Calling All Walkers

This morning I went to church. The sanctuary was dark when I went in and sat on a back row. The sanctuary was dark when I left at the end of the final song. I was alone with my thoughts when the lights came up and the young minister began to preach. I couldn't help but think about how often I've heard the words, "You can be surrounded by people and still be alone." I listened as the young minister spoke about being a servant, and I listened as he spoke about being ready for Jesus to return. But I leaned forward in my chair and listened in amazement to the modern-day parable he related at the end of his sermon. A parable that was so close to some of the things my friend said to me yesterday that it gave me goosebumps as I listened. When God does things like that ... when He speaks so loudly to me through different avenues that it's impossible for me to ignore that it is Him ... when He does that, it gets my attention in a big way.

I've written a great deal in this blog about the isolation and loneliness of the last couple of years, which, according to my doctors, are textbook results of depression. I've gone from fighting against taking medications and fighting against going to the doctors to setting alarms on my watch so that I take my drugs on time and making the trek each week to the doctors without complaint ... OK, maybe I still complain a little about having to go, but at least I go. I sit patiently while a nurse sucks tubes of blood out of my hand, and I've learned to pee in a cup on command. I do my assigned homework, even when it's hard ... which brings me to the real reason for my post tonight.

For the last couple of months, the doctors have been talking to me about relationships ... well, more accurately, they've been talking to me about the lack of relationships in my life. And in those discussions, the following words of advice are almost always expressed by them. "God didn't create you to be alone, Terrie ... He created us as relational beings. You either need to try to rebuild and repair your previous relationships, or you need to establish new ones. It's going to be hard ... very hard ... but you need to take some steps forward, even if they are small steps ... you have so much to give, so much to share ... you need people, Terrie ... and people need you." So when I saw the doctor on Thursday morning, she gave me a homework assignment ... find one thing to look forward to, to be passionate about ... one thing that will show me that I may not be as alone as I feel. As she spoke, I instantly knew how I would like to complete that assignment ... and I instantly knew that I couldn't do it. That, friends ... the "I'd like to" vs. the "I can't" ... that war within me seems to never end now. But ... but ... but ... this time I've decided that if I don't at least try to honor my doctor's request, I'll never know if it could be the thing ... the one thing ... that turns everything around.

Not long after I was diagnosed with diabetes, someone sent me the link to the American Diabetes Association's website. There's a ton of great information contained on the site, but one thing in particular grabbed my attention ... every year, there are diabetes walks in cities all across the U.S., walks to raise awareness of the disease and to raise money for research to find a cure. So here it is ... this year the walk in Kansas City is on September 22, and I'd like to put together a team to walk with me. It's 3 miles along Brush Creek and through the Plaza, beginning at Theis Park. Check-in begins at 7:30 a.m., and the walk starts at 9:00. There's a health and wellness fair, and entertainment provided by Radio Disney. Here's the link that will give you all the information:  http://main.diabetes.org/site/TR/StepOut/A3KSC-MissouriKansasArea?fr_id=8395&pg=entry. If you'd like to walk with me, shoot me an email at terriejohnson401@hotmail.com or message me on Facebook ... it takes 10 people to form a team, and I'll pay the team entry fee. Since I work for an ad agency, I'm pretty sure I could even snag us some cool t-shirts to wear; in fact, if you want to walk, send me your idea for a team name when you email me. And if you know someone who might want to walk with us, feel free to forward this post.

See ... here's the thing ... I figure the worst thing that can happen is that I get no emails or messages, and I'll go walk alone. I'll still get a special red ball cap because I have diabetes ... the ADA calls people with diabetes who walk in the events Red Striders ... whether I have a team of 100 or it's just me, I still get the cap. Those of you who know me well know that I have a thing for ball caps ... a big enough thing that I'll walk 3 miles to get a free one. Seriously, though ... a nice walk through the Plaza on a fall day for a good cause sounds like a pretty decent way to spend a Saturday morning to me ... a pretty decent way indeed.

A Few Good Men

I'm sure many of you have seen the movie ... Tom Cruise, Jack Nicholson, Demi Moore ... you know the one I'm talking about ... A Few Good Men. I remember seeing the film in the theater with some friends, and I remember, as I'm sure many of you do as well, the exchange between Cruise and Nicholson that took place near the end of the movie in a courtroom. Two lines from the dialogue between the two men will live on in history as some of the most famous movie lines ever spoken. Cruise plays the young, never-been-in-a-courtroom military attorney who is questioning the arrogant, combat-experienced senior officer Nicholson about his role in the mysterious death of one of the soldiers who served under his command. After a ranting, angry answer to one of Cruise's questions, Nicholson ends his tirade by asking Cruise what it is he wants. Cruise pounds his fist and shouts, "I want the truth!" to which Nicholson retorts, "You can't handle the truth!" I know, right? Famous lines for sure.

I've said many times in this blog that from its inception, I have felt that I should be open, honest, real and transparent in what I write. Sometimes that's easy to do, and other times it's very, very, very difficult. I receive encouraging messages from many of you, telling me that the realness of my posts is what you connect with, and you repeatedly ask me to continue on in the same manner. I also, however, receive messages criticizing me for writing about the grit of life and telling me that I should only pen the happy, funny stories and not discuss pain or illness or disappointment in my posts. And guess what? The encouraging messages are way more fun to read than the critical ones ... go figure, huh? The bottom line, though, is that I write from my heart ... and I hope that at least most of the words I write in these posts are the words that God places within my heart to write, and that He then takes those words and uses them in whatever way He chooses.

This morning, I went for a long talking walk with a friend. We haven't done that for a really long time ... just walked and talked ... and it was good to catch up and talk about a variety of things. Our talking while we walked was what I would call "chatty" ... you know what I mean ... we talked about our children and losing weight and the hot summer and dogs and bike riding and cars and bobcats ... chatty, easy conversation. It was when we got back to my house and sat at my kitchen table that our chatty talking shifted to subjects that were more serious in nature. One of the things I've always appreciated about this particular friend is that from the beginning of our friendship, she has never hesitated to speak the truth to me ... even when that truth is hard for me to hear and equally hard for her to tell me, I'm sure. She also seems to possess a strong spirit of discernment, of knowing when to be silent and when to speak up ... some of the things she said today I would have completely tuned out a few months ago; in fact, I probably would have gotten angry and sulked for a good long while. But as she spoke today, I knew that a good deal of what she was saying was dead on ... not everything ... but a good deal of her words were filled with truth and wisdom. And tonight ... tonight, I hope that's a sign, even if it's a small one ... a little sign that I'm getting better, slowly, slowly, slowly ... I'm getting better.

Something in particular that my friend said today has been rolling around in my head and my heart all day ... "You can read a book from cover to cover, but that doesn't mean you have a close relationship with the author. You need to see that God is walking with you every step of the way ... you need to seek out what He wants to do during this season you're in ... you need to turn it all over to Him, give it all to Him ... trust the Author Himself to write the next pages of your life, and just rest in Him." I'll leave you to think about my friend's words for yourselves ... and I'll leave you with the prayer that's been on my lips and in my heart the rest of the day.

Oh, Father ... I want to do more than read about You ... I want to know You. There is so much I don't understand, so many times I wish I knew the answers, so many mountains still to climb. Help me to want Your truth, God ... help me to handle Your truth with the heart You wish for me to have. Write my story, Lord ... in Your perfect time, by Your perfect will, through Your perfect love ... write my story, Father, write my story.

Already There

My dad was one of the most patient men in the world, which struck me as pretty funny the older I got and began to fully grasp just how impatient my mom truly was. They were as opposite as day and night in so many ways, patience, or lack thereof, being just one of their dissimilarities. And yet, they were married for more than 50 years and had a deep, abiding love for one another. I remember a lot of things my dad said, but for the last few days, one phrase that Daddy often uttered has been pulsing through my mind ... a phrase that he spoke to me a lot, but one that he probably spoke to Mom a million times during the decades they were together.

Daddy didn't get in a hurry to do much of anything except when it was time to go to church ... man, that gives me pause to think deeply about how important meeting together with his fellow believers was to Daddy. When I was in a hurry to go somewhere or do something and I wasn't happy with Daddy's pace in getting where I wanted to go or doing what I wanted to do, I would whine and complain about his lack of hurry-up-ness. Daddy had a crazy sense of humor, and he delighted in teasing me, especially at times when he thought I was being ridiculously over the top in a hurry about something that more often than not was pretty trivial now that I look back on it. And that's when he would utter the phrase ... "If you're waiting on me, Sam, you're backing up."

It's been a long, long, long week ... I think I probably edited a gazillion words this week. It's been one of those weeks when every day that passed seemed more chaotic and out of control than the previous one. It's been one of those weeks when my brain and my body were screaming "Enough already!" ... on Monday afternoon. It's been one of those weeks when I would have given everything I owned to have someone other than my dogs to talk to when I went home. It's been one of those weeks ... period. But through all the stress of the week, I kept thinking about Daddy's words, "If you're waiting on me, Sam, you're backing up." I realized as I was driving home tonight that for all the times I heard Daddy say those words, I never got it ... I never understood the depth of meaning within what he was saying. Daddy was telling me that no matter where I was going, he was already there ahead of me ... especially during those times when I was trying my best to get him to hurry up and do things my way. As I pulled into my garage, my eyes filled with tears as I got it ... as I got the lesson God had been trying to teach me all week. The lesson that my Father is already there ahead of me ... no matter the chaos, no matter my attempt to do it my way, no matter me trying to hurry Him along ... He is already there ... He already knows my past, my present and my future ... He is most definitely already there.

"From where I'm standing
Lord it's so hard for me to see
Where this is going
And where You're leading me
I wish I knew how
All my fears and all my questions
Are gonna play out
In a world I can't control

When I'm lost in the mystery
To You my future is a memory
Cause You're already there
You're already there
Standing at the end of my life
Waiting on the other side
And You're already there
You're already there

From where You're standing
Lord, You see a grand design
That You imagined
When You breathed me into life
And all the chaos
Comes together in Your hands
Like a masterpiece
Of Your picture perfect plan

One day I'll stand before You
And look back on the life I've lived
Cause You're already there
You're already there
When I'm lost in the mystery
To You my future is a memory
Cause You're already there
You're already there
Standing at the end of my life
Waiting on the other side
And You're already there
You're already there."

-- Casting Crowns

The Perfect PJs

One of the best pairs of pajamas I ever owned was a set of off-brand red flannel ones that I paid $12 for at Walmart … red flannel with white pinstripes, white buttons and padded footies attached to the end of each leg of the PJ bottoms. And yes, I was an adult when I got them; in fact, I was married with children and it was my first winter in Kansas City, the first winter in my life to see and experience so much snow and bitterly cold weather. Almost as soon as I put those flannel pajamas on for the first time, I knew I had made a wise purchase that I would never regret. And I wore those red, pinstriped, flannel PJs until they were threadbare and had holes on the undersides of the padded feet. Those were awesome pajamas indeed, but they weren’t the perfect pajamas. The sleeves were too long, so I had to roll them up a few turns to keep them from covering my hands. Since I’m short, I also had to turn the tops of the pants down a little so that the footies would stay on my feet. One of the buttonholes was somewhat off-kilter, making it difficult to squeeze the button through it. But … in spite of those things that some might have termed imperfections or faults, I still loved my red, pinstriped, flannel PJs.

A rather unusual side effect of my diabetes involves clothing … yes, clothing. I don’t ever remember having issues with the texture of clothes, but I sure do now. I first began to notice my aversion to certain fabrics only a few months after I was diagnosed in 2009. It’s a really weird thing … there isn’t any rhyme or reason or logical basis for my fabric/texture issues. I’ve gone from being able to purchase any shirt or pair of jeans from any rack in any store to having to try on every single piece of clothing so that I can determine whether or not it’s going to feel “right” against my skin. Now lest some of you think that my texture problem in combination with some of my other odd fears or phobias means I’ve officially lost my mind, allow me to assure you that according to my doctors, the whole texture thing is not that unusual for folks who have diabetes, especially those who are diagnosed with the disease later in life. Blood sugar fluctuations along with the medications used to treat diabetes can often create skin hypersensitivity, hence perhaps explaining why when my blood sugar gets too far out of whack, I feel as though there are bugs crawling under my skin. I tell you that to say this … it seems as though more fabric is offensive to me than that which is not, so therefore when I find clothing that feels “right,” I am a happy, happy camper.

Last fall during a shopping trip to Kohl’s, I was searching the clearance racks with the hope of finding a few bargains. I needed to buy clothes pretty often back then because I was losing so much weight so quickly that my clothes would be too big in a hurry, and I was always looking for the least expensive way to restock my wardrobe as often as I needed to. The store had some fantastic sales that day with many items up to 80% off, and I had a 15% off coupon that was good even on those heavily discounted items. After finding a few things for myself and trying them on to make sure they didn’t feel like sandpaper against my skin, I decided to check out the clearance rack on the men’s side of the store thinking perhaps I could pick up some items for my son Brad whose birthday was in a few weeks. I found him some shirts (including a most awesome Underdog t-shirt) and was about to head to the checkout when a pair of pajama shorts caught my eye. They were made by Chaps and were blue plaid with a thick string tie at the waist; they were very soft; and they were marked down from $42 to $4. My first thought was, “Who in the world would pay $42 for a pair of pajama shorts?” and my next thought was, “I’m buying these and if Brad doesn’t like them, perhaps Matt will.” I mean, come on ... they were $42 pajama shorts for $4 ... even if the dog wore them, they were worth it just for the bargain factor alone. 

When I got home, I put the t-shirts in a drawer in the office and the PJ shorts in a drawer in my room ... I'm not sure why I didn't put all of the items in the same spot, but for some reason, I didn't. When Brad's birthday rolled around, I gave him the shirts but never thought once about the pajama shorts. In fact, I didn't think about the shorts again until earlier this summer when I was looking for a swimsuit and saw them in the drawer. The moment my fingers brushed across the fabric of the shorts as I went to lift them out, I thought, "This material is so soft ... maybe I should see if they fit me and just sleep in them myself." I tossed them on my bed until I was ready to turn in for the night and then put them on along with my favorite sleeping t-shirt. Oh my gosh, friends ... I instantly understood why a person would pay $42 for those PJ shorts. They are perfect in every way ... the perfect length, the perfect size, the perfect material. Suffice it to say that I've slept in them every single night since, washing them a couple of times each week, of course. And a week or so ago when I was at Kohl's to buy some new socks, you can't imagine how ecstatic I was when I was walking from the women's sock section to the shoe department and saw a whole rack of pajama shorts of the same brand and material on sale for $10 ... not as great of a bargain as my first purchase, but I gladly paid the $10 to have another pair of the absolutely perfect PJs and was delighted to throw them in the washing machine when I got home so that I could sleep in them that night.

When I got home from work last Friday, the first thing I did was put on my PJ shorts. And other than having to put on real clothes to go to the grocery store over the weekend, I wore those pajama shorts and my favorite t-shirt the entire time. When I woke up this morning, my first thought was, "Oh, man, not only do I have to leave the house today, I have to take off my PJ shorts." And as I stepped into the shower, I was struck by a revelation ... for as perfect as my current pajama shorts are, I can't say that I will ever love them more than I did my old, red flannel PJs. The perfect PJ shorts feel good against my hypersensitive skin, but the imperfect flannel pajamas felt good against my soul. As I drove into work, I couldn't help but think about the way God loves me ... He didn't send His Son to die for me because I was perfect ... He sent Him to die for me because I wasn't. He doesn't love me because I'm the perfect fit or made from the perfect material ... He loves me because I'm not. He doesn't command me to love others because they do or say the perfect thing ... He commands me to love them because they don't.

The perfect PJs ... the perfect love ... the perfect God.

The Words of Another

It's Thursday. And that means tomorrow is Friday, the beginning of another weekend. Another weekend. And I'm already dreading its arrival. And when that dread sets in and my brain is already tired from a busy week of reading thousands of words about horse and cow poop, all I want to do is lay on my couch and not think or feel or do anything. So I decided that tonight would be a good night to let the words of another person be the words that filled my post ... the words of an article I stumbled upon as I was surfing the Internet last night ... words that spoke deeply to me as I read them ... words that perhaps will speak deeply to some of you as well. (The bolded and italicized words are the ones that especially touched my soul.) 

"Among the psychological problems that trouble my patients, none may be as common and debilitating as this: a foreshortened or rigidly bleak view of the future. Traditionally, psychiatrists speak of this foreshortened view—a sense that one’s story is ending—as a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. But I see this circumscribed perspective in the context of depression, too, as well as in the setting of significant loss—whether of a loved one, a job or a home. And I see it when medical illness steals one’s prior sense of vitality. It is as if the person were the writer of her own life story (as, of course, each of us is) and the ink in the pen she is holding seems as if it has run dry or darkened, ominously.

As a metaphorical writer of my own life story and as a writer of novels, I know this feeling. It is a profound sense of internal despair—as though the storyline of the character has gone so horribly wrong, or includes an unavoidable period of such great suffering, or has veered so far off the path that seems true to the character, that rescuing the storyline seems impossible.  

At such moments, we, the 'writers' of our own life stories, sense that an 'edit' isn’t feasible (even though that would itself be daunting). We feel as though the manuscript is fundamentally flawed and cannot be rescued.

This is, by the way, never, ever true, and the fact that it is not is the best evidence for the existence of God (aka, psychological rebirth) I have found in the world. As long as seconds are ticking on the clock, as long as a breath is being taken on the planet, as long as one person can remind you or me one time, with real empathy, that stories often course through horrifically dark chapters and, nonetheless, end well, then there is a next sentence to be written, and another day to be lived.

There is, in other words, always meaning unfolding in your life, even if you can’t quite see it or feel it or describe it. And the meaning has at its core potential goodness and light, even if you would swear otherwise. Every life story has the potential, regardless of how much it seems to have veered off course, regardless of how much suffering it includes, regardless of how much trouble has attended it, of turning into a triumph.

I know there are people reading this right now who swear otherwise. But consider this: No one walks out of a movie or throws a book in the garbage because, in the middle of the story, all seems lost for the hero or heroine. We instinctively understand that, no matter how bleak the circumstances, triumph or survival or redemption is still possible. We understand, at a basic, human level—in the emotional DNA we call the soul—that the main character’s life still has meaning. And so, we sit at the edge of our seats, or in tears, or in fear, in the dark, in that cinema. But we do not leave. And we turn the page of that book, perhaps with dread, but still, amidst the dread, with a modicum of hope. And that is enough. It is always enough.

I have seen parents who buried their children embrace their grandchildren in ways that other grandparents cannot. I have seen people who divorced twice, marry again, quite unexpectedly—occasionally remarrying the same spouse. I have seen people commit the most horrific acts imaginable, yet rediscover their capacity for humanity. I have seen men go bankrupt and either restore their material fortunes when they thought it impossible, or find invaluable treasures of spirit that were buried under material goods. I have seen people lose limbs and find balance. I have seen that a man or woman who sees nothing up ahead is missing the horizon, but that the horizon exists. It does exist.

I tell you this because so many of us will need to know it at some dark moment in our lives. And, perhaps, for a few, they will remember reading these words, which may reassure them of the existence of that which they can no longer see—the arc of their life stories continuing on, toward the good, toward light, toward learning, toward redemption, toward creativity, toward balance, toward possibility, toward courage and potential and love.

All this, which I have seen again and again and again, is around the corner, even when you (or I) might swear otherwise. You would know this with the certainty that I know it, were you to have sat with me in this office for these 20 years."

Written by Dr. Keith Ablow. Dr. Ablow is a psychiatrist and member of the Fox News Medical A-Team.

Let Playing Dogs Play

It was January of 2006 when Julie the Lab joined our family, thanks to the relentless begging of my two youngest children Brad and Meghann. They had dragged me to the animal shelter to see her a couple of times, and I said no to her coming home with us more than once because we already had two aging dogs. But they begged and begged and begged, promised they would take care of her and pay her vet bills, and Meghann even coughed up the cash to pay her adoption fee. So, Julie entered our world ... and she entered with a huge bang. The first night she was here, two things happened ... Brad discovered she could do a bunch of tricks and catch a Frisbee in her mouth, and our big dog Ali hated her with a vengeance. Brad wouldn't give up, however, and eventually, Ali and Julie learned to coexist ... I don't think Ali ever really liked Julie, but at least she stopped trying to rip her head off. It didn't take long at all for Julie to become Brad's dog; in fact, she quickly went from liking him to adoring him. She would sleep on top of him, follow him everywhere and play with him until they were both exhausted. But when Brad went to college, Julie couldn't go and stayed home with me. It took a while, but Julie finally became as loyal to me as she had been to Brad ... she's laying on the couch next to me as I type, her head on my lap and her paw cradling her buddy Ollie the wiener dog.

I'm not sure how old Julie is since she was a rescue dog, picked up in an open field by an animal control officer. The vet thought she was around two years old when we brought her home, which means she's probably approaching 9 years old. I've noticed a big difference in Julie over the last few months ... she sleeps a lot more than she used to, she gets disoriented at times, and she has some trouble getting up when she's laying down. After talking to our vet, he suggested that I begin giving her a couple of natural supplements, one for her joints and one for her brain function. She's been taking the pills for a little more than a month now, and within the last week, it's as if she's been drinking from the fountain of youth. She's much more alert and aware, and she wants to play again ... a lot. I've often said that I've never seen a dog who liked to play more than Julie ... she would literally play until she couldn't walk because she was so exhausted. It's too hot for her to play outside, so I've been sitting on my couch tossing a tennis ball for her inside the house. She runs down my little hallway and into the office to get the ball while Ollie chases behind her barking his crazy head off and thinking he's every bit as big as Julie. And ... most important of all ... watching them play together makes me smile.

Last night, I had thrown the ball for Julie for about a half-hour while I was texting back and forth with a friend from Tennessee. After I said goodnight to my friend, I lifted the ball in my hand after she placed it in my lap and said, "That's it, Jules ... go rest a while." Thank goodness I noticed the gleam in her eye as she prepared to lunge at me to try and grab the ball, and I quickly released it so that she didn't accidentally bite my hand. My instinct was to put my arms in front of my face to keep her paws from scratching me, but I didn't think about the fact that I had shorts on and that she might land on my legs. And that's exactly what she did ... one of her big paws raked across my thigh, leaving me with a deep, 3-inch long scratch that began bleeding even before I managed to stand up from the couch. After I assessed the damage and determined that I didn't need stitches, I immediately went into the bathroom and washed the cut with soap and water. And I yelped like a little kid when I did because it burned like fire ... no, seriously, it burned like fire. I covered it with some prescription ointment, wrestled the ball away from Julie and went to bed. I have issues with healing because of diabetes, especially when I get a cut, scrape or scratch and almost always end up having to take a round or two of antibiotics to heal the offending injury. So it's only natural that the true irrational thinking that now possesses my mind quickly caused me to convince myself that Julie undoubtedly had some horrible bacteria on her nail that was most assuredly going to invade my leg and do one of two things while I slept ... kill me or turn me into a zombie. Obviously since I'm typing this post, neither of those things happened ... yet.

On my left forearm, I have a long, thin scar that stretches from just below my elbow almost down to my wrist ... a scar from another deep scratch from Julie's paw inflicted in much the same way several years ago when we were visiting Matt and Becca (my weak-stomached son came dangerously close to fainting when the blood sprang forth on my arm, by the way). And this morning as I covered my newest doggie wound with ointment again, I said to Julie, "Well, big girl, I'm sure I'll have another scar from this one. But I still love you, old dog ... you didn't mean to hurt me ... I still love you." As Julie wagged her tail, I realized that I was right in the middle of another one of God's teaching moments. My heart has been wounded a lot over the last couple of years, and I've got some big scars ... scars that serve only as reminders of the pain that caused them. And at the same moment that thought entered my mind, my little wiener dog trotted into the bathroom, sat on top of my feet and turned his face up to look at me ... his face that is scarred from the abuse that he endured before he came to live with me and Julie. My eyes filled with tears as I reached down to pat his head ... "You don't know that you have scars, do you buddy? You are happy and healthy here, and you never think about the scars or the pain from before. You know you're loved, and that's all that matters, isn't it, Oliver boy? Knowing that you're loved makes those scars worth the journey it took to get here, little guy ... the love at the end is worth all the pain along the way. If you had never been hurt, you would have never come to be with me and Jules ... it took the hurt for you to get to the love, boy ... it took the hurt to get to the love."

Only God could take a dog scratch and turn it into a way for Him to speak to my soul and touch my heart ... only God can do something big like that, friends, only God.

The One Ring

It just so happened that the opening of the second Lord of the Rings trilogy of movies coincided with the day that my kiddos and I were leaving to go skiing in Colorado. To say that my children were disappointed that they wouldn't get to see the film on opening night is a huge understatement. You'd think that the excitement of going skiing for a week in the beautiful mountain town of Winter Park would have far surpassed going to see a movie, but as is so often true with kids, they wanted to do both. We were planning to stop and spend the night in western Kansas on the Friday that we left, so I did a bit of research and found a town that had a movie theater that was showing The Two Towers film. Well ... it was almost a theater anyway ... I think it might have had 50 seats and looked to be around a century or so old. We went to a late-night showing, and the one thing I remember most vividly is that I slept through a good part of the movie ... but my children had a great time, and that's what really mattered most to me.

On Saturday morning, I was looking for something in my mom's old pink jewelry box when I came across my high school class ring ... silver with a blue starburst stone, with a lion on one side and 77 (the year I graduated), flags and RB (Red Bank) on the other, and my initials engraved on the inside. As I sat on my bed and looked at my ring, I instantly remembered the day I got it and how proud I was of that ring ... not because it was extra fancy or cost a lot of money ... it was actually one of the more simple, least expensive class ring options ... I was proud of the ring because it signified one of the great rites of passage in life ... graduating from high school. Turning the ring over and over in my hand, I had a thought ... I wonder if this ring would fit my finger again since I've lost so much weight. I took off the ring I wear on my right hand and slipped my old high school ring over my knuckle and onto my finger. I couldn't help but smile ... not only did it slide onto my finger easily, it was even a little loose. Things sure didn't turn out the way I thought they would when I was in high school, I thought as I gazed at the ring ... I thought I would be a writer and work for a small-town newspaper, maybe even become a columnist one day like Erma Bombeck. I thought I would find someone to spend the rest of my life with ... I thought I would travel the world ... I thought I would be forever young and carefree.

I spent most of the weekend curled up on my couch watching all three Lord of the Rings movies ... that's a lot of hours of hobbits and orcs and wizards. My favorite by far of the three films is the final one, The Return of the King ... it's the one where good finally triumphs over evil, the one where Frodo finally destroys the One ring in the fires of Mount Doom. The One ring ... it was the ring with all the power, the power to turn good men into power-hungry, murderous, evil ones. It was the ring that controlled all of the other rings ... it was the one that contained within it the power of life and death. Carrying the One ring was a burden for Frodo, one that drained him physically and emotionally, and in fact, came dangerously close to claiming his life. For all the lessons in the film and all the great lines, I think the greatest lesson of all comes near the end of the movie ... a lesson of the real meaning of love and sacrifice. Frodo is ready to give up and admit defeat ... he's exhausted, hungry and weak, and he tells his friend Samwise that it's over, that the burden of the ring is too much for him to carry any further. Samwise begins to remind Frodo of their home and where they came from. And then he utters the line that brings tears to my eyes each time I hear it ... "Then let us be rid of it ... once and for all! Come on, Mr. Frodo. I can't carry it for you ... but I can carry you!"

Maybe there's a reason, Lord, that I found my old ring and that I've been musing about rings of power. Maybe I need to contemplate where my true home is ... maybe I need to ponder where I've come from ... maybe I need to understand that sometimes the only way to make it up the mountain is when we carry one another. Maybe I should wear my ring for a few days, Lord ... maybe I should.

Going, Going, Gone

When I was a kid, I remember my dad taking me to several auctions. I can't remember why we went or what he purchased, but I do remember some things about those outings quite vividly. More than one of the auctions was held in a barn-like structure, and I remember the feel of the sawdust-covered ground under my feet and the smell of leather and horses wafting through the air. There were always farmers at the auctions, farmers dressed like my dad ... faded overalls hitched over their shoulders and straw hats perched atop their heads. But what I remember most of all ... most of all, I remember the voices of the auctioneers as they worked the crowd into a bidding frenzy, using words I had never heard before and speaking faster than it seemed possible for a human to speak. When the auctioneer was sure the bidding had reached the peak price for whatever item was on the block at the time, he would give the potential buyers one last opportunity to bid as he taunted the crowd with the words, "Going ... going ..." and if no one offered up a last-minute bid, he would shout, "Gone!" and the bidding for the item would close.

My son Matt called me around lunchtime today, and as always, it was good to hear his voice. He talked about his job and how much he already loves what he's doing at the university. He talked about the park system in Edmonton and the recreational center at the university that he and Becca and C.J. will have free access to. He talked about how the wiener dogs Andy and Chloe are adjusting to their new home. He talked about how ready he was for Becca and C.J. to arrive this afternoon. He talked about the call from the movers saying their belongings are scheduled to be delivered on Monday. He talked about a lot of things, and there was a happiness in his voice that was undeniable ... the happiness of a man who has found his spot, his niche, his place in the world ... the happiness of a man who is embarking on the largest adventure of his life thus far ... the happiness of a man who is thrilled that God has blessed him with a good job that will provide for his little family ... the happiness of the man who is my son.

I've been weepy all day, knowing that Becca and C.J. boarded a plane this morning to fly to Canada. I'm not sure why, but the two of them leaving made it very real to me today ... my son, daughter-in-law and granddaughter no longer live in the same country as I do. There's been a feeling of finality hovering over me all day today ... one of those days when I know that life as I've known it for so many years has taken a huge turn in a different direction. At work today, a gal who knew that Becca and C.J. were leaving this morning came over to my desk soon after I arrived and asked, "So how are you?" Several words immediately popped into my mind as tears filled my eyes ... askew, off-balance, more alone than I've ever felt in my life. But the words that I spoke were, "I'm fine ... I'm fine ... I'm fine." 

Matt asked me on the phone today what I had been doing, or to quote the question he has asked me each time he has called me since he moved out to go to college 10 years ago ... "So what's going on with you? What's happening there?" I hemmed and hawed and finally said, "Just work, Mattie, and then home ... I go to work and I go home. That's it. I don't have anywhere to go or anyone to go with me if I did ... I go to work and I go home." His reply was matter of fact, as is so often the case with Matt ... "That's not good, Mom ... you need to get out and have some fun. It's not healthy that the only social interaction you have is with the people at work ... you have to find your place again, Mom ... you need friends now more than you ever have before. You need to get out of the house, Mom, you need to get out and find your place." And yes, when my "too wise for his years" son and I finished talking, I ducked into the restroom and cried like a baby.

All evening, I've been thinking about the sweet reunion that happened in the airport this afternoon when Matt saw his wife and baby girl walk off the airplane and into his arms. I've been thinking about Becca strolling into her new home ... the home that she has only seen in photos until today. I've been thinking about how happy two little wiener dogs must have been to see their two favorite girls in the world finally come home. I've been thinking about C.J. ... I've been picturing her big blue eyes ... her curious little spirit ... her sweet giggly laughter ... her first night in her Canadian home. I've been thinking about the words of the auctioneer all those years ago, "Going, going, gone."

Boys of the Beach

Today was a really, really, really, really, really long day at work with one huge project after another, most of them involving reading about horse and cow poop, with a smattering of cheese reading as well ... there's something inherently wrong with that, I think ... reading about horse and cow poop one minute and then cheese the next. Oh my ... I must be more tired than I realized to have not only typed that sentence but to acknowledge that in a few minutes it will appear on the Internet for the whole world to read. After such a mentally taxing day, I generally have a hard time turning off my brain and often find myself thinking about all the copy I read throughout the day. And tonight, I'm having an especially tough time slowing down my thought process because I had to bring work home with me that's due early in the day tomorrow, and I already had three jobs on my desk to do in the morning. I've found that on days like today, there's only one remedy to help me unwind ... a walk in the dark with Ollie the wiener dog while the music of The Beach Boys pulses through my headphones. I have no clue as to why, but that combination can always soothe me and calm my frazzled and stressed out nerves.

Ollie was especially frisky and prancy tonight, running all the way to the end of his leash and turning and glaring at me with his "So are you coming or not?" look on his little wiener dog face. Each time, I would assure him that I was indeed walking as fast as my tired legs would carry me, and he would wait for me to catch up and then bolt down the sidewalk again. We had walked for about 15 minutes when I said, "Let's turn around and head home, Ollie ... I'm just pooped tonight." He wasn't happy with me and immediately bolted into the grassy field next to the sidewalk, tail wagging and tongue hanging out of his mouth, begging me to play with him. As I stepped into the crunchy, dry grass, the song Dance, Dance, Dance began to play on my iPod. And that's when it happened ... that's when I had a momentary (OK, it was a little more than momentary) digression into sheer craziness.

Before I share what happened next, allow me to first say that I'm a lousy, lousy dancer. How lousy, you ask? Think of the worst dancer you've ever seen, and then put me in a category lower than that. Instead of chasing Ollie through the grass, I started dancing toward him ... and the closer I got to my little wiener dog, the harder his tail wagged as he began jumping toward me. I'm not sure how long I stood in the field dancing while Ollie ran around my feet, barking like a banshee. I am sure, however, that it was long enough that the drivers of the cars that were passing on the nearby street began to honk and wave. I'm also sure that I'm lucky none of them called the cops to report that a woman was dancing with a wiener dog in the field next to the high school. It's hot out tonight, and by the time I stopped dancing and bent over to lift my tired and panting hound into my arms, I was dripping wet with sweat. But ... but ... but ... I certainly was no longer thinking about work or editing or the stress that will surely accompany tomorrow.

I know my post last night was intense, and to all of you who have emailed or messaged me about it, I haven't read them all yet but I promise I will. I perused a few of them earlier, and as I expected, there were both negative and positive comments. So I thought you all deserved a post tonight that perhaps will make you smile ... come on ... seriously ... how can you not smile at the thought of a crazy old gray-haired woman dancing with a wiener dog while being serenaded by the sweet tunes of those Boys of the Beach? That's funny. Seriously, seriously funny.

A Little More Like Jesus

The company I work for decided at the beginning of the year to make several classes available for us to participate in, sort of a self-improvement kind of thing. The owners hired a professional presenter who travels all over the country helping companies grow their employees in developing skills in the field of communication. This morning, I attended my first class along with 20 or so of my co-workers, and I was captured almost from the moment the woman leading the class began to speak. For a little over four hours, I listened intently as she instructed us on the art of effective communication and led us through various exercises to help us learn to be engaged and responsive listeners. As I walked back to my desk after the class ended, I realized that I had learned two important things from the speaker this morning. 1) I don't just not like confrontation ... I hate it. I hate confrontation so much that I try to avoid it even to the point of allowing others to inflict some pretty significant wounds upon my heart over and over again, and 2) It doesn't take much for communication between two people to break down and for things to take a terribly wrong turn in a relationship.

This evening, I had a lengthy conversation with a woman who was asked to step down from all of her leadership responsibilities at her church, and no, it's not the church I attend; in fact, she doesn't live in Kansas City. Her pastor cited this as his reason for asking her to no longer serve as a leader ... she doesn't tithe to the church. Oh, she tithes ... she probably tithes a higher percentage of her income than the pastor himself, but she tithes to churches that are less fortunate and are struggling to support their ministry, to individuals who are in need, to children who are starving or homeless or abused. The truth is that the pastor's request for her resignation has little to do with the tithing issue that he cited as his reason ... the truth is that he asked her not to lead because she doesn't fit the mold of who the church wants her to be; she knows the real reason ... I know the real reason ... and though he won't admit it, the pastor knows the real reason ... she doesn't fit the mold of the church, not the mold of Jesus, mind you, the mold of the church. Just as the speaker at work said this morning, many times we don't say what we truly mean or feel ... we veil our true feelings, desires and emotions so that we aren't forced to deal with the real truth, especially when that truth involves differing beliefs or interpretations of whatever code we structure our lives upon.

When we finished talking, my heart was so heavy for my friend ... heavy, but angry, too. To hear that this woman ... this woman who has one of the kindest, most compassionate, loving, loyal, generous hearts I know ... to hear that she's been told by the pastor of the church that she can no longer be in leadership breaks my heart and enrages my spirit in a big way. I know that what I'm about to say will make some of you angry ... the church of today has it all wrong, friends ... the church of today is missing it completely. When my friend said, "It seems there's not much of Jesus left in the church anymore," I couldn't help but think about the younger generation who is quick to say, "I love Jesus, but I don't like the church." My friend has the very type of servant heart God calls us to have, but she can no longer lead in the church she has faithfully served for many years ... breaks my heart ... breaks my heart, and something tells me that it breaks the heart of God as well.

I've met a lot of people out on the walking trail ... a whole lot of people. And out of all of my trail buddies I've come to know over the last three years, I can count on one hand the ones who attend church regularly. Some of them used to go to church, but no longer attend; some of them have never attended church; some of them are C&E churchgoers (Christmas and Easter). Some of those folks would be labeled "bad" sinners; some would be called "good" people who don't have a relationship with God; and some would be termed "carnal" Christians who have wandered away from Jesus. And yet ... guess who stopped by my house over the last couple of weeks to check on me because they knew my son and daughter-in-law and granddaughter were leaving for Canada? Guess who brought chicken and broccoli and no sugar added ice cream to me for dinner because they were worried that I wasn't eating because I was too upset? Guess who emailed me every day the week that Matt left and has emailed me every day since? Guess who hugged me and matched my tears with their own? Guess who knocked on my door and asked if I'd like to walk with them? Guess who sent me a card that said, "Call me day or night if you need to talk"? My trail buddies, friends ... my trail buddies did all of those things ... people who would most certainly not fit the mold.

One of my favorite Christian singers is Mandisa, and this morning as I was driving to work, I was struck by the lyrics to her song "What if We Were Real." I'm not going to list the lyrics in this post because they are rather lengthy, but the line "Maybe we'd be a little more like Jesus" if we were real certainly touched my heart. Maybe ... just maybe, that's the kind of people we are called to be ... maybe we should focus on reaching for that goal every day ... maybe we should try to be a little more like Jesus every single day. And for the record, He loved people who didn't fit the mold ... He called 12 of them to be the founders and leaders of His church ... as my Daddy used to say, put that in your pipe and smoke it for a while. And also for the record, I'm pretty sure the verse from Romans means every one of us ... every one of us.

"For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." Romans 3:23

Bye-bye Baby

OK ... OK ... OK. For all of you who have messaged me asking about my son Matt's move to Canada, this post should answer all of your questions. But one thing first ... it's only been a little over a week since I said goodbye to my son, and yes, my heart is still pretty raw and filled with emotion about my boy being so far away. Now, on to the details that many of you have requested.

Matt left on Friday, June 29 in his Toyota Prius ... yes, he drove a Prius all the way to Edmonton, Canada, which is, I was told tonight, so far north that the town sits at the end of the highway. Matt, his and Becca's two wiener dogs Andy and Chloe, and Becca's dad drove for three days ... in a Prius. I'm very glad that Becca's father went along with Matt to help with the driving (and the wild wiener dogs) ... if there's one thing all of us in our family knows, it's that Matt isn't and never has been a great driver. Becca has helped him greatly in that department, but all of us were thrilled to know that he wouldn't be making the drive to Edmonton alone. They arrived safely a week ago today, and Matt began his job on Tuesday morning. The university is treating him like a king, and he's settling in and beginning the research part of his job and will start teaching his first class of 120 students in September. I've gotten to talk to him a few times, and it's good to hear the excitement in his voice as he tells me all about the places he is seeing and the things he is doing.

As to why Matt drove to Canada ... the university is paying for everything regarding their move, which is a true blessing for a young married couple with a new baby (I'm pretty certain that moving to Canada must be pretty expensive), and would have paid for their car to be shipped along with their furniture. And that's what Matt and Becca planned to do ... until they found out that it would take 30 days for the car to arrive. They were also told the day the movers came to pack their things that everything was going to a warehouse where it would remain until tomorrow when a driver comes to pick it up. And tomorrow is when they will know how long it will be until their possessions get to Canada ... could be 5 days, could be 21 days. So Matt has been living for the last week in the house they are renting with an air mattress, a few borrowed pots and pans, and the wiener dogs. He packed as many of his clothes that he would need for work into the Prius, along with some things for Becca and C.J. in case their belongings don't arrive for a while. Becca and C.J. have spent the last week with her parents, and they are flying to their new home on Thursday. Due to the differences in health care coverage between the two countries, it's too risky for the two of them to wait any longer to move since they no longer have health insurance in the U.S. Becca's mother is flying with her and plans to stay a week or so in hopes that the movers will arrive and she'll be able to help Matt and Becca unpack and settle in to their new home.

This evening, I had dinner at Becca's folks' house and then we all went for a nice long walk, enjoying the cooler temperatures that a small cold front delivered late in the day. I couldn't help but think as C.J. rode in her stroller that in all probability she'll be walking on her own by the time I see her again ... walking and talking and sporting new teeth ... I sure will miss that little girl, friends ... I sure will miss her. But for tonight ... for tonight, she laughed and laughed as I tickled her tummy ... she nuzzled her head in my neck as she rubbed her sleepy eyes ... she slept as I kissed her cheeks and told her goodbye ... and even though my mind knows that she's too young to remember what I whispered in her ear, my heart wishes that she could.

A little over a week ago, I bid farewell to my son, and tonight, I did the same with my daughter-in-law and granddaughter. I told someone at work last week ... these are the things of life that you never think about when your children are babies waking you up several times each night or little kids tracking mud into the house or teenagers blasting music that shakes the walls or graduating seniors heading off to college or young adults walking down the aisle on their wedding day or expectant parents telling you they are going to have a baby of their own ... you never think about them becoming doctors or filmmakers or pastor's wives and moving far away from home ... at least I didn't ever think about that anyway.

When I walked into my house tonight, I was struck by the silence of it ... my only companions now are furry ones, and they were sound asleep ... the silence of my home seemed ... well, it seemed so much more silent tonight. The last couple of weeks have been emotionally draining ... there's no sense in even trying to pretend they haven't been the toughest couple of weeks of my life. But as I was making the 30-mile drive home from Becca's parents' house, I couldn't help but recognize the huge lesson I've learned over the last two weeks. Not one of us is guaranteed another day in this life ... we aren't even guaranteed our next breath. We should treasure every single moment we have with the people we love ... we should make sure those people know that we love them. We should always carve out time ... time to talk, time to listen, time to care, time to laugh, time to cry ... time to love. We shouldn't allow the tyranny of the urgent keep us from what matters most ... carving out time for relationships with those precious family members and friends whom God has graciously placed in our lives.

So that's the story ... tomorrow, tell someone you love that you love them ... tomorrow, put your arms around someone you love and give them a hug ... tomorrow, cry with someone you love whose heart is burdened. Sleep well, friends ... sleep well.

Blind Love

Over the last 17 or so years since I got divorced, I've been asked one particular question more times than I can count ... "So, have you ever dated anyone since your divorce?" Depending on who's asking the question, sometimes I answer and sometimes I don't. To be honest, I've never understood why it is that people are so preoccupied with whether or not a person dates after he or she has been married and then divorced. My own personal experience has been that folks were way more concerned with my dating status when I was categorized as a divorced woman than they ever were when I was a single, never been married woman. Sorry, but I simply don't understand it ... I simply don't. But, in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent in my posts ... yes, I've dated a few times since my divorce ... a very few, but a few.

Several years after my divorce, I was introduced to a gentleman through a friend at work ... he was a friend of my co-worker's cousin. We emailed back and forth and spoke on the phone for several weeks and then eventually, he traveled to Kansas City for us to meet in person (he lived eight hours north of KC on a large farm in a very small town). He stayed in town for a couple of weeks (in a hotel, friends, in a hotel), and we never went on one date alone during that time. All of our outings and time spent together included my children ... which impressed the heck out of me that he enjoyed doing things with my kiddos ... and it didn't take long at all for my kids to inform me that they thought he was an awesome guy. He visited us several more times over the next year or so, and my children and I took a road trip to his town to meet his family and spend a few days on the farm. We dated long-distance for about a year and a half, and my kids were completely correct ... he was an awesome person. He was a compassionate, caring, loyal, trustworthy, family-oriented, Christian, hard-working man ... and he was blind. He would joke and say the only thing he couldn't do was drive a car, but that he would figure out how to one day. He asked me to marry him, several times, but obviously, I didn't. You see, even though he was a wonderful guy and I did love him, I loved him like a brother rather than a husband, and I knew in my heart that it would never work out between us. I know that I broke his heart, and to this day, I feel badly that I couldn't love him the way he loved me.

Since it's too hot outside to walk or ride my bike (at 11 p.m. last night, the temperature was still 98 hot and muggy degrees) and my treadmill is broken, I've been going to the mall to walk in the evenings after dinner. I had an appointment at 9 this morning to get my hair cut, so I decided after a long tossing and turning kind of night that I would go to the mall and walk before my appointment. Though all the stores are closed, the mall is open for walkers at 7 a.m. each morning, and there are generally quite a few folks hoofing it in the early morning hours. This morning, however, I walked almost all the way around the perimeter of the mall before I saw any other people ... two ladies walking slowly together, one tapping her long cane in front of her as she held the other gal's arm. It took me a moment to register that the lady with the cane was blind, perhaps because I was so focused on The Beach Boys music that was playing on my iPod. I smiled at the woman who was leading her friend, and much to my surprise, it was the blind lady who said, "Well, another person! Good Saturday morning to you!" I stopped dead in my tracks, and I'm quite certain that my shock registered on my face. "Good morning to you, ladies," I replied. "How are you both this morning?" The women stopped and chatted with me for a few minutes about the heat and how thankful they were to have a cool place to walk. They asked me if I always walked alone and if I would like to join them. I thanked them and said I had to get to an appointment and told them it was a pleasure to meet them. As I started to walk away, I turned and asked, "Are you girls sisters?" Yeah ... here's the thing ... those of you who are faithful readers of my journey know that I believe God often teaches me the biggest lessons through the seemingly small and most unremarkable situations, and in the ladies' answers to my question, He taught me a huge one this morning.

The lady who was blind spoke first ... "No, dear, we aren't sisters ... well, not by blood anyway. We are friends ... this wonderful woman is my sweet friend." The other gal chimed in and said, "That's right, we are friends by definition, I suppose, but we are sisters by heart. We are sisters in the Lord, and I count my friend here as one of His most lovely blessings in my life." Smiling from ear to ear, the precious lady with the cane reached toward me with her hand extended. As I placed my hand in hers, she said, "God is so good to me ... if it were not for Him bringing my sweet friend to me, I would never be able to leave my house. She picks me up and takes me to buy groceries and to church and to my doctor's appointments. She calls me just to say hi and check in on me. I've lived alone for the last 20 years since my husband passed away ... we were never able to have children, and my only brother died several years ago ... I have no living family members. Were it not for my friend here, I would be all alone and unable to leave my house. So yes, I guess we are sisters ... sisters in the way that matters most of all ... sisters brought together by a loving heavenly Father who watches over His children in ways we could never dream possible." My eyes filled with tears as she spoke, and I thanked the two ladies for stopping to talk to me ... those two precious gals had no idea how much they blessed me this morning. They had no idea what I was thinking as I walked alone to my car ... wow ... talk about a friendship that's true ... talk about being the hands and feet of Jesus ... the eyes of Jesus ... talk about love ... wow, God, wow.

All day, the women's words have pounded in my mind, and tears have filled my eyes over and over again as I've pondered the meaning within them. Every day for way more days than I want to number, I have warred with myself about leaving my house ... it's a constant battle for me ... a battle that is often only decided by my having no choice but to go to work or to the doctor or to purchase food. The dear woman this morning would probably pay a fortune to be able to get in a car and drive anywhere she wanted anytime she wanted ... to see a sunrise ... to see the twinkle in a child's eyes ... to see the colors of a rainbow ... she would probably give everything to be able to go and see and do. As I began to walk away, I saw the woman who could see place her hand on her friend's hand that was holding her arm. She patted her hand as she said, "The good Lord knows when we need another set of eyes to see for us, doesn't He? I've learned how to see Him better because of you ... I've learned how to see Him better because now I see Him through you." 

God is indeed so very good, friends ... He is so very, very good.

The Heat of Hell

Since I grew up in the South, I know what hot weather is all about. High temperatures plus humidity in Tennessee generally equaled steamy, miserable summertime heat. Perhaps it was because I was young, but I don't remember worrying about being outside or heat indexes or drinking enough water. It was just ... well, it was just summer in the South ... hot, humid summer in the South. My friends and I played outside all day and went swimming and filled our Army canteens with water from the garden hose and picked tomatoes and strawberries and sang songs in the tree house and chased lightning bugs and tied bandanas around our foreheads to keep the sweat from getting in our eyes and drank gallons and gallons and gallons of sweet tea and stretched out in the grass and watched the stars fill the sky when nighttime rolled around. It was just summer in the South ... hot, humid summer in the South ... and I loved it.

It's hot in Kansas City ... really, really hot ... and it's been really, really hot for a while now. Actually, it's hot all over the country this summer, and longstanding high temperature records are falling like dominoes as city after city bakes in the relentless heat of the sun. This afternoon, there was a power disruption in downtown KC ... a power outage that affected the area of town where my office is located. It happened around 1:00, and by 2:00, it was hot in our building ... really, really hot. When we received word around 2:30 that it would be a few hours before the power was restored, the owner of the company told us all to head home, and trust me, we all got the heck out of the hot building in a hurry. During the hour and a half that we were all sitting around watching each other begin to sweat (we couldn't do any work because we had no computers ... yep, there's a lesson about our total dependence on technology in that scenario for sure), I was forced to acknowledge that I'm so much more of a wuss about extremes in temperature now than I was when I was young. I drove home with the air in my car on the highest setting and dropped to my knees when I got home and uttered a prayer of thanksgiving for a working air conditioning system in my house.

I've been thinking a lot about heaven and hell lately, due in part to some conversations I've had with a couple of people over the last few weeks. One person believes that both heaven and hell are very real places just as they are described in the Bible and that based on whether or not we have a personal relationship with God, each one of us will spend eternity in one or the other when we die. The other person believes that the heaven and hell depicted in God's Word are figurative in nature and that we are not meant to interpret them as being real or literal places. It's so interesting to me that two people of similar backgrounds who were both raised in the same faith during the same time in history can have two such opposing views concerning one of the most basic tenants of Christianity. As I listened to them debating the subject again last week at lunch, it struck me that their differing beliefs speak volumes about those of us who call ourselves Christians. There are believers who believe that every single word of the Bible must be interpreted in a very literal, basic manner ... and there are believers who believe that the Bible must be interpreted based on context and cultural conditions that were present at the time it was written.

I always leave those conversations wondering one thing ... will they both go to heaven? They both love the Lord with all their hearts ... of that I have not one doubt. But if one doesn't believe in the realness of the beauty and grandeur of heaven or the burning heat of hell, what does that mean in regard to their place in eternity? Does her belief in some way hamper her relationship with God? Does He see each one of my two friends in a different way because they differ in their beliefs? And I always close my wondering thoughts by deciding that I will probably never know the answers to those questions ... well ... not until eternity, I suppose ... not until eternity.   

Breaking the Law, Sparkler Style

Every 4th of July for the last 22 years, it's been illegal to shoot fireworks in the suburb of Kansas City where I live. And every 4th of July for the last 22 years, people in the two neighborhoods where I've lived have shot fireworks. And every 4th of July for the last 22 years, I've wondered why no one ever seemed to get fined or arrested for shooting fireworks ... at least no one in my neighborhoods. And every 4th of July for the last 22 years, more than I've wondered why no one got fined or arrested, I've wondered why there would be a law about not doing something if no one ever gets in trouble for breaking that law. All day today, I've heard the pops and booms of fireworks being detonated, which is more surprising to me this year than ever before due to the extreme heat, the lack of rain and the dry conditions of the terrain here in Kansas City. In fact, I'm surprised that the city didn't cancel the big fireworks displays that were scheduled for this evening. But ... not only are the shows around town still on for the evening, people have been breaking the law all day, and I'm sure they will continue to do so until the wee hours of the morning.

Other than my snowball-making, run from the cops, spend the night in the Red Bank jail encounter, I've always been a law-abiding, upstanding citizen ... unless, of course, you count the two speeding tickets ... or the one I got for not coming to a complete stop at a stop sign ... or getting pulled over a couple of weeks ago for hitting a curb when I was taking Brad and Shelby home. OK ... OK ... those were all car-related ... but other than those minor infractions, I respect and honor the laws of the land. It's hard for me to understand folks who willingly break the law ... especially for something as fleeting and temporary as fireworks. Perhaps my respect for the law is because of that one terrifying night I spent in the Red Bank slammer ... I don't ever want to be arrested again ... terrifying and traumatizing, I tell you ... terrifying and traumatizing.

In my musing about law breaking today, I couldn't help but think about conversations I had with three different people last week about legalism in regard to people of faith. It hurt my heart to hear them say that either they or someone they knew wanted nothing to do with the church or God because of legalistic, dogmatic judgment they had encountered from the very people who should be just the opposite ... people who should be demonstrating love, grace, compassion and mercy. It hurt my heart even more when they said that I am legalistic in my own faith ... that ... I ... am ... legalistic ... in ... my ... own ... faith. Those are hard words to hear, hard words to hear for sure. But get this ... they said I'm not legalistic in my faith toward others ... they said I'm legalistic in my faith toward myself. The more I've thought about those conversations, the more I know they are right ... I try so hard not to break the law that I can't see the unconditional love. If I had a nickel for every time one of my doctors has said the words, "You need to stop beating yourself up ... the only person who hates you is you," I'd be a rich, rich gal indeed.

I can only think of one way to end this post, and that's with God's Word ... in fact, I think God's Word is the best way to begin and end everything in life ... the best way indeed. Sleep well, friends, in spite of the lawbreakers in your neighborhood ... and I'm not talking about fireworks shooting ... think about it ... think long and hard about it.

"But now we have been released from the Law, having died to that by which we were bound, so that we serve in newness of the Spirit and not in oldness of the letter." Romans 7:6

The Fishing Pole Drawl

A Zebco Little Fisherman from Zayre's Department Store ... that was my first fishing rod. I remember the Saturday evening we went shopping at the big store downtown, and Daddy bought that rod and reel for me. The rod was green with a silver reel and black rubber grip handle. I couldn't wait to go fishing, and I pestered the living daylights out of Daddy to take me on a weeknight rather than having to wait a whole week for another weekend to arrive, whining and begging and pouting as only a little girl can do. He finally relented on Tuesday, and as soon as he got home from work, we headed to the lake. Daddy put a worm on the hook, and he taught me how to cast the line as far as my tiny arm could throw it. When the sun began to dip behind the trees, Daddy said it was time to go home. I caught two small fish that night ... and from that evening forward, I was hooked on fishing (absolutely, pun intended).

I have no idea how many times I went fishing with my dad, but I do know that fishing was just a cover for him to spend time with me, to talk to me, to listen to me, to laugh with me, to cry with me. Fishing was our time ... and it wasn't until I was an adult with a child of my own that I understood that fishing with Daddy were some of the sweetest times of my life. Daddy had a way of always knowing when I was upset or lonely or sad or hurting, and he knew that if he took me fishing, I would talk and tell him what was troubling me. And Daddy would always have words of wisdom for me, words of comfort for me, words of direction and guidance for me. I can't remember one time when I didn't feel better after going fishing with Daddy ... I can't remember one time when those lakeside chats with him didn't help to heal my wounded heart and lift up my downtrodden spirit.  Yep ... those times tossing my line into the water and reeling in a fish or two were sweet times indeed, and I'd give everything I own for a chance to sit on the rocks at the lake with my dad one more time and tell him what's on my heart ... one more time to hear his Southern drawl as he spoke ... his sweet Southern fishing pole drawl.

I'm sure that most of you who are members of my generation grew up watching The Andy Griffith Show and that you remember at least some of the many scenes of Andy taking his son Opie fishing. And I'm sure that many of you would agree that the characters on the show ... Sheriff Andy, Deputy Barney, Opie, Aunt Bee, Gomer, Goober, Otis, Howard, Helen ... the characters are some of the most memorable in television history. I'm also sure that many of us who grew up in the South felt that the little town of Mayberry was much like our own, or at least what we wished our town was like. Andy Griffith passed away today at the age of 86, and when I read the news, I immediately thought of Andy and Opie and the many words of wisdom that Andy imparted to his son as they fished  ... words of wisdom delivered in his Southern drawl, his sweet Southern fishing pole drawl. I thought of Andy and Opie, and I thought of Daddy ... and I wondered if perhaps they have met in heaven ... and I wondered if there's fishing in heaven. Hmmm ... makes me think of something Jesus said.

 "Now as Jesus was walking by the Sea of Galilee, He saw two brothers, Simon who was called Peter, and Andrew his brother, casting a net into the sea; for they were fishermen. And He said to them, ^'Follow Me, and I will make you fishers of men.' Immediately they left their nets and followed Him." Matthew 4:18-20

Be with Mr. Griffith's loved ones tonight, Father ... give them comfort and peace in their time of grief. 

 

Holy Rusted Metal, Batman!

One of my favorite television shows when I was a kid was Batman ... for my younger readers, there was a television series long before the movies that most of you are familiar with today. My friends and I not only watched the TV show faithfully, we also pretended that we were the characters from the show and would stage our own Batman productions either in one of our back yards or the basement of my mom and dad's house. There was usually a grand debate over who got to be Batman for the day, but not from me ... I never wanted to be Batman; I always wanted to be Robin, the faithful and loyal, albeit somewhat goofy, sidekick to the main superhero. Robin was my favorite of the two characters who made up The Dynamic Duo for several reasons ... he was a flying trapeze guy before he was Batman's sidekick; he didn't take crime fighting as seriously as Batman; he had a wicked sense of humor; he was content playing second fiddle to Batman; he was forever getting into mischief; he always had at least one time in each episode when he said, "Holy mashed potatoes and gravy, Batman!" or "Holy birds with feathers, Batman!" or "Holy molars and canines, Batman!" or ... well, you get the idea; and his costume was way cooler than Batman's ... come on, you know that last one is true, red and green and yellow as opposed to black and gray ... way, way cooler.

Each week on the television show when it was time to shift from their day-to-day secret identities and become superheroes, Batman would say, "To the Batcave, Robin!" And The Batcave ... man, oh, man, The Batcave was only the most awesome place on the planet ... it housed the Batmobile and the Bat Cycle and the Bat Wing ... holy unbelievable vehicles, Batman! There was a computer (it took up half of the space in The Batcave, by the way ... no such things as iPads back then), and there were lots of nifty gadgets and, of course, extra Batman and Robin suits. I'm sure all of you who've seen the full-length movies in recent years are shaking your heads and thinking, "How lame." But to a kid in the 1960s ... suffice it to say The Batcave from the television series was pretty incredible.

There's a lot of Batman hype right now due to the upcoming release of the newest film, The Dark Knight Rises. And yes, come the end of July, I will go see the new movie in the theater just as I have all of the others. Needless to say, the technology that exists in The Batcave from the films is far more advanced than that from the original television series. But in addition to the differences in the vehicles, computers, gadgets and Batman and Robin suits, there is another huge difference ... one that many people would never pick up on if they hadn't seen the TV show. You see, The Batcave used to only be the place that Batman and Robin passed through on their way to battle crime ... they slid down the pole hidden behind the secret panel in the library of Wayne Manor, miraculously changed into their Batman and Robin suits, quickly checked the massive computer (a primitive Mapquest, I'm sure), jumped into the Batmobile and took off to go get the bad guys. In the movies, however, Batman and Robin spend a good deal of time in The Batcave ... when they are wounded, when they are frightened, when they are doubting their mission, when they need to hide from the harshness and cruelty of the outside world.

I saw a commercial on TV last night right before I went to bed promoting The Dark Knight Rises, and I dreamed about Batman and Robin while I slept. It's been really hot here in Kansas City with temperatures over 100 degrees for the past several days. I've kept all the blinds closed in my house to help keep it cooler, which makes it rather dark inside even in the middle of the day. As I was cooking breakfast this morning, I couldn't help but think about The Batcave ... I've left my house one time since Thursday when I got home from meeting my children for lunch ... one time to go to the doctor on Friday morning to get medication for an ear infection (yes, another ear infection), and I am already wishing that I didn't have to leave tomorrow morning to go to work. Standing at the sink rinsing my dishes after I ate, I said out loud to the walls and my dogs ... I'm in The Batcave ... I'm in The Batcave ... I'm in The Batcave. And the more I said the words, the more a thought crashed through my mind. I always wanted to be Robin ... I never wanted to be Batman. I wanted to be the faithful sidekick ... not the hero. I'm in The Batcave ... deep inside The Batcave.

In the movie Batman Forever, Robin delivers a line in true Robin form when he and Batman find themselves on a patch of metal that is rusty and filled with holes ... yep, you guessed it ... "Holy rusted metal, Batman!" Get it? "Hole-y" rusted metal? I know, I know ... but ... God being God, He has something huge to teach me today through my musings about Batman, Robin and The Batcave. This time, though, I'm going to let you figure it out on your own ... holy rusted metal, friends ... holy rusted metal.