My son Matt is three years older than my son Brad, and they are good friends. Though they've lived in different towns for the last several years (and now in different countries), anytime the two of them are together, it's like they've never been apart. They crack jokes and tease one another; they discuss how to solve the world's problems; they drink beer ... yeah, yeah, I know ... they reminisce and tell stories and play games and laugh a lot; and sometimes they even have quite serious conversations. And many, many, many times, they compare heights ... yep, even as grown men, my boys are still competitive as to which one of them is the taller between the two of them. That was always a big deal when they were both teenagers, and they were forever and always standing back-to-back and asking me who was taller. And each time, there was invariably the following statement from one of my boys ... "I am way bigger than you!" I wouldn't be at all surprised if I hear those words again from my sons when we are all together again ... I wouldn't be at all surprised.
Those of you who've been reading my blog for the last several months probably recall that I wrote about some tough conversations I had with my children and some of the folks in my office. And both yesterday and today, I had that same conversation again with other friends ... and I can assure you that it's still tough, and I think it quite possibly will never get easier. Yesterday, however, something happened that hasn't occurred with any of the other people I've spoken with ... the person shared her own family's struggles; she trusted me enough to open up and tell me that her family had walked the same path I'm walking, felt the same pain I'm feeling, learned the same lessons I'm learning. To say that I was touched to the core of my soul as I listened is a huge understatement, and the person's words have moved me time and time again as I've thought about what she said. And as I walked back to my desk after we talked, one thought pounded in my brain and beat within my heart. "This is way bigger than you, Terrie, way bigger than you." I've heard that phrase a lot over the last weeks from a lot of different people, and something tells me I may well hear it again.
Tonight as I drove home from work, the thought returned to me and lodged in my mind. I couldn't help but recognize how often my problems have seemed so huge and how many times I haven't been able to see or meet the needs of others because I was so focused on my own "stuff." I thought about how many times recently the words have been spoken to me ... "This is way bigger than you," and how it's only now that I think I'm slowly beginning to understand at least bits and pieces of the lesson God wants to teach me. I thought about how much it terrifies me to think that the words may be true and how afraid I am of just what God's plan and purpose in all of this may truly involve. "This is way bigger than you ... this is way bigger than you ... this is way bigger than you." I'm ashamed to tell you my reply to the words each time they creep into my mind and heart ... "I'm not ready ... I'm not ready ... I'm not ready."
Here's the thing, though ... the more I say I'm not ready and the more others tell me this is way bigger than me ... the louder I hear God's voice saying, "But I am, Terrie ... I am ready. It's always been way bigger than you, child, because it's always been about Me. From the day I formed you in your mother's womb, your journey has been way bigger than you. It's way bigger than you, because I am way bigger than you ... and I've been ready for as long as you have lived ... I've been ready to love you, to teach you, to use you, to humble you ... I am ready, dear one ... I am ready, and this is indeed way bigger than you."
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Monday, November 26, 2012
Shop It Up
When I was in college, I went to lots and lots and lots of parties. And as well as I can recall, I think I enjoyed going to them and even had fun. I also remember going to parties as an adult, and those were pleasant experiences as well. I'm not sure when or why I developed such an aversion to parties ... I think perhaps it began when my kids began to move out. I found myself feeling more and more uncomfortable in the party atmosphere and more and more alone. In fact, for the last couple of years, I've only been to a very few events of any kind ... church or work or friend-related. I've spent a lot of time over the past two years going to work and coming home and sitting in my house with the blinds drawn and the lights off.
In the 10 years I've been at my job, I've never once attended a holiday party ... seriously, in 10 years, I've not gone to a single office winter event, not a single one. I really haven't participated in many after-work activities at all, not going-away parties, not ball games, not happy hours. It isn't that I don't like my co-workers ... I've written before about how much we are like a family at work, and the folks there have certainly rallied around me during the tough times of life. And over the last few months, they have proven time and time again that their love and concern for me is unconditional, deep and sincere. The truth is that one of the big reasons I've never attended a holiday party is because they are fancy affairs, and I had no clue what to wear. You all know how much I loathe shopping in general, and the thought of shopping for dressy, cocktail party attire almost makes me have a heart attack.
I'm not sure why, but it's a big deal this year to the people I work with for me to come to the party. They've been telling me for two or three weeks how much they want me to attend ... yep, no clue as to why they want me to come, but they've made it abundantly clear that I need to be there on Friday night. I knew the instant I caved in and said I would consider attending the party that I needed some serious help in the shopping department, so I enlisted the aid of a gal in my office who has a great sense of style and who loves, loves, loves to shop. She graciously agreed to meet me at a clothing store to help me put together something to wear should I attend the party, and though it pains me to admit it, it actually was quite fun and it took a ton of pressure off of me ... all I had to do was watch in utter amazement as she went from rack to rack choosing various items of clothing, step into a dressing room, walk out and get her opinion, and eventually pay and leave the store. No wandering aimlessly for hours on end searching for clothing that is completely foreign to me ... no torment in trying to figure out what in the heck is the appropriate attire for a fancy party ... no looking at myself in a dressing room mirror feeling like a fish out of water.
So I now have a classy, sharp, dressy outfit to wear Friday evening should I muster up the courage to actually go to the party. While I know it's hard for all of you to believe, I shopped it up ... well, kind of, I suppose. And even though my shopping prowess is more than a bit debatable, there is one thing that cannot be questioned or doubted in any way ... I'm grateful for friends who continue to speak truth to me, friends who stay not only during the happy times but through the sad as well, friends who laugh and love and shop it up.
In the 10 years I've been at my job, I've never once attended a holiday party ... seriously, in 10 years, I've not gone to a single office winter event, not a single one. I really haven't participated in many after-work activities at all, not going-away parties, not ball games, not happy hours. It isn't that I don't like my co-workers ... I've written before about how much we are like a family at work, and the folks there have certainly rallied around me during the tough times of life. And over the last few months, they have proven time and time again that their love and concern for me is unconditional, deep and sincere. The truth is that one of the big reasons I've never attended a holiday party is because they are fancy affairs, and I had no clue what to wear. You all know how much I loathe shopping in general, and the thought of shopping for dressy, cocktail party attire almost makes me have a heart attack.
I'm not sure why, but it's a big deal this year to the people I work with for me to come to the party. They've been telling me for two or three weeks how much they want me to attend ... yep, no clue as to why they want me to come, but they've made it abundantly clear that I need to be there on Friday night. I knew the instant I caved in and said I would consider attending the party that I needed some serious help in the shopping department, so I enlisted the aid of a gal in my office who has a great sense of style and who loves, loves, loves to shop. She graciously agreed to meet me at a clothing store to help me put together something to wear should I attend the party, and though it pains me to admit it, it actually was quite fun and it took a ton of pressure off of me ... all I had to do was watch in utter amazement as she went from rack to rack choosing various items of clothing, step into a dressing room, walk out and get her opinion, and eventually pay and leave the store. No wandering aimlessly for hours on end searching for clothing that is completely foreign to me ... no torment in trying to figure out what in the heck is the appropriate attire for a fancy party ... no looking at myself in a dressing room mirror feeling like a fish out of water.
So I now have a classy, sharp, dressy outfit to wear Friday evening should I muster up the courage to actually go to the party. While I know it's hard for all of you to believe, I shopped it up ... well, kind of, I suppose. And even though my shopping prowess is more than a bit debatable, there is one thing that cannot be questioned or doubted in any way ... I'm grateful for friends who continue to speak truth to me, friends who stay not only during the happy times but through the sad as well, friends who laugh and love and shop it up.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
I Met a Man Again
First, thank you to all of you who read my sometimes silly, sometimes dark, always ellipses-filled ramblings each day. Second, thank you to those of you who message or email me ... to talk about certain posts, to talk about you, to talk about God. Your messages really do mean the world to me, they really do.
Following last night's post, many of you asked about my homeless friend Russell ... how I met him and what his story is. I decided that the best way to answer your questions was to re-post the blog I wrote about him the day he rolled into my life in 2011. He's a good man, Russell, and knowing him has changed me and blessed me in ways I never could have imagined. So here's to you, Russell ... thank you for being my friend ... thank you for your kind spirit and your sweet heart ... thank you for sharing your wisdom with me ... thank you for being you, Russell ... kind, wise, compassionate, caring, wonderful you.
I Met a Man
The office of
the company I work for is in downtown Kansas City, well actually, it's kind of
on the fringe of the core of downtown. But it's downtown in the sense that on a
pretty regular basis, there are homeless folks walking the street in front of
our building. Or climbing into the dumpster in our parking lot. Or standing
under the overhang at our front door. I've written before about my friend Sam
who was homeless until his son found him and took him to live with him. I've
talked about how my heart is drawn to those folks in part because of the
example my dad set in helping the homeless men who gathered in the railroad
yard where he worked. Today, though ... today, I met a man like none I've ever
met.
Someone I work with saw him first and caused me to notice him ... across the street, trying to find shade from the intense heat, sitting in a wheelchair. I stood at the window and watched him as he mopped his forehead and drank from a tattered cup. I stood at the window and watched as he placed a piece of cardboard behind his back. I stood at the window and watched as he tipped his head back and looked toward the sky. I stood and watched, and then I made a decision. I went into the kitchen in my office and filled a garbage bag with ice. I grabbed a 6-pack of bottled water. I walked across the street.
As I approached the man, he said, "You gonna talk to me?"
"I am," I said, "if that's OK with you. It's awfully hot out here ... I brought you some ice and some water."
"Why, thank you," he said gently as I noticed that he was missing all the fingers on one hand, that his skin was leathery and worn, that his clothes were tattered and dirty ... that he had two wooden legs ... wooden legs that had two different shoes attached to them.
"You're quite welcome, sir," I said. "I thought the ice and water might help you out in this heat. It's really a scorcher today."
"August will be hotter, girl," he said with a grin crossing his face. "August in Kansas City is always hot."
"Well, I'm ready for it to cool off a bit myself," I said. "You got somewhere to sleep tonight? It's way too hot for you to sleep outside."
"Oh, yeah," he said, "I always find a place to sleep. Always find a place to lay this old body down at night."
"You got a place inside to sleep tonight?" I asked, hoping that my concern for him wasn't pouring through my voice the way it was coursing through my heart and mind. This guy is old, I thought ... this guy is too old to be out here on the streets.
"I was in the war, you know ... that's how I lost my legs and my fingers. Had to amputate 'em cause they was so shot up," he said with a note of sadness in his voice.
"So you're a veteran?" I asked.
"Yes, maam, I sure am," he said. "I sure am. I love this country and I love God, too."
Feeling the tears springing to my eyes, I said, "I've got to go back to work. You sure you have somewhere to get in out of this heat tonight, my friend?"
"Yes maam," he replied. "God bless you for the ice and the water ... God bless you."
"God bless you, too, sir," I said as I turned and headed back across the street to my office ... my air-conditioned office ... my ergonomic chair ... my lunchbox filled with snacks ... my pink Vitamin Water perched on my desk. Trying to settle back into my spot in the corner of the building, I couldn't stop thinking about the man. I should have asked him his name, I thought ... I should take him the food I have left in my lunchbox. So I gathered up what I had left ... some peanut butter packets, some applesauce and a couple of pieces of cheese, and headed down the stairs toward the front door. I stopped and asked a couple of gals if they had any snacks they wouldn't mind giving the man, and they generously gave what they had. I placed everything into a plastic bag and crossed the busy street once again.
"Hello again," I called out as I approached the ragged, tattered gentleman. "I brought you some food. I'm worried about you, sir ... it's terribly hot. I brought you some food."
"Well, hello," he said as his eyes filled with tears. "You brought me food, too? Ice and water and food?"
"I did," I said and I showed him what I had in the bag, asking him to promise me that he would eat the can of vegetable soup and some crackers for dinner. "There's even a little bag of chocolate candy in here for you. You'll have to eat that up in a hurry so it doesn't melt out in the heat. Promise me you'll eat this soup for dinner tonight?"
"I promise," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "It will be like eating in a fancy restaurant ... a feast fit for a king! This food will last me three weeks or more. Thank you, maam, thank you."
"What's your name?" I asked. "My name is Terrie."
"My name's Russell," he replied with his gentle and kind voice. "I think you must be an angel from the Lord."
"Oh, no, Russell," I said as I shook my head. "I'm no angel, my friend. I just want to make sure you're OK for today. And if I see you out here tomorrow, I'll bring you some more ice. I'll bring some extra food from home, too, so that you'll have some more to eat. I've got to go back to work, but you eat this food and find a cool place to sleep tonight, OK?"
"Yes maam, I will, I will. God bless you, maam ... God bless you," he said.
"And may God bless you, Russell. Would it be alright if I shook your hand before I go?" I asked.
"My hand is dirty, maam, but I would be pleased to shake your hand if you don't mind the dirt," the kind old man gently replied. "You are the first person in a while who has talked to me, you know ... people don't see me mostly and that's OK ... I'm not much to see anymore."
Emotion tore through my heart as I took Russell's hand in mine and placed my other hand over his. "Russell," I said, my voice cracking as I struggled not to cry in front of him. "I am truly honored to shake your hand today, sir, truly and deeply honored."
I watched Russell from my office window as he slowly wheeled himself with one hand down the sidewalk. I watched and wondered where he was going. I watched from my window next to my desk as tears rolled down my cheeks. I watched a man whose only earthly possessions were contained in plastic bags that hung from his rusted, wobbly wheelchair. I watched a man who lost his legs fighting for my freedom. I watched a man who has nowhere to live. I watched a man who demonstrated more honor and dignity in our two short conversations than I could ever begin to possess.
Today, I met a man ... today, I met a man like none I've ever met. Be safe tonight, Russell, be safe.
Someone I work with saw him first and caused me to notice him ... across the street, trying to find shade from the intense heat, sitting in a wheelchair. I stood at the window and watched him as he mopped his forehead and drank from a tattered cup. I stood at the window and watched as he placed a piece of cardboard behind his back. I stood at the window and watched as he tipped his head back and looked toward the sky. I stood and watched, and then I made a decision. I went into the kitchen in my office and filled a garbage bag with ice. I grabbed a 6-pack of bottled water. I walked across the street.
As I approached the man, he said, "You gonna talk to me?"
"I am," I said, "if that's OK with you. It's awfully hot out here ... I brought you some ice and some water."
"Why, thank you," he said gently as I noticed that he was missing all the fingers on one hand, that his skin was leathery and worn, that his clothes were tattered and dirty ... that he had two wooden legs ... wooden legs that had two different shoes attached to them.
"You're quite welcome, sir," I said. "I thought the ice and water might help you out in this heat. It's really a scorcher today."
"August will be hotter, girl," he said with a grin crossing his face. "August in Kansas City is always hot."
"Well, I'm ready for it to cool off a bit myself," I said. "You got somewhere to sleep tonight? It's way too hot for you to sleep outside."
"Oh, yeah," he said, "I always find a place to sleep. Always find a place to lay this old body down at night."
"You got a place inside to sleep tonight?" I asked, hoping that my concern for him wasn't pouring through my voice the way it was coursing through my heart and mind. This guy is old, I thought ... this guy is too old to be out here on the streets.
"I was in the war, you know ... that's how I lost my legs and my fingers. Had to amputate 'em cause they was so shot up," he said with a note of sadness in his voice.
"So you're a veteran?" I asked.
"Yes, maam, I sure am," he said. "I sure am. I love this country and I love God, too."
Feeling the tears springing to my eyes, I said, "I've got to go back to work. You sure you have somewhere to get in out of this heat tonight, my friend?"
"Yes maam," he replied. "God bless you for the ice and the water ... God bless you."
"God bless you, too, sir," I said as I turned and headed back across the street to my office ... my air-conditioned office ... my ergonomic chair ... my lunchbox filled with snacks ... my pink Vitamin Water perched on my desk. Trying to settle back into my spot in the corner of the building, I couldn't stop thinking about the man. I should have asked him his name, I thought ... I should take him the food I have left in my lunchbox. So I gathered up what I had left ... some peanut butter packets, some applesauce and a couple of pieces of cheese, and headed down the stairs toward the front door. I stopped and asked a couple of gals if they had any snacks they wouldn't mind giving the man, and they generously gave what they had. I placed everything into a plastic bag and crossed the busy street once again.
"Hello again," I called out as I approached the ragged, tattered gentleman. "I brought you some food. I'm worried about you, sir ... it's terribly hot. I brought you some food."
"Well, hello," he said as his eyes filled with tears. "You brought me food, too? Ice and water and food?"
"I did," I said and I showed him what I had in the bag, asking him to promise me that he would eat the can of vegetable soup and some crackers for dinner. "There's even a little bag of chocolate candy in here for you. You'll have to eat that up in a hurry so it doesn't melt out in the heat. Promise me you'll eat this soup for dinner tonight?"
"I promise," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "It will be like eating in a fancy restaurant ... a feast fit for a king! This food will last me three weeks or more. Thank you, maam, thank you."
"What's your name?" I asked. "My name is Terrie."
"My name's Russell," he replied with his gentle and kind voice. "I think you must be an angel from the Lord."
"Oh, no, Russell," I said as I shook my head. "I'm no angel, my friend. I just want to make sure you're OK for today. And if I see you out here tomorrow, I'll bring you some more ice. I'll bring some extra food from home, too, so that you'll have some more to eat. I've got to go back to work, but you eat this food and find a cool place to sleep tonight, OK?"
"Yes maam, I will, I will. God bless you, maam ... God bless you," he said.
"And may God bless you, Russell. Would it be alright if I shook your hand before I go?" I asked.
"My hand is dirty, maam, but I would be pleased to shake your hand if you don't mind the dirt," the kind old man gently replied. "You are the first person in a while who has talked to me, you know ... people don't see me mostly and that's OK ... I'm not much to see anymore."
Emotion tore through my heart as I took Russell's hand in mine and placed my other hand over his. "Russell," I said, my voice cracking as I struggled not to cry in front of him. "I am truly honored to shake your hand today, sir, truly and deeply honored."
I watched Russell from my office window as he slowly wheeled himself with one hand down the sidewalk. I watched and wondered where he was going. I watched from my window next to my desk as tears rolled down my cheeks. I watched a man whose only earthly possessions were contained in plastic bags that hung from his rusted, wobbly wheelchair. I watched a man who lost his legs fighting for my freedom. I watched a man who has nowhere to live. I watched a man who demonstrated more honor and dignity in our two short conversations than I could ever begin to possess.
Today, I met a man ... today, I met a man like none I've ever met. Be safe tonight, Russell, be safe.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Don't Discard Me
Every weekday, I drive 20 miles each way back and forth to my office, and many of those miles are spent inching along in bumper to bumper traffic. I've been making that drive for over 15 years, and I've seen both touching and unusual things along the highway over those years. I've seen accidents happen and people stop and get out to see if the drivers were injured. I've seen all three lanes of traffic come to a complete stop because there was a kitten on the road. I've seen a guy doing pushups on the ledge of a billboard. I've seen two women get out of a car and dance when traffic hadn't moved at all for a half-hour because of heavy snowfall. I've seen a soldier pull over on the shoulder, get out of his car, and salute the waving flags that are placed along the highway in honor of Veterans' Day. I've seen all different types of discarded items on the side of the road from furniture to bags of trash to tires.
For all the things I've seen as I've commuted back and forth to work, there are two often-discarded items that always give me pause to wonder about how they ended up on the highway ... shoes and underwear. I mean seriously ... how does that happen ... really ... how in the world does that happen? Does someone just suddenly decide as he or she is driving on a major interstate to take off one of their shoes and toss it out the car window? Or even more perplexing to me ... do people really think as they are driving, "I'm going to take off my underwear and throw it out on the highway?" As I was driving home from work today, I saw three shoes and a pair of underwear. Seriously ... seriously ... seriously ... how in the world do shoes and underwear find their way onto the highway?
It probably says a ton about my mental state that I've spent a significant amount of time this evening thinking about the shoes and underwear I saw on my way home and wondering about how they got to the highway, where they came from, who once owned them. And the more I wondered about those things, the more I began to think about how many things we discard in life. And the more I thought about the things we discard, the more I began to think about how easily we throw things out the window of life. And the more I thought about how easy it is for us to discard things, the more I began to think about how easy it is for us to discard people as well. We toss people away who don't fit a certain mold ... those who don't look like we think they should look or act the way we think they should act ... those who are sick or overweight or disabled or of lesser intelligence or sad or lonely ... those whose lifestyle is different from our own.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, the day when countless families and friends will gather together to celebrate being grateful for the blessings God has bestowed upon them throughout the year. And as I think tonight about those types of gatherings that will take place ... the stories that will be told, the laughter that will be shared, the food that will be eaten, I can't help but think of my homeless friend Russell who will sleep tonight in a cardboard box beneath the train tracks on the boulevard ... of the young single mother of three who will spend tomorrow working a 12-hour shift at a convenience store so that she can feed her children ... of the drug addict who stares alone into the night because he is shunned by his family ... of the lonely and depressed who will choose death over life ... of the ones who've been discarded, thrown out and tossed aside.
It seems fitting to close this post with some words from a song by Elton John ... I hope they strike you the way they struck me. Be thankful tomorrow, friends ... be thankful.
"But see me once and see the way I feel
Don't discard me just because you think I mean you harm
But these cuts I have, they need love to help them heal."
For all the things I've seen as I've commuted back and forth to work, there are two often-discarded items that always give me pause to wonder about how they ended up on the highway ... shoes and underwear. I mean seriously ... how does that happen ... really ... how in the world does that happen? Does someone just suddenly decide as he or she is driving on a major interstate to take off one of their shoes and toss it out the car window? Or even more perplexing to me ... do people really think as they are driving, "I'm going to take off my underwear and throw it out on the highway?" As I was driving home from work today, I saw three shoes and a pair of underwear. Seriously ... seriously ... seriously ... how in the world do shoes and underwear find their way onto the highway?
It probably says a ton about my mental state that I've spent a significant amount of time this evening thinking about the shoes and underwear I saw on my way home and wondering about how they got to the highway, where they came from, who once owned them. And the more I wondered about those things, the more I began to think about how many things we discard in life. And the more I thought about the things we discard, the more I began to think about how easily we throw things out the window of life. And the more I thought about how easy it is for us to discard things, the more I began to think about how easy it is for us to discard people as well. We toss people away who don't fit a certain mold ... those who don't look like we think they should look or act the way we think they should act ... those who are sick or overweight or disabled or of lesser intelligence or sad or lonely ... those whose lifestyle is different from our own.
Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, the day when countless families and friends will gather together to celebrate being grateful for the blessings God has bestowed upon them throughout the year. And as I think tonight about those types of gatherings that will take place ... the stories that will be told, the laughter that will be shared, the food that will be eaten, I can't help but think of my homeless friend Russell who will sleep tonight in a cardboard box beneath the train tracks on the boulevard ... of the young single mother of three who will spend tomorrow working a 12-hour shift at a convenience store so that she can feed her children ... of the drug addict who stares alone into the night because he is shunned by his family ... of the lonely and depressed who will choose death over life ... of the ones who've been discarded, thrown out and tossed aside.
It seems fitting to close this post with some words from a song by Elton John ... I hope they strike you the way they struck me. Be thankful tomorrow, friends ... be thankful.
"But see me once and see the way I feel
Don't discard me just because you think I mean you harm
But these cuts I have, they need love to help them heal."
Sunday, November 18, 2012
You Ain't Cool Unless ...
When my boys were teenagers, they loved the movie Billy Madison. Yeah, yeah, I know ... but they loved it. Between the two of them, they could quote almost every line from the movie, and they did ... a lot. Every now and again, one of the lines from the film will pop into my head, and I can see and hear Matt and Brad saying it and laughing like banshees. It's funny the things that stick in a mom's head from when her children were young, and it's especially funny when one of those things has reason to be repeated years later by someone other than her children. And such is the case with one of the Billy Madison lines ... such is the case when someone from my office quoted one of the lines to me last Tuesday.
Last week was a crazy one at work with lots of regular client work going on along with everyone in the office stressing over some special visitors who were coming in later in the week as well. Everyone was working together to get our building in tip-top shape so that everything would look great when our guests arrived, and I had spent most of Tuesday running up and down the stairs taking care of first one thing and then another. Sandwiched in between various building-related tasks, I would jog back to my desk periodically to do some editing work. And that's what I was doing at around 2:00 in the afternoon ... sitting at my desk reading through some ads and brochures.
Since my doctor has been fussing at me about not drinking enough water, I had brought a giant water bottle filled with ice water up to my desk, telling myself that I would drink every drop of it before I went home that evening. I had thrown some ice cubes into the bottle when I was downstairs in the kitchen and then filled it with water from the water fountain and placed it to my right on my desk. But I forgot one very important thing in the process of putting the liquid into the bottle ... I forgot to tighten the lid. Yep, you guessed it ... I reached for the bottle and lifted it to my lips to take a drink, and every single drop of that icy cold water came gushing out of the bottle and landed squarely in my lap. And needless to say, the minute the water hit me, I let out a big yelp and jumped up from my chair. The folks who sit closest to me heard the crash and heard me holler and yelled to ask if I was OK. And when I walked around the corner and they saw my soaking wet jeans, they burst into laughter as one of the young men said, "You ain't cool unless you pee your pants!"
While the young man's quoting of the Billy Madison line combined with the fact that my jeans most definitely looked as though I had peed on myself from my crotch to my knees was funny enough, what subsequently took place was even more hilarious. I knew that my jeans would never dry out on their own ... well, not for a long, long time anyway ... and I knew I had way too much to do to just leave and go home for the day, so I asked the people who sit close to me if anyone had some shorts or pants that I could borrow for the afternoon. One of the gals sent an email to everyone in the office for me (because my keyboard also got soaked in the dumping of the water episode) asking if someone had something I could wear. Her email began with the sentence, "Terrie had an accident and needs a new pair of pants or shorts." You can only begin to imagine the laughter and the commentary that ensued as people read the email. I'll spare you the rest of the details of the clothing items that were offered up to me, but I spent the rest of the day wearing a pair of baggy gym shorts that a guy fished out of the trunk of his car ... baggy black and red gym shorts with my navy blue thermal shirt, white socks and Converse tennies. Yep, I looked good, friends, really, really good.
When I first thought about penning this post, I couldn't help but think about the lesson ... the great big lesson, actually ... that I learned last Tuesday (other than the obvious one of always making sure the lid is tight on a bottle before I attempt to drink out of it, of course). See here's the thing ... the guy who gave me the shorts to wear is a freelance guy. He's a freelance guy that I've never had a conversation with; in fact, I don't even know his name, and I'd be willing to bet he doesn't know mine either. And he didn't get the email my friend sent because he's not on our company email. He heard me say I needed some replacement pants or shorts, and he went to his car and got his shorts for me. He didn't have to do that, you know, he sure didn't. I could have probably figured out a way to hold up the too large pair of khakis that were the only extra pair of pants in the building, but he knew that I could pull the drawstring on his shorts tight enough that they would work for the rest of the day. He didn't have to go to the trouble to help me ... I would have never known that he had shorts in his car, nor would anyone else in my office. But he decided to help me, a virtual stranger to him ... he went to his car and got his shorts and offered them to someone in need.
The lesson? Sometimes I slip and pour water on my pants. Sometimes it takes an embarrassing, humbling experience to force me to ask for help. Sometimes that help comes from the most unexpected sources. Maybe, just maybe, God is trying to tell me something, friends ... maybe He is indeed.
Last week was a crazy one at work with lots of regular client work going on along with everyone in the office stressing over some special visitors who were coming in later in the week as well. Everyone was working together to get our building in tip-top shape so that everything would look great when our guests arrived, and I had spent most of Tuesday running up and down the stairs taking care of first one thing and then another. Sandwiched in between various building-related tasks, I would jog back to my desk periodically to do some editing work. And that's what I was doing at around 2:00 in the afternoon ... sitting at my desk reading through some ads and brochures.
Since my doctor has been fussing at me about not drinking enough water, I had brought a giant water bottle filled with ice water up to my desk, telling myself that I would drink every drop of it before I went home that evening. I had thrown some ice cubes into the bottle when I was downstairs in the kitchen and then filled it with water from the water fountain and placed it to my right on my desk. But I forgot one very important thing in the process of putting the liquid into the bottle ... I forgot to tighten the lid. Yep, you guessed it ... I reached for the bottle and lifted it to my lips to take a drink, and every single drop of that icy cold water came gushing out of the bottle and landed squarely in my lap. And needless to say, the minute the water hit me, I let out a big yelp and jumped up from my chair. The folks who sit closest to me heard the crash and heard me holler and yelled to ask if I was OK. And when I walked around the corner and they saw my soaking wet jeans, they burst into laughter as one of the young men said, "You ain't cool unless you pee your pants!"
While the young man's quoting of the Billy Madison line combined with the fact that my jeans most definitely looked as though I had peed on myself from my crotch to my knees was funny enough, what subsequently took place was even more hilarious. I knew that my jeans would never dry out on their own ... well, not for a long, long time anyway ... and I knew I had way too much to do to just leave and go home for the day, so I asked the people who sit close to me if anyone had some shorts or pants that I could borrow for the afternoon. One of the gals sent an email to everyone in the office for me (because my keyboard also got soaked in the dumping of the water episode) asking if someone had something I could wear. Her email began with the sentence, "Terrie had an accident and needs a new pair of pants or shorts." You can only begin to imagine the laughter and the commentary that ensued as people read the email. I'll spare you the rest of the details of the clothing items that were offered up to me, but I spent the rest of the day wearing a pair of baggy gym shorts that a guy fished out of the trunk of his car ... baggy black and red gym shorts with my navy blue thermal shirt, white socks and Converse tennies. Yep, I looked good, friends, really, really good.
When I first thought about penning this post, I couldn't help but think about the lesson ... the great big lesson, actually ... that I learned last Tuesday (other than the obvious one of always making sure the lid is tight on a bottle before I attempt to drink out of it, of course). See here's the thing ... the guy who gave me the shorts to wear is a freelance guy. He's a freelance guy that I've never had a conversation with; in fact, I don't even know his name, and I'd be willing to bet he doesn't know mine either. And he didn't get the email my friend sent because he's not on our company email. He heard me say I needed some replacement pants or shorts, and he went to his car and got his shorts for me. He didn't have to do that, you know, he sure didn't. I could have probably figured out a way to hold up the too large pair of khakis that were the only extra pair of pants in the building, but he knew that I could pull the drawstring on his shorts tight enough that they would work for the rest of the day. He didn't have to go to the trouble to help me ... I would have never known that he had shorts in his car, nor would anyone else in my office. But he decided to help me, a virtual stranger to him ... he went to his car and got his shorts and offered them to someone in need.
The lesson? Sometimes I slip and pour water on my pants. Sometimes it takes an embarrassing, humbling experience to force me to ask for help. Sometimes that help comes from the most unexpected sources. Maybe, just maybe, God is trying to tell me something, friends ... maybe He is indeed.
Thursday, November 15, 2012
Please Come Out
My brother Tommy has a dry sense of humor ... he's one of those guys who can pull a fast one on you and never crack a smile. I can remember countless times when he had me totally convinced something he was telling me was factual only to eventually find out that he was kidding around with me. Back when my children were young, Tommy lived in Miami, Florida, where he worked as the general manager for the largest privately owned Pepsi plant in the United States. One of the perks of working for Pepsi was that Tommy was able to score some pretty fun and cool items from time to time, items that he often shared with me and my kiddos. From Pepsi T-shirts to beach towels to coolers to flip-flops, we did our part to help out with free advertising for the soda giant.
I'm not sure what the occasion was ... perhaps it was Matt's birthday ... but one year, Tommy gave Matt a plush toy in the shape of a 7-Up can. Sounds weird, right? And it was kind of weird now that I think about it ... I know, I know, I digress ... back to the plush 7-Up can. On the side of the toy was a zipper, yes, a zipper. When Matt asked my brother what the zipper was for, Tommy told him there was something special inside the can. Matt unzipped the heavy metal zipper and peered inside the can, but he didn't see anything. He looked at Tommy with a puzzled expression, and my brother with a completely straight face said, "Matt, you have to say the magic words to find out what's inside the can. You have to shake the can real hard and say, 'Please come out!'" I will never forget how Matt jumped up and down shaking the heck out of the furry can while he yelled in his sweet little Southern accent, "Please come out! Please come out!" It took him a good long while to figure out that if he shook the can long enough and twisted and turned it inside out, it became the red Spot character that was, at that time, the logo for 7-Up. I don't remember how long Matt believed that he had to say the magic words to get the can to morph into Spot, but it was a significant amount of time. Yep ... he's the same boy who is now a professor at the University of Alberta ... go figure.
I've been going through a bunch of stuff in my house over the last few months and either giving things away or pitching them in the trash, and a couple of weeks ago, I ran across Matt's 7-Up can. I sat in my basement thinking about that night so long ago ... Matt in his P.J.s shaking and twisting the toy while he shouted, "Please come out!" over and over and over again ... and that memory has been stuck in my mind ever since. Those of you who've been reading along with me for a while know that I look for lessons in everything I see or hear or experience or remember, and tonight as I was driving home from work, I realized that there's a gigantic lesson for me in my memory of Matt, the plush 7-Up can and the magic words. I could almost hear God speak audibly in my car as tears filled my eyes and trickled down my cheeks. "I'm turning you inside out, child ... I'm saying the magic words because I know what's inside the can ... I know what your heart will become. Please come out, Terrie ... I'm shaking you and saying the words because I see your heart ... I know your heart ... I made your heart."
Pulling into my garage and turning off my car, I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath as I understood what God was trying to teach me. So many of us go through life refusing to come out of our own worlds, our own hiding places, our own safe spots and become the people He wants us to be. It's easier to stay zipped up, buttoned down and closed off ... it hurts to be turned inside out ... it's risky to be real and transparent and open and honest. But ... but ... but ... when I let go and let God do the shaking ... when I let go and listen to Him speak the magic words of life ... I become who He created me to be ... I become whole and His and loved.
Shake me up, Lord ... shake me up, and turn me inside out ... search out Your spot within me ... speak Your magic words ... shake me up ... shake me up ... shake me up.
I'm not sure what the occasion was ... perhaps it was Matt's birthday ... but one year, Tommy gave Matt a plush toy in the shape of a 7-Up can. Sounds weird, right? And it was kind of weird now that I think about it ... I know, I know, I digress ... back to the plush 7-Up can. On the side of the toy was a zipper, yes, a zipper. When Matt asked my brother what the zipper was for, Tommy told him there was something special inside the can. Matt unzipped the heavy metal zipper and peered inside the can, but he didn't see anything. He looked at Tommy with a puzzled expression, and my brother with a completely straight face said, "Matt, you have to say the magic words to find out what's inside the can. You have to shake the can real hard and say, 'Please come out!'" I will never forget how Matt jumped up and down shaking the heck out of the furry can while he yelled in his sweet little Southern accent, "Please come out! Please come out!" It took him a good long while to figure out that if he shook the can long enough and twisted and turned it inside out, it became the red Spot character that was, at that time, the logo for 7-Up. I don't remember how long Matt believed that he had to say the magic words to get the can to morph into Spot, but it was a significant amount of time. Yep ... he's the same boy who is now a professor at the University of Alberta ... go figure.
I've been going through a bunch of stuff in my house over the last few months and either giving things away or pitching them in the trash, and a couple of weeks ago, I ran across Matt's 7-Up can. I sat in my basement thinking about that night so long ago ... Matt in his P.J.s shaking and twisting the toy while he shouted, "Please come out!" over and over and over again ... and that memory has been stuck in my mind ever since. Those of you who've been reading along with me for a while know that I look for lessons in everything I see or hear or experience or remember, and tonight as I was driving home from work, I realized that there's a gigantic lesson for me in my memory of Matt, the plush 7-Up can and the magic words. I could almost hear God speak audibly in my car as tears filled my eyes and trickled down my cheeks. "I'm turning you inside out, child ... I'm saying the magic words because I know what's inside the can ... I know what your heart will become. Please come out, Terrie ... I'm shaking you and saying the words because I see your heart ... I know your heart ... I made your heart."
Pulling into my garage and turning off my car, I wiped my eyes and took a deep breath as I understood what God was trying to teach me. So many of us go through life refusing to come out of our own worlds, our own hiding places, our own safe spots and become the people He wants us to be. It's easier to stay zipped up, buttoned down and closed off ... it hurts to be turned inside out ... it's risky to be real and transparent and open and honest. But ... but ... but ... when I let go and let God do the shaking ... when I let go and listen to Him speak the magic words of life ... I become who He created me to be ... I become whole and His and loved.
Shake me up, Lord ... shake me up, and turn me inside out ... search out Your spot within me ... speak Your magic words ... shake me up ... shake me up ... shake me up.
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