved Hebrew message ... I took the bracelet off and cradled it in my hand as the car in front of me inched forward. Warrior, warrior, warrior, I said aloud. Warrior ... be a warrior ... warrior, warrior, warrior ... be a weekend warrior.
"The angel of the Lord appeared to him and said to him, 'The Lord is with you, O valiant warrior.'" Judges 6:12
As much as I've never had an affinity for most types of jewelry, I must say that I do have a thing for bracelets ... between my two wrists, I wear five different ones. In my own defense, one of those five is a medical ID bracelet ... a medical ID bracelet that I fought against wearing for several months after I was diagnosed with diabetes. I saw wearing medical identification as being branded, and it took a few serious blood sugar issues and my doctor chewing me out to get me to finally cave in and buy a bracelet. And before any of you email me to ask why I wear a medical bracelet and a necklace, it's because all my "stuff" won't fit on one tag. For the last several years, I also wore a bracelet that I purchased at a Women of Faith conference ... braided leather bands with a silver bar in the middle with writing on it. It was very "me," and I loved that bracelet. It had become way big on my wrist, though, because I've lost so much weight, and the leather bands were getting worn and frayed so I knew that the time was coming when I would no longer be able to wear it.
A few weeks ago, I received a package in the mail at work. That surprised me, because the only time I get mail of any type at work is when I order something online and have it shipped to my office. I knew I hadn't purchased anything, so again, I was surprised when our receptionist brought the padded envelope to me. I was even more perplexed when I opened the package ... inside was a card with a message printed on it ... a message without a signature. There was also a small velvet bag that contained an engraved stainless steel bracelet with a leather band ... it's me ... very, very, very me. It didn't take me long to guess who sent the gift, but it did take me a while to figure out what the engraving was and what it meant. I'm not going to share all of what the bracelet says ... it's engraved on the front and the back ... but I will share this much. The front of the bracelet is engraved in Hebrew, and one of the words is "warrior." A very special note ... a very special bracelet ... a very special friend.
The weekend used to be my favorite part of the week ... spending time with friends, going shopping, worshiping at church ... not so much anymore. The weekends are the hardest days of the week for me now, and I spend most of them at home lying on the couch watching mindless television. Some weekends are harder than others, and I don't know why. As the afternoon wore on today, though, I could feel the darkness swirling around me ... the "I'm going home and climb in bed and pull the covers over my head and not come out until Monday morning" darkness. Sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic as I made my way home this evening, I looked down at the bracelet on my wrist, and I thought of the words in the note that accompanied my now favorite bracelet. I've found myself often removing the bracelet from my arm, holding it in my hand and running my fingers back and forth across the engraved Hebrew message ... I took the bracelet off and cradled it in my hand as the car in front of me inched forward. Warrior, warrior, warrior, I said aloud. Warrior ... be a warrior ... warrior, warrior, warrior ... be a weekend warrior.
"The angel of the Lord appeared to him and said to him, 'The Lord is with you, O valiant warrior.'" Judges 6:12
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