Mum's the Word

One of the most frequent whines I heard from my three children when they were young involved secrets. More specifically, one of them would tell another one of them something they didn't want the third one to know and the third one would invariably find out that the other two knew something he or she didn't and would come to me and whine in a high-pitched voice, "Mooooommmmmm ... they are telling secrets, and that's not faaaaiiirrrr! Make them tell me, Mom ... it's not fair for them to keep secrets!!!" And without fail, those words were accompanied by substantial amounts of tears coursing down their rosy little cheeks and some quite significant stomping of their small sneaker-clad feet. Sometimes I think back to the days of raising my kids as a single mom and I think it's a wonder that I'm not crazier than I am. Here's a shout-out to those of you who are single parents today ... don't give up, because I promise you that one day the payoff will be something far sweeter than you can possibly even begin to imagine.

Over the years in my career as an editor, I've read millions of words. And a great deal of those words involve confidential subject matter, both in regard to clients and the companies where I've been employed. My first real job as an editor was for an engineering firm, and I hadn't been there very long when I was asked to be the lead person on the team that was responsible for reading the plans for nuclear power plants that were being built around the world. I will never forget the words of my supervisor when I asked why she chose me for the position ... "Because you are the best editor I've ever encountered, and because you understand and respect the necessity of complete confidentiality concerning the documents you will be reading." She didn't realize it, but my supervisor taught me two incredible lessons that day ... how vitally important it is to choose to work with people of integrity, and that trust is a gift that should always be respected, protected and honored. I've thought of Mary several times this week when the leaders of our company gave me documents containing confidential information to edit. They give me those types of documents to read because they know without a doubt that they can trust me implicitly to never reveal anything within them. They also know I'm the best of the best when it comes to editing ... just sayin'.

While I learned many years ago how important trust and integrity are in the workplace, I believe that some of the greatest lessons I've ever learned about trust and integrity on a personal level have come over the last year of my life. Some of those lessons have been hard ones to learn ... lessons learned from people I once trusted so deeply who decided we could no longer be friends. Some of the lessons have been kinder and easier ... lessons taught to me by those who have demonstrated their unconditional love and trustworthy character to me time and time and time again. I've come to understand in a way I never have before that I want to be the kind of person others can trust. I've learned that there is a trust that is forged through the fire ... trust that is sparked in the darkest of times ... trust that is strong and lasting and worthy. But the greatest thing ... the very, very, very greatest thing I've learned about trust in the last year? That God is always and forever worthy of my trust ... no matter whether my joy overflows or my despair threatens to overtake me ... He will never ever leave me or forsake me ... never, never ever.

There's an old saying ... you can't see the forest for the trees. Mum's the word ... trust me.

 

 

The F Word

For the hundreds of things my former supervisor taught me (or tried to teach me, as the case may be) over the almost 11 years that we worked together, there's one that I will forever remember ... "Perception is reality." While Donna's intended lesson for me in those three words was related to my job, there's a far deeper meaning and a far greater truth contained within them than just how I respond to the requirements of my position at work. Donna was correct in her statement that the way people perceive a person's abilities in the workplace setting often determines that person's reality in the office environment. For example, I am the person who lights the fire in the fireplace at the office every morning during the winter months ... I've been lighting the fire in the fireplace at the office for years now. Though I can't quite remember how I gained ownership of that particular task, it has become one of my favorite things to do. I absolutely love lighting the fire and keeping it burning throughout the day, and I'm good at it because my dad taught me the art of fire building when I was young. Remember, perception is reality ... keep reading.

Last week, the temperature was chilly enough to have a fire a couple of days ... I was beyond excited to get to the office on those days and get the fire going. Our company has grown a ton this year, and we have a lot of new employees who came on board during the summer months when there was no fire in the fireplace. They've never seen me build a fire or keep it stoked and roaring throughout the day. They've never watched me stack the wood in the cubby behind the fireplace or carefully arrange the wood on the metal grate each morning. They've never viewed the way I gently remove the ashes or clean the tools every couple of weeks. But ... but ... but ... they have heard that I am the keeper of the fire ... they have heard that I am the master fire builder ... they have heard that I am the queen of any and all things fireplace related. They perceive me to be the best fire builder, firewood tender and fireplace guru in all of SHS land ... the new folks don't know for sure that I am those things because they haven't experienced winter at our office yet. But they perceive those things to be true about me and therefore those things have become reality to them even though they had not witnessed my master fire building skills until last week. And the thing that is truly fascinating to me? Everyone in my office trusts that I will always have a warm fire burning for them on the cold days ... go ahead ... think about that one for a while, because I sure have.

Perception is reality ... when you read the title of my post tonight, I'd be willing to bet that a large majority of you immediately perceived that my subject matter would be about some controversial topic. Perhaps it would be about the dangers of using four-letter words, especially "that" four-letter word. Perhaps it would be about the derogatory word addressing the young server's sexuality that was used in the note that was left for him in lieu of a tip. Perhaps it would be about a personal confession from me concerning ... heck, I don't know what I've got left to confess really, but I know some of you read my blog with the hope that I'm going to confess some other big life-altering secret. If you're honest, many of you instantly thought of one particular word when you read the title to my post tonight ... and the sad truth to me is that there are many of you who thought I would write about that particular f word because your perception of me has changed since I opened up and told the truth about my sexuality. I can argue until I'm blue in the face that I'm the same person with the same moral and ethical code and the same values I had last year or the year before that or the year before that ... but it doesn't matter because your perception of me has become your reality of me.

The f word? There are hundreds of them, you know ... f words like faithful or frugal or furry or forever or frightened or freedom or fair or fun or forgotten or frosting or fight or father or future or fast or feasible or frenetic or fit or fascinating or friend or favor or flashlight or failure or feather or fine ... or ... or ... or ... my list could go on and on and on and on. I have a favorite f word, by the way ... it's forgiveness. If perception is reality, then that is mine ... the most important gift God ever gave any of us is forgiveness ... His for us and ours for one another. The f word ... forgiveness ... think about it.

The Perfect Catch

As is true in most small towns, the town I grew up in had a street that we always called "the main drag" ... we called it that because most of the important places in Red Bank, Tennessee, were located along that street ... Dayton Boulevard. Red Bank Baptist Church was on Dayton Boulevard ... Shoney's was on Dayton Boulevard ... the Dairy Delite ice cream joint was on Dayton Boulevard ... the Red Bank Hardware store was on Dayton Boulevard ... the Red Bank Drugstore was on Dayton Boulevard. All of the important places in Red Bank were located on Dayton Boulevard, including the high school I graduated from in 1977 ... wow, I am old, eh? I'm sure many of you think the high school you once attended or currently attend are special places, and I'm sure many of them are. But Red Bank High School was an extra, extra, extra special place ... the building was filled with character ... the kind of character that often comes with older buildings ... the kind of character that lived in every old metal locker, every piece of creaking wood, every dripping faucet, every rumbling metal radiator, every stone and every brick.

Earlier this year, Red Bank High School (which had actually become the middle school several years ago) was torn down. When I first read about the scheduled demolition of the old building, my eyes immediately filled with tears as quickly as my mind filled with memories. Memories of special teachers and extra special friends. Memories of simple things like coat racks and the smell of the biology lab. Memories of events like homecoming and sock hops and senior prom. Memories of my brother Jerry and basketball games, and of a beloved principal who suddenly passed away. Memories of wooden hallways and leaking windows, and of old metal lights and carvings in the desktops. Memories of blankets and the Red Bank Lions football games, and of hidden kisses under the bleachers. So many memories of times spent in that old building ... so very many sweet and tender memories indeed.

There's a high school close to where I live here in Kansas City, and behind the school is a long drive that runs along the edge of the football practice field. Sometimes I get bored with taking the same route time after time when Ollie and I head out for our evening walks, so occasionally we walk down the long drive and up another drive that cuts between the high school and the middle school. We've been walking that route quite a bit lately, in fact, and for the last couple of weekends, there has been a good-sized group of teenagers playing football on the practice field. It's a mixed group of guys and gals, and each time they are there when we pass, Ollie stops walking and stands next to the fence watching the young people as they play ... which means I stop walking and stand next to the fence and watch them play as well. The kids always wave at us and say, "Hi, wiener dog!" and they seem to be especially delighted to see us when Ollie is sporting one of his cute sweaters.

I've been restless all day today ... one of those days when I felt like if I had to stay in my house alone for one more minute, I would most definitely lose my mind. Thank goodness it way a beautiful day, so Ollie and I went for a couple of walks, with the second one being an hour or so before sunset. Ollie saw the kids playing before I did, and by the time we got close to the field my little wiener dog was practically dragging me along. He raced up to the fence and stood in his now regular spot, ears perked up and tail wagging like crazy. We had been watching for a few minutes when one of the young men ran over to the fence and said, "Want to play?" I shook my head and laughed and said, "Thanks, but I wouldn't be able to keep up with you young pups. You guys are pretty good, you know." The young man smiled and said, "Come on, just one play ... my girlfriend wants to hold your dog." I finally agreed, and walked onto the field with the young man and handed Ollie's leash to his girlfriend. All of the kids greeted me politely as the young man said, "This is Terrie ... she's on my team."

As I crouched over in the huddle with the young high school athletes and heard the youthful quarterback say that he was going to pass the ball to me, I said, "Oh, no, you don't want to do that ... I haven't caught a football in more years than I want to say ... don't throw the ball to me." The kids winked at me as he informed me that it would be the perfect play because the other team would never expect him to throw the ball to me ... I think that was the young man's polite way of saying the other team would never believe that he would do something so incredibly stupid as throwing the ball to an old gray-haired walk-on like me. I'll spare you the details of the play, but I will tell you this ... that kid threw a beautiful spiral pass, and I caught it ... yep, yep I did. The young quarterback made a perfect pass, and I made a perfect catch. With age does come some wisdom, and I knew not to press my luck on a second play so Ollie and I bid our goodbyes and began our walk toward home.

There was a rather unusual sculpture on the front of my old high school ... a brick rendition of a boy and girl student that was built into the building in 1955. (That's before I was born, by the way.) When the former students of Red Bank High School discovered the building was to be demolished, they raised funds to have the brick boy and girl dismantled brick by brick and rebuilt in a location where it could forever hold its place as a part of the history of both Red Bank High and the city itself. Brick by brick, the sculpture was taken apart and put back together ... brick by brick by brick by brick. They didn't have to do that, you know, they could have just let the statue be torn down with the rest of the building ... but they didn't. They cared enough to come together to do something about it. Those kids didn't have to ask me to play with them today, and all evening I've wondered why they did. Maybe the next time I see them, I'll ask them ... or maybe I'll just thank them ... maybe I'll thank them for being a part of helping me to reassemble the bricks that make me ... the bricks that make me, me.

 

Want a Tip?

Back in February, I wrote a post titled "Enough Already" ... remember that one? I was ticked off the night I penned the words for that entry ... I was royally ticked off, in fact, and I decided that enough was enough and I could no longer remain silent about certain things. In that post, I wrote the following words:

"See here's the thing I've had enough of ... the thing I've definitely had enough of is judgment. I don't want to be judgmental ever again, and I think I've come a heck of a long way in regard to loving and accepting other people for exactly who they are. And I've had enough of being judged ... I've told the people who've talked to me one on one that I don't need anyone else to hate me ... I've hated myself enough for everyone on the planet. The real truth, the only truth that really matters, is that only God can judge me or anyone else because only He is truly righteous. If I haven't learned anything over the last months of my life, I've learned this ... the whole judging thing hurts everyone involved. Whether or not I realize it at the time I'm doing it, I'm hurting myself when I judge others. And I know firsthand what it feels like to be judged ... it flipping, stinking hurts. Judgment leaves wounds that are deep and painful ... judgment leaves wounds that in turn cause giant scars to form, scars that are ever-present reminders of just how painful judgment is, whether you're handing it out or taking it in, judgment hurts."

And in a previous post in January titled "For Gary's Sake," I wrote these words:

"Young Gary has asked me many questions over the last three days, as have many of you. And as I said earlier this week, I have many questions of my own to which I'm not sure I will ever know the answers. I'm going to try tonight, however, to answer a few that have been posed to me repeatedly this week. But after that ... well, after that, I'm going to get back to writing about the things that matter most to me. Though I was incredibly humbled by the kind words of my friend in her guest blog, one thing she said is true ... 'Not one of these things alone defines her, but a combination of all of her attributes makes Terrie who she is.' I know that it's at the top of the list now for some of you, but my sexuality isn't what defines me or makes me who I am. After I answer some of your questions tonight concerning that one small part of me, I'm going to get back to writing about the people and things that matter most to me. I'm going to get back to writing about God and His unconditional, unfailing love ... about the journey of life we all share ... about lessons in the big and little things we encounter along the way ... about the funny and the goofy and the sad and the serious."

I've mentioned in numerous posts that I don't want my blog to become a platform for controversial issues, and I try to be very careful not to write about "those" issues ... issues that I'm often asked to write about and that I choose not to. I think, however, that I may need to change my stance a bit on that  ... on my blog being a platform, that is. I think maybe it should be a platform for love ... unconditional love for one another ... the same kind of love that God has for each and every one of us. Yep, that's right ... God loves every single one of us ... UNCONDITIONALLY. If I have a platform ... a voice that is called to deliver a message through the words of the posts in this blog ... that's what I want it to be. We need to stop the madness of judging one another and just love each other the way God loves us ... the way He commands us to love each other ... the same way He loves us.

There's been a big story out of Kansas City that has spread like wildfire since yesterday, and I received an email today with the link to the story. But the email didn't just contain the link about the young server at Carraba's, it also contained a very hurtful personal message to me as well (from someone I don't know, I might add, but who said she has heard me speak at several Christian women's events in the past). Some of you would like nothing better than for me to copy and paste the content of the email into this post for all the world to read, but I won't. You know why I won't? Because it would be wrong for me to do so. You know why it would be wrong? Because that would quite possibly cause many of you to judge the woman, and that, in my opinion, would be me willfully sinning by placing the ammunition into your judging guns and cocking the trigger for you.

I don't have to try to imagine how humiliated the young server at Carrabba's was by the note left by a "Christian" couple explaining that they were not leaving him a tip because of his sexuality ... I don't have to try to imagine it because I know firsthand what that type of humiliation feels like. I know what it's like to be judged because of my appearance ... the clothes I wear, the cut of my hair, the trim of my nails, the way I walk ... and I know what it's like to be judged because of who I am. You know what else I know? I know that it's wrong ... what that couple did to that young man is just plain wrong. And even more than what they did to him is wrong, what they did to all of us who call ourselves Christians is far, far worse. Not all Christians hate ... not all Christians judge ... not all Christians exclude ... not all Christians condemn ... not all Christians treat a person with so much disrespect and unkindness. There are a lot of Christians who love ... a lot of Christians who are accepting ... a lot of Christians who fight against injustice of all forms ... a lot of Christians who fully understand the meaning of the word UNCONDITIONALLY.

Want a tip? Love. That's it. Just love.

"Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins." 1 Peter 4:8

Jacket On. Jacket Off. Hang It Up. Throw It Down. Pick It Up.

It's more than a bit interesting to me that there are certain movies I would have never watched had it not been for my children's desire to see them. Movies like The Ninja Turtles, for example ... seriously ... I would have never ever paid money to see a bunch of life-sized talking turtles whose mentor was a life-sized talking rat. There were a ton of movies throughout the years that I watched because my kids wanted to watch them ... heck, even just last Christmas I sat with my hands over my ears and my eyes closed in a theater while Bradley soaked up every bloody drop in the latest Tarantino flick. And I must say that there's a large percentage of the films I endured because of my love for my children that I will never watch again ... unless, of course, they beg me to watch them with them. But then there are those movies I will watch every single time I stumble upon them on television ... movies I only watched in the beginning because my kids wanted to see them ... movies that deliver such a powerful message that they speak to me even now.

I think it's safe to say that as a general rule, remakes of movies are quite often disappointing ... but every once in a while, one comes along that gets it right. Now I know that many of you will disagree with me, including my movie-making son, but I think the remake of The Karate Kid with Jackie Chan and Jaden Smith qualifies as one such film ... one that gets it right, that is. And I've spent a good part of my evening stretched out on my couch watching it ... well, except for the tournament scene when I was standing in the middle of my living room doing my own super awesome karate moves and cheering on young Dre the underdog. I haven't seen the movie in a long time, and I had forgotten just how insightful and inspirational it is. I had forgotten, but I'm pretty sure that on a night when God had a big lesson to teach me, He hadn't forgotten a single moment or a single line of the movie ... He hadn't forgotten at all.

Though I wish I could say that I'm such a genius that I understood immediately what I was supposed to learn from the movie tonight, that would not be true ... not even a little bit. In fact, I didn't get it until almost the end of the movie ... but when I did get it, when I did understand, I really, really, really got it and I really, really, really understood, and I really, really, really bawled like a baby. Even writing those words reinforces the depth of meaning in the lesson I learned tonight ... wow ... just wow is all I can think of to say. I'm sure many of you remember the "Wax on, wax off," line in the original Karate Kid movie ... of course you do, that line will live forever in movie history. In the remake, the repetitive action involves the young Dre's jacket rather than a car. Mr. Han's instructions to Dre to put his jacket on, take it off, hang it up, throw it down, pick it up ... again, wow ... just wow ... Dre had no idea what Mr. Han was teaching him. Dre lost patience time and time again, complained, whined, tried to hide his jacket, didn't understand the importance or reason for the exercise and even walked away in frustration and anger more than once. Mr. Han, however, remained calm, steadfast and loyal in his commitment to the exercise ... because he believed ... he believed in the process, yes, but so much more ... so very much more ... he believed in Dre and what he would become. Mr. Han saw in Dre what young Dre didn't see in himself ... strength, honor, integrity, character, purpose.

So here's the thing ... the thing I get tonight in such a big way ... the thing that well could be one of the most important lessons in my life up to this point. Mr. Han didn't allow Dre to stop performing the jacket exercise until he knew Dre was ready, even though Dre pleaded and begged time and time again to be done, and he didn't understand why in the world he had to put his jacket on and take it off and hang it up and throw it down and pick it up for a stretch of time that felt like forever to him. But then the day came ... the day came when Dre got it ... when he understood what the jacket exercise really meant ... the day came when Dre was able to become who Mr. Han knew all along that his young friend was born to be ... a champion whose courage and bravery inspired even his enemies.

Tonight, I'm so very grateful for the Mr. Hans in my life ... those who stand steadfastly by my side every day and say, "Terrie ... Jacket on. Jacket off. Hang it up. Throw it down. Pick it up. Terrie ... Jacket on. Jacket off. Hang it up. Throw it down. Pick it Up. Terrie ... Jacket on. Jacket off. Hang it up. Throw it down. Pick it up. Again. Again. Again. Again. Again." I'm learning because you are teaching me ... I'm growing because you are leading me ... I'm getting stronger because you are challenging me ... I'm becoming the person I was born to be because you believe in me. Tonight, I'm so very grateful for the Mr. Hans whom God has sent to stand with me, by me and around me. Tonight, I'm so very grateful that God loves me ... that He has always loved me ... that He will forever love me.

"Terrie ... Jacket on. Jacket off. Hang it up. Throw it down. Pick it up." I'll do it ... I'll do it as long as it takes. "Terrie ... Jacket on. Jacket off. Hang it up. Throw it down. Pick it up." Yep ... yep ... yep ... I surely will.

How Much is Too Much?

Sometimes I have a day when I can't help but acknowledge that there is a much bigger plan in place than I ever knew. A day like today, for example, when a series of conversations and events took place that have caused me to stop and wonder ... to look up and question ... to sit down and listen. I feel the need to offer a bit of a disclaimer at the beginning of this post ... it is not my intention to offend anyone, but I do have a couple of things to say that some of you will quite probably not like too much. But ... the last time I checked, this is my blog, and as I've stated before, if you don't want to read it, don't read it.

I know there are those of you who think I made a terrible decision when I posted my January 1st entry to this blog, and you have the right to your opinion. I know there are those of you who applaud my decision to share my personal struggle with depression and suicide, and you have the right to your opinion. I know there are those of you who believe that telling the truth about my sexuality has caused irreparable damage to my testimony and my faith, and you have the right to your opinion. I know there are those of you who celebrate my quest to be real and transparent about who I am, and you have the right to your opinion.

Truth is ... we all have the right to our own opinions concerning many, many, many different issues in life. We even have the right to voice our own opinions on those various issues. The problem is that a lot of us, myself included at times, try to force our opinions on others because we think they can only be happy or faithful or loving or a good person if they believe the same things we do. If I haven't learned one single thing throughout my journey of the last year, I've learned this ... we all have our own stuff ... stuff that we deal with every single day of our lives ... and I never ever have the right to judge you or your stuff ... never ever. There's only One Who has the right to judge me or you or any of us, and that One certainly isn't me or any of you.

I could link literally hundreds of posts from this blog in which I've written about the need for love and acceptance for all of us, whatever our stuff may be. Posts in which I've offered up my own personal opinions on a ton of things. The key words in that sentence are "my own personal opinions," by the way. I'm not asking you to believe what I believe or think what I think ... no way, no how ... if for no other reason than I know ... oh, how very well I know ... the depth of my struggle with so many big questions that seem to have no real answers. What I hope I ask you to do when you read my posts is to think ... to feel ... to pray ... to step into the shoes of someone else, if only for a moment, and try to understand their stuff.

My son Matt was 10 years old, my son Brad was seven years old, and my daughter Meghann was six years old when I became a single mom. There were many, many times when they would beg me to buy something for them ... something that was expensive ... and I would have to say, "I'm so sorry, but I can't. It costs too much." And almost every time, one of the three of them would ask, "How much is too much, Mom?" Some of you would say that telling the truth has cost me an awful lot over the last year, and you are correct ... telling the truth has cost me an awful lot indeed. But ... not telling the truth ... not telling the truth would have cost far, far, far too much.

We all have stuff ... stuff that we deal with every single day of our lives. Try stepping into the shoes of someone else, even if only for a moment, and ask yourself, "How much is too much? How much really is too much?"

 

A Goose or a Moose?

Many years ago on a family trip to Colorado, I fell in love ... with a moose. We were driving through Rocky Mountain National Park, and we stopped along the side of the road because a lot of other cars had stopped. I don't remember which of my kiddos spotted him first, but we quickly exited the car and joined the other folks who were watching as the majestic animal grazed quietly at the edge of a small creek. We crept softly toward him, Matt with camera in hand, mesmerized by the size and quite obvious strength contained within the beast's rippling muscles as he shifted his weight from leg to leg while he munched on the tender reeds. I stood in sheer wonder at the regal creature before me, amazed at the manner in which he lowered his antler-crowned head to the water with such poise and gracefulness. I'm not sure how long we stood there that afternoon watching him, but I do know this ... on that sunny Colorado afternoon, I learned to appreciate the magnificence of God's creation in a way I never had before.

Since the afternoon of my chance encounter with the moose (the first real live moose I'd ever seen, I might add), I've learned a great deal about the largest species in the deer family. For example, did you know that the antlers of a moose are called palmate antlers because they are more leaf-shaped than the dendritic (or twig-shaped) antlers of other members of the deer family? Or that moose are herbivores and are capable of consuming a huge variety of plants and fruits? Or that the average bull moose (the male) can weigh as much as 1,500 pounds and eat up to 100 pounds of food per day? While I could continue to delight you with a plethora of lesser-known facts about moose, there's just one more I want to share and it's the one I want you to think about, to ponder, to mull over, to consider at length ... unlike most other deer species, moose are solitary animals and do not form herds. Moose are solitary animals and do not form herds ... hold that thought for a bit, and I'll come back to it.

Back in 2010, I wrote a post titled "Make Me a Goose," and in that post I talked about how geese take care of one another if one of them is sick or wounded ... a goose that's in trouble is never left to suffer alone. Back then, I only knew a little about geese, but I've learned a ton about them over the last couple of years. For example, geese fly in the V formation because it creates an uplift for the bird immediately following the one ahead. By flying together in the V, geese have a 71 percent greater flying range than if each bird flew alone. Geese take turns leading the formation because that's the most difficult position in which to fly ... that's the position with the greatest wind and velocity resistance, so the leader of the V has to work 100 times as hard as the geese that are following. Ever wonder why geese honk? Geese flying in formation are honking as a means to encourage the head goose to keep flying.

Remember what I said about moose being solitary animals that don't form herds? Unlike a goose who will never leave a wounded or sick member of their flock to suffer or die alone, a strong, healthy moose will kill another moose that is wounded, ill or weak. Now here's the thing ... I think people are a lot like animals sometimes, and I think at least a few of us, myself included, would have to admit that we behave more often like a moose than a goose. We are solitary in our self-oriented lives ... we only look out for our own interests and don't concern ourselves with the needs  or hurt or pain of others. We attack those of our own who are wounded or struggling to keep the pace, and we kill their spirits with hate and unkind words. Instead of staying with the one who needs our love and compassion, we kick them when they are down and leave them to either find their own way out or die alone. And we certainly don't honk our encouragement to the one who is working the hardest to keep the rest of us moving forward toward our destination.

I can't speak for you, but I know what my prayer is tonight ... my prayer is that God will make me the best possible goose I can be ... that He will take away my selfish, uncaring mooseness and fill me with His loving, compasssionate gooseness. Make me a goose, Lord ... please ... make me a goose.

The Girl of My Dreams

To those of you who are new readers to my blog, please allow me to preface the following statement with a disclaimer that I'm really not a crazy person ... really, I'm not. I am, however, rather odd when it comes to certain dreams that I have when I am sick enough for my body temperature to climb above 100 degrees. Every single time my temp is above 100, I dream about wolves ... more specifically, I dream that there are wolves standing outside the door to my house trying to get in and eat me. I've had that particular fever dream for as long as I can remember, going all the way back to when I was a kid snuggled under a mountain of fleece blankets in my tiny little bedroom with the mustard-colored walls in the house I grew up in. I remember having the wolfy fever dream when I was a kiddo ... I remember having it when I was a teenager ... I remember having it when I had children of my own (and they remember times when I had it as well, I might add, because it completely freaked them out when I woke up talking about wolves trying to break in the house) ... I even remember having it not too long ago when I ran a fever due to an ear infection. I remember having the dream countless times over the years, and I remember the specific details of the dream quite well. Even as I'm writing about it, I can picture the wolves from my dream ... three gray wolves (one always has a black tail and one has white around its eyes), four brown wolves (one has a white spot on its front right paw, and one has blackish spots on its chest) and one white wolf (completely white from the tip of its nose to the end of its always swishing tail). The furry beasts are growling and snarling ... except for the white wolf ... the white wolf with the bright blue eyes never makes a sound in my dream. Just think of the thought my life-saving head doctor is going to put into analyzing that maybe mildly crazy revelation, eh?

I've long been fascinated by dreams, and no, not just because of my feverish wolf dream. I remember a lot of my dreams, or at least I used to anyway ... I think perhaps the meds I take have toned down how much I recall from my nightly dream adventures these days. Unless, of course, there are fevers and wolves involved ... duh ... I remember all of those. There's a name for the scientific study of dreams, oneirology ... and yes, I Googled it to be sure I had the correct spelling since that isn't a word I tend to use on a frequent basis. Those of you who know me know that I can't just look up a word to check its spelling without reading the definition of said word. Those of you who know me very, very well know that once my curiosity is peaked on a certain word or subject, I can spend hours ... okay, okay ... I can spend days or weeks researching and studying about it. In the case of oneirology, however, I spent only four or five hours this morning gleaning as much knowledge and information as I could about dreams and what they mean. And for as much as I read, I can tell you this ... there are as many different beliefs about the meaning of dreams as there are people on earth. When I type the word "dreams" into the Google search box and hit enter, I am instantly apprised that there are "about 432 million results ... holy moly biscuits and gravy with a side of overwhelming to boot ... that's a lot of info, friends.

Among the sites I visited in my very limited quest to learn more about dreams, I did discover that there seems to exist at least a couple of commonalities of thought among the oneirologists of the world (I must say I don't think I've ever used the word oneirologist in my entire life, by the way). It seems there is a general consensus that dreams occur involuntarily during the REM phase of sleep when resting brain activity is at its highest, and that most people have three to five dreams per night and the dreams that are most vivid and most remembered are the ones that occur just prior to waking. I could write for a month about some of the other fascinating discoveries I made while reading about oneirology this morning ... including some truly amazing things about the dreams that animals have (and yes, there is scientific evidence proving that animals do indeed dream in a manner quite similar to humans). Rather than do that, however, I'll just encourage you to hit the Google for yourself if you're interested, and I'll end this post by sharing another one of my recurring dreams ... one that has nothing to do with fevers or wolves.

This dream ... this magical dream ... often varies in where it takes place or in its particular content, but it always involves the same girl ... the same absolutely beautiful girl. I can't say that it's always true that I have this dream at certain times like I do the wolf dream, but I do believe that I'm beginning to detect a definite pattern as to when I am most likely to dream about the gal with the shimmering blonde hair and the piercing blue eyes. I dream about her when I'm overwhelmed by sadness and loneliness ... I dream about her when I'm searching for meaning in my life ... I dream about her when I'm struggling against wanting to give up. I truly believe that the nights the beautiful, blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl smiles at me, laughs with me, says my name, reaches her arms toward me ... I believe those are the nights ... those are the dream-filled nights when God knows I need her most of all. Those are the nights He sends me the girl of my dreams to remind me of how very much He loves me ... to remind me that He has a reason for wanting me to live ... to remind me that the girl of my dreams is a big, huge, gigantic part of His plan for my life ... to remind me that nothing on earth is greater or more important than the unconditional love of those who matter most of all.

I woke up smiling this morning, which is unusual for me on a Sunday ... Sundays are without question the hardest day of the week for me for many reasons. I woke up smiling because I was dreaming about her ... she was laughing ... she was running ... she was dancing ... she was hugging me ... she was blowing me kisses ... she was saying, "Hi, Ghee! Hi, Ghee! Hi, Ghee! 'Mon, Ghee ... read a ment guck Boo!" Sometimes I wonder if my precious C.J. ever dreams about me ... my mom used to tell my kids she was always as close as their dreams. I love you, sweet C.J. ... you really are the girl of my dreams ... hope you always know that I'm as close as your dreams, little one ... I'm as close as your dreams.

Losing My Pants

There's only one word to describe the weather here today in Kansas City ... perfect. It's a gorgeous fall day with temps in the 50s, a slight breeze and brilliant sunshine that makes the yellow leaves on the trees glisten against the royal blue sky above them. Perfect. Just a perfect weather day in KC. I simply love the fall ... hands down, it's my favorite time of the year, and yes, I know I've written those words a gazillion times before, but it's true, true, true ... I love the fall. I woke up early this morning and stood shivering on the sidewalk as I waited for Julie and Ollie to do their business, and I gazed at the stars that dotted the blackness of the heavens. "Look at that clear sky, doggies," I said aloud to my hounds ... "It's going to be a beautiful fall day today, eh?"  We came back inside and as Jules and Oliver scarfed down their food, I wrapped myself in a blanket and stood listening to the silence that was broken only by the crunching sounds as my dogs gobbled down their breakfast. "This house didn't used to be this quiet, pups," I said. "It sure didn't used to be so quiet here at all."

I sat on the couch and read for a little while, then showered and went to meet a friend for breakfast. It was nice to sit across the table from my friend and chat for a couple of hours ... those are the kinds of things I miss so very much ... just sitting with a friend over a meal and chatting about little things and big things and all things in between. When we parted with a hug and the promise to get together on a more regular basis, I went on a quest for some snow boots ... uggghhh ... shopping. I really do detest shopping unless I'm looking for suspenders or Converse or bow ties ... well, duh, right? But ... if I intend to make a wintertime trip to Canada to see my little C.J. and Matt and Becca, I must have snow boots ... high, warm, comfortable snow boots because it snows like a million inches up there. I actually got lucky and found a pair of Columbia boots that are rated to -32 degrees at the first store I went to, and as a bonus, they were on sale for $39. Next was a visit to the doctor and a stop at the grocery store and back home to my oh-so-quiet house.

After eating a late lunch and playing with Julie for a while, I decided to change into an old pair of jeans and take Ollie for a walk. I hadn't worn this particular pair of jeans in a long time ... probably since last winter, in fact, as they are my favorite wintertime walking jeans. I noticed when I pulled them on that they were considerably loser around my waist than they were last year, and I told myself to be sure and grab a belt before I set out for the trail. But, as often happens with me these days, I got distracted when I was searching for my old favorite walking hoodie and completely forgot about the belt until Ollie and I had been walking for about a half-hour. You know how pants, especially jeans, tend to loosen up as you wear them for a while? Well, trust me, they loosen up a lot more when you're walking out on the trail next to a busy road ... must be something about the combination of walking, cooler weather and being out in public that makes it happen, but trust me, it's the truth.

I walk at a pretty good clip, so Ollie and I were a good distance away from home when I realized that I had a pants problem. Perhaps I was so deep in thought that I just didn't notice how many times I had pulled my pants up by then, but all of a sudden I thought, "What the heck is going on with my stupid pants? They keep sliding down ... what the heck is going on? My pants are going to fall off right out here on the trail in front of God and everybody." And almost as soon as that thought entered my mind, another totally rational one jumped in next to it. "Now that I think about it, God's seen me without pants a ton of times." I know, I know, friends ... believe me I know ... the places my mind goes sometimes scares the living daylights out of me. Thinking that possibly I hadn't buttoned or zipped my jeans, I locked Ollie's leash in place and stuck it between my knees so that both my hands were free to pull up my hoodie and check the status of my pants. I was more than a bit worried when I saw that everything was buttoned and zipped as it should be, and I'm not sure how long I stood there holding up my sagging jeans trying to decide just how I was going to manage to walk back home clutching both my pants and Ollie's leash at the same time.

Obviously, since I'm typing this post, I figured out a way to get home with being arrested for indecent exposure ... but it was the longest hour-long walk home ever. Yep, you read that right ... it took me twice as long to walk back home because I was super paranoid that I was going to lose my pants out on the trail in front of God and everybody. Now that I think about it ... God's seen me without ... oh, never mind. I kept switching Ollie's leash from hand to hand as I tugged my pants up first on one side and then the other ... one side would stay up for a bit while the other started to sag and then I'd pull up the sagging side and the other side would ... well, you get the picture ... it was a flipping long walk home. 

When Ollie and I finally trudged slowly into the garage, another thought pounded into my brain ... and no, it had nothing at all to do with how many times God has seen me without pants. See here's the thing ... it took me twice as long to walk exactly the same distance back home as I walked when I left the house. Why? Because I wasn't paying attention to my sagging pants on the first half of my walk ... I was deep in thought about much bigger things than my pants. I was thinking about a chat I had with a friend who stopped by my office yesterday, about some things my friend said this morning, about things my life-saving head doctor has been talking with me about, about my conversation with Meghann and Barrett last night, about what some of the students said to me after I spoke on Thursday evening, about the words Brad said as we ate dinner together, about C.J. calling last night to tell me she pooped in the potty ... hey, back off ... it's a big deal when you're not even two years old yet. While the first part of my walk was spent thinking about others, the second half was spent  instead thinking about myself ... thoughts of worrying that my pants were going to fall off ... thoughts of how embarrassed I would be if that happened. My main focus and concern was what would happen to me or what I would do if I couldn't keep my pants up. My long ... really, really, really long ... walk home was made so much longer and more difficult because I was consumed with thoughts about me and my drooping pants. I can honestly say that I didn't give one thought to anyone else during that hour-long walk home ... all I thought about was me, me, me.

You know what I think, friends? I think I need to lose my pants more often if that's what it takes to make me care and think more about others than myself ... yep, I surely do.

What Does a Jayhawk Look Like?

There's something almost magical about a college campus on a crisp fall evening ... the setting sun dipping below the horizon as multicolored leaves drop from the trees, swirl on the sidewalks and crunch beneath the feet of students sauntering along to their various destinations. It has always seemed to me that campuses just exude knowledge, almost as if the thoughts and ideas of brilliant young minds are so enormously great that they must spill forth and shower the entire university with the wisdom contained within them. And that exudation of knowledge and genius and anticipation seems even more pronounced to me on a fall evening ... an evening such as tonight when I walked through the campus of the University of Kansas with my son Brad.

Tonight, I spoke to a group of students at the university ... a group of students who were incredibly attentive and polite as they listened ... a group of students whose tears dripped from their cheeks as I told my story ... a group of students who gathered around me to tell me their own stories and hug me ... a group of students who understand what being different means, how it feels, how much it can hurt ... a group of students who begged me to return and speak again ... a group of students who welcomed me unconditionally ... a group of students who are without a doubt among the bravest, most courageous young people I've ever met.

If you're a basketball fan at all, you've heard of the KU Jayhawks ... of course you have. In the years that Brad attended the university just a half-hour's drive from my home, I came to recognize, know and appreciate not only what a Jayhawk looks like but also what a Jayhawk signifies ... respect, strength, loyalty, determination, perseverance. But tonight, friends ... tonight as I stood before the group of students ... tonight I really understood what a Jayhawk looks like ... what a Jayhawk stands for ... what being a Jayhawk really, really, really means.

What does a Jayhawk look like? A Jayhawk looks like a room filled to overflowing with bravery and courage and commitment and strength and beauty so enormous, so immense, so deep that it blew me away. What does a Jayhawk look like? A Jayhawk looks like you students this evening ... thank you for welcoming me into your midst. I am deeply humbled by your kind words and your heartfelt hugs, and I was truly honored to speak for your group this evening. You guys and gals really will change the world ... one beautiful person at a time.

Prep Time

You know how sometimes I say that a post is one I've been thinking about writing for a while? Well, tonight's is one of those ... I've thought about the subject matter off and on for a long time, but over the last couple of weeks, I've had a hard time not thinking about it. And generally, when something gets stuck in my brain ... stuck so deeply and for so long ... it usually means there's a lesson ... a really big lesson that I'm supposed to learn. I'm going to reveal a secret about my writing style, other than the fact that I adore ellipses. It's rare that I work on posts much before the night I post them. I may be thinking about the post for a very long time, but I can count on one hand the number of posts I wrote several days or weeks in advance. Easier to Die was one of those rare posts ... I wrote that post a few months before I finally garnered the courage to actually post it. Another was Not One More Mile, the collaborative post that marked the one-year anniversary of my conference room confession. Most of the time, however, I write from the daily happenings of my life ... I come home from work, walk Ollie and play with Julie, and then I sit on my couch and write my post for the day. Except, of course, for the posts like tonight ... posts that stem from thoughts that have been cooking in my heart and mind for a while until the day comes when I know I'm supposed to put those thoughts into words and share them in my post.

Several years ago, our company won the account of a preoperative skin prep product ... a broad-spectrum antiseptic that kills bacteria on the skin and can be used in a wide range of minor and major medical procedures. Easy for me to say, eh? Here's the definition for all of us non-medical folks ... it's stuff that the doctors and nurses paint on your skin to kill all the germs before they stick you with a needle or slice you with a scalpel. I had little to no previous experience in medical terminology editing, and the first time I saw the long list of scientific references and was instructed as to the strict rules of formatting for said references, I knew that I was in way over my head. I remember thinking that I would never, ever be able to learn all of the information I needed to know in order to be accurate in my editing. It took me several months and lots of extra hours of studying at home, but eventually, I not only learned the terminology and formatting, I discovered that I actually enjoyed the technical nature of my editing work for our client. I learned something else during that time as well ... I'm pretty good at that particular type of editing. But back to the product and my point for tonight's post.

I'll spare you a lengthy recounting of just how much bacteria resides on the first five layers of the skin or of just how dangerous that bacteria can be if it gets inside of your body and into your blood. Just think zombies and that will give you a pretty close mental picture as to the damage that can be done. Our client's preoperative skin prep product kills all of those potentially harmful zombie germs and prevents a possible infection from occurring during surgery. Want to know how? Of course you do. The product uses a scrub and paint method to distribute the antiseptic ... the nurse or doctor first scrubs the skin and then paints it with the prep solution, killing the bacteria in the process. The antiseptic then remains active for 48 hours, killing any renegade zombie germs that may try to invade the patient's body. I know you're wondering if there's a point to me giving you a crash course on preop skin prep. Come on ... you know there's a point ... there's always a point. I had no idea how important a preoperative skin prep product is because I knew nothing about the process that has to take place before a surgical procedure can be performed. The skin has to be scrubbed ... made clean ... and then covered with an antiseptic that will continue to protect the wound and enable it to heal. As important as the surgery itself is, the prepping process is equally important in ensuring that the patient is able to fully recover. I don't think a lot of people want to have surgery just for the heck of having surgery ... I'm willing to bet that most surgeries are the result of illness or pain, and sometimes that illness or pain has been there for a long, long, long time.

Over the last couple of years, I've had some pretty low and dark times and during those times, I've often prayed that God would take the pain away and that He would make my aching soul and troubled mind just ... well ... that He would just make it stop, that He would make the sadness end. I think I've been looking at it all wrong, friends ... I think it's during those low, dark, aching, troubled, painful, lonely times that God is prepping me ... scrubbing me clean ... covering me with the protection of His mercy and grace ... opening me up to the truth of His unconditional love for me. I think He's placed people in my life to help me get ready for the work He is asking me to do ... people to walk with me through the valleys and shine His light before me when I can't see the road I'm called to walk upon ... people to believe in me because they believe in Him.

I think just maybe He's scrubbing me ... painting me ... prepping me. I think just maybe He is indeed, friends ... I think just maybe He is.

The Sweetest Sound

On Wednesday evening, my phone rang. I know to most of you that seems rather stupid that it would be a big huge deal to me that my phone rang on a Wednesday evening ... so big that I would begin a post by telling you that on Wednesday evening, my phone rang. But indeed my phone ringing on a Wednesday evening, or really any evening for that matter, is such a big, big, big deal to me that I just told you about it four times. You see, I rarely get calls in the evening ... very rarely, in fact ... and when I do, it always frightens me because it makes me wonder if something is wrong with someone I love. But, back to Wednesday evening ... did I mention that my phone rang that evening?

When I picked my phone up off the table next to my couch and saw that it was Matt and Becca, I was instantly worried that one of them was sick or hurt. We usually Skype on Sunday evenings, and we had done just that earlier in the week. They use an Internet company for their phone service so that we don't have to pay international calling fees, and there is always a bit of lag time after I answer the phone before they can hear me and I can hear them. I've gotten used to it over the last year since they moved, so on Wednesday evening, I didn't think anything about hearing nothing but silence as I said, "Hello? Hello? Hello?" What I didn't expect when I could hear a voice on the line was my sweet little C.J. shouting, "Hi, Ghee! Hi, Ghee! Hi, Ghee!" And while the sound of her precious voice instantly brought a smile to my face, it was what she said after Matt told her to say what they had practiced that brought a rush of smiles racing into my heart. "Ghee Skype peas."  Trust me, I was on the computer faster than the speed of light and spent the next hour or so talking to Matt, Becca and the star of the show, C.J.

My phone has rung several times today, and each time, C.J. has had something big to tell me. You see, it's potty training weekend for the little princess, and Matt and Becca let her call and announce to me, "Boo pee pee potty!!" throughout the day. She wasn't booing peeing in the potty, by the way ... that's Matt and Bec's nickname for her, so that's what she calls herself. And as all grandmothers have the right to do, I have to brag on my genius granddaughter and tell you that today ... on only her second day of training ... my super genius granddaughter had no accidents at all and peed in the potty every single time! She's not even two years old yet, I might add ... a genius, I tell you, she truly is a genius. It means so much to me that Matt and Becca work diligently to keep me connected to C.J. and to include me in the big events of her life as much as possible. Though it may be through phone, email and Skype, they are great about making sure that my granddaughter knows and loves me, and that I am able to see and hear her on a weekly basis.

I'm kind of in a slump emotionally ... well, duh, right? Each time I heard C.J. say "Hi, Ghee!" today ... each time I listened as she said, "Boo pee pee potty," ... each time she said the words "Bye, Ghee," a bit of the sadness in my heart slipped away and was replaced with the love I feel for the sweetest little blonde-haired blue-eyed baby girl in the world. So thank you, Matt and Becca, for calling and emailing and Skyping with me, and for letting me be a part of C.J.'s life ... her voice is truly the sweetest sound on earth, and her adorable face and precious laughter are like medicine for my heart and soul. Please give her an extra big hug and kiss for me, and tell her how proud I am of her. I love you guys ... I love you so very much.  

It's Time

Several years ago, I had a shirt that I adored. It wasn't an expensive shirt; in fact, I think I paid like $15 for it. It had a mandarin collar ... yes, I had to Google it ... geez, of course I had to Google it to find out what a button-up shirt without a collar is called. It was blue and white striped, not pinstripes, mind you, but wide blue and white stripes. I'm not sure why, but the shirt kind of reminded me of a hippie shirt for some reason, and I wore it a lot ... a whole lot. I'm sure if you asked my kids, they would remember that shirt ... I wore it all the time, and I was pretty darned vocal about how much I loved it. I remember well the day I finally had to throw away my beloved collarless, hippie-like, blue and white striped shirt because it was quite literally falling apart. I had tears in my eyes as I placed it gently in the trash ... it was as if I was saying goodbye to an old and dear friend. But, as I said, my well-loved and well-worn old shirt was falling apart ... the material had grown thin and threadbare, the cuffs were ragged, and there were even a couple of holes near the bottom of the shirt. Though I held on as long as I could to the old shirt, I finally had to acknowledge that it was time to say goodbye.

I've slept on the same pillow for more years than I would ever admit to anyone ... it's a down-filled pillow, or at least it was filled with feathers when I purchased it all those years ago. Now it's ... well ... it's ... I can't even find the words to describe to you what my pillow is like now. I guess it's sort of like ... sort of like ... nope, there really are no words to describe what it's like now. That old pillow has been with me through so many life events, both good and bad, and it has served me faithfully ... cradling my head at night, catching an ocean's worth of my tears, comforting me when I was ill ... yep, my old pillow has been more than faithful to me over the years. I've bought several other pillows, knowing that the day would come when I would have to say goodbye to my long-time down-filled companion. I've tried to sleep on those other pillows from time to time ... not one of them has ever felt right to me, and I would spend more time awake than asleep.

For the last week or so, I've been really, really tired ... perhaps because several events that have taken place over the last couple of weeks really sucked the wind out of my sails. So much so that I did something today that I haven't done in a long time ... I overslept and was late for an appointment this morning. I noticed when I woke up that something seemed amiss with my pillow, but since I was already late, I didn't have time to figure out what it was. And since I forget more than I remember these days, I didn't think about it again until I changed the sheets on my bed later in the afternoon. As I lifted my precious pillow to take the pillowcase off, I saw it ... a tear in the lining ... a tear that upon closer examination caused me to realize that the material was thin and threadbare ... a tear that made my eyes fill with tears as I was forced to acknowledge that it was time to say goodbye.

Tonight, I will force myself to sleep, or attempt to sleep, on a new pillow ... a pillow that is fresh and clean and holds its shape so very well. Perhaps because I'm so tired, I will actually be able to sleep on the strange-smelling, odd-feeling, weirdly shaped rectangle ... at least I hope I'll get some sleep anyway. I haven't been able to bring myself to throw my old pillow away just yet, maybe tomorrow. Though I know it will be most difficult to say goodbye, I also know that it's time. It's time to start over, to try again, to find a way to make myself adjust to a new pillow ... I have no choice but to find a way to do what has seemed so impossible. It's time to learn how to sleep on a new pillow because my old one has finally broken down to the point that it can no longer exist in the way that it has for so many, many years. Even as I type those words, I'm overwhelmed with the symbolism contained within them ... with the lesson they are screaming for me to understand.

It's time to start over ... to try again ... to find a way to do the impossible. It's time. It really is time, friends. It's time.

Just Being a Beagle

When I first began writing this blog, I really and truly believed that no one would ever read it. I certainly never imagined that my readership would grow larger and larger over the years ... after all, the words I write are nothing more than the ramblings and musings of a 50-something gray-haired gal transplanted from the hills of Tennessee to the plains of Kansas. But for reasons I will never know or understand, many of you continue to read along with me as I share the ups and downs, goods and bads, sours and sweets of my life. I'm always surprised at how many of you don't just read the words I write, you read into my heart through those words as well. So to the many of you who've emailed me over the last week or so with words of encouragement and concern ... I wish I could answer each of you personally, but you'll have to consider this my blanket thank you. And to those of you who've emailed me with words of judgment and condemnation, it would be really great if you could just lay off for a while. Over the last couple of weeks, I've had the wind knocked out of me, and to be honest, I could really use a break from the negative chatter for a bit ... please and thank you. Seriously ... please and thank you.

My neighbors at the end of the street got a new puppy a couple of months ago, after their faithful 15-year-old dog passed away. The new pup is named Tiger ... I'm not sure why, but that's his name nonetheless, and he's the same kind of dog as the old boy who kept watch over the corner house for so many years. Yep, Mr. Tiger is a beagle just like Sprout was; in fact, their appearance is so similar it's kind of freaky. And for as much as Tiger looks like Sprout, he sounds even more like his predecessor ... yep, Tiger has the famous (or infamous, as the case may be) rolling, howly beagle bark. If you've ever heard a beagle bark, you know exactly what I mean ... all beagles seem to share that one trait that makes you know they are beagles. No other dog's bark sounds like a beagle bark; it's definitely a differentiating factor between beagles and other dogs.

Last night as Ollie and I headed out for our walk in the darkness that seems to come so much more quickly now that fall has arrived, I could hear Tiger long before I could see him. As Ollie and I neared the end of the street, we were met by Tiger and his owners. Ollie isn't afraid of much in this world, but he's definitely more than a little timid around Tiger ... actually, it's more Tiger's bark that my little wiener dog fears. While Ollie cowered behind my legs and Tiger let loose a symphony of beagle barks, Tiger's owners apologized over and over for their ill-mannered little beagle. And that's when it happened ... that's when I said some words that were so profound, words that have so much more meaning than I knew when they departed my lips, words that I cannot shake from my mind no matter how much I try.

"Don't apologize," I said softly. "He's just being a beagle, that's all ... he's just being a beagle."

Just being a beagle, that's all ... Tiger was just being a beagle. The more I've thought about those words ... well ... the more I've thought about those words. When Tiger was born, he didn't have to decide or choose if was going to be a beagle rather than a German shepherd or a terrier or a lab or a Pomeranian. And he also didn't get to choose whether he would be a dog rather than a cat. He's a beagle, plain and simple ... Tiger is a beagle. He looks like a beagle, and he sounds like a beagle because he is a beagle. And because he is a beagle, last night he was just being a beagle from the tip of his nose to the end of his tail ... Tiger was just being a beagle. And the truth is that Tiger couldn't be a cat or a different breed of dog no matter how hard he tried ... because he's a beagle just as God created him to be.

I've wondered so many times as to why God chooses to teach me certain lessons in the ways that He does, and I've questioned Him so many times as to why He even wants to for that matter. See here's the thing ... Tiger wasn't trying to hurt me or Ollie last night, not even for a moment was he trying to hurt us or eat us or do anything to harm us in any way. Tiger was just being a beagle, that's all ... the pup was just being a beagle.

I think I'll leave you with your thoughts for tonight, and I'll take mine with me. Sleep well, friends ... sleep well. 

Overcomer

Sometimes a song comes along that says it all ...sometimes that song comes on a day when I need to hear it ... see it ... feel it ... believe it ... live it. Sometimes a song comes along to remind me I'm not alone ... to remind me to just take a breath ... to remind me to hold on tight ... to remind me not to forget Who's holding me.

Sometimes a song ... click here.

The Milking Stool

It's always surprised me how many people ask me if I grew up on a farm when I say I was born and raised in Tennessee. Truth be told, I'm a city girl through and through. The little town where I lived was a suburb of a fairly good-sized city, and the closest I ever came to farm life was when I would visit my Granny and Granddad Waddle in Kentucky. Unless, of course, you count the hours I spent helping Daddy plant, cultivate and harvest his large garden that took up a fair amount of space in the empty lot next to our house. While it's quite possible that I did it more than once, I only remember milking a cow one time in my entire life, and that was at Granny and Granddad's house. I don't recall the circumstances that prompted said milking, but I distinctly remember squirting milk all over the front of Granddad's overalls and my dad chuckling when it happened.

I also have a very vivid recollection of the process Granddad went through before the actual milking took place, especially the importance my grandfather seemed to place on the milking stool. I remember watching Granddad as he placed the three-legged stool next to the cow and rearranged it several times before he said, "OK, kid, sit right here and right like this." Granddad looked back and forth from me to the cow and told me to lean to the right and scoot in closer to the monstrous beast that stood before me. He had me stand a couple of times while he went through the process of placing and re-placing the milking stool and having me lean and scoot until he was assured that the stool, cow and his favorite granddaughter were in perfect milking alignment. He took my hands and placed them on the cow's ... well, you know ... and showed me how to squeeze the milk into the pail that sat regally upon the ground. Except that I wasn't a good cow milker, and most of the milk ended up hitting the hay that rested on the dirt floor of the barn. Or on Granddad's overalls, I suppose.

We've gotten some new furniture in our office over the last few weeks, including some rather unique stools ... short, squatty stools that remind me a lot of milking stools, at least in regard to their size and shape, not at all in regard to the vivid coloring of their thick padded seats. I often sit on one of the stools to chat with a friend, and more often than not, the chats that take place when I am perched on the milking stool lookalike are important ones ... ones filled with depth of meaning and wisdom ... ones I come away from having learned a great lesson ... ones that ignite a desire within me to reach farther and try harder ... ones that make me want to strive to be a better person. I engaged in one of those milking stool chats today ... a chat about helping each other help others ... a chat about not giving in or giving up ... a chat about going the distance ... a chat about God's unconditional love and what it means to trust Him through the process. As I walked with Ollie this evening, a song by Mandisa began to play on my iPod and as I listened to the words, I knew that my milking stool chat today was about something far bigger than the words that were spoken between me and my friend ... today's chat was about being real ... real with God, real with myself and real with others.

What if ... what if ... what if we were real, friends? What if we were just real with one another, vulnerable with one another, concerned for one another? What if we were real? What if we all spent some time on the milking stool and let God open our hearts and minds to the plans He has for us? What if ... really, seriously ... what if we were real?

"What If We Were Real"

"Well, I'm tired of saying everything
I feel like I'm supposed to say
I'm tired of smiling all the time
I wanna throw the mask away
Sometimes you just have a bad day
Sometimes you just wanna scream
Tell me I'm not the only one
Tell me that you feel just like me

We keep tryin' to make it look so nice
And we keep hidin' what's goin' on inside
But what if I share my brokenness
What if you share how you feel
And what if we weren't afraid of this crazy mess

What if we were real
What if we were real

I'm over hidin' my tears
I think I'm gonna let em' go
I'm over actin' so strong
When I ain't even in control
We make it so complicated
But why does it have to be
Why can't we open our hearts and let everybody see

We keep tryin' to make it look so nice
And we keep hidin' what's goin' on inside
But what if I share my brokenness
What if you share how you feel
And what if we weren't afraid of this crazy mess

What if we were real
We'd think a little less of ourselves
We'd care about someone else
'Cause we'd know just how they feel
Maybe we could let someone love us
Maybe we'd be a little more like Jesus
Why can't we learn to be real

We keep tryin' to make it look so nice
And we keep hidin' what's goin' on inside
But what if I share my brokenness
What if you share how you feel
And what if we weren't afraid of this crazy mess

What if we were real

You've got to be real
You've got to be real
You've got to be real" --- Mandisa

 

Yesterday for Tomorrow

If you would have told me a couple of years ago what I would have been doing yesterday morning, I would have never believed you. Not in a million years would I have believed you ... for lots of reasons, not the least of which would have been that I never would have believed that I would come within minutes of ending my life. Oh, I've had more than a few rough patches over the course of my 53 plus years of life for sure, but no matter how low I was, I had never come as close as I did last year to checking out for good. Even during the times when I was really, really, really down, I didn't get to the point of believing that dying was my only way out. Until last year ... last year, I believed with all my heart that dying would be better than telling the truth. Better for my children, better for my family, better for my friends, better for me. If you would have told me on Saturday, February 4, 2013 that yesterday I would be standing before the particular group I did and telling my story, I would have thought for sure that you were the one who was crazy.

It was cold and windy yesterday, and the event took place at a park downtown near the river. I was really nervous about speaking yesterday, not in small part because I've been pretty down for the last few days, but also because the two gentleman who were speaking as well are well-known news guys in Kansas City. Turned out that they were both super nice guys with giant hearts and open arms, and they helped to both calm my nerves and offer encouraging words and hugs before it was my turn to climb the stairs to the stage and stand before the microphone. Though the kindness of the guys helped a lot, my case of the nerves didn't totally subside because when I reached the mike, I ... ummm ... well ... I did something I've never done when I've spoken at events. I froze. I stood there looking at the large crowd of people who were attending the walk ... the large crowd of people whose lives had been affected in some way by suicide. There were parents who had lost children, children who had lost parents, friends who had lost friends, brothers who had lost brothers ... there were people like me ... people who had reached the point at some time in their lives when they, too, believed that death was their only way out. When I finally began to tell my story, an almost eery silence fell across the crowd as they listened intently to the words I was speaking. I looked at the faces of the people, and I saw the faces of my children had my plan not been divinely interrupted on that cold February morning. For all the times I've spoken at events through the years, I can't say that I've ever felt what I did yesterday ... a surreal type of kinship with the people standing before me.

Following some remarks from the chairperson of the walk, it was time for the people to begin their journey along the walkway that encircled the park. But before they did, many of them first stopped to talk with me, hug me, tell me their stories, ask me to come speak at other events and tell me how thankful they are that I am here ... oh, they thanked me for speaking at the walk, too, but person after person told me how glad they are that I am here, that I am breathing, that I am alive. As I left the park and drove to meet my daughter for a late lunch, some thoughts kept flowing through my mind ... thoughts that have taken up residence ... thoughts that hold within them huge messages for me and perhaps for some of you as well. The people at the walk have chosen to take the sorrow of their yesterdays and turn it into the hope of their tomorrows. They have chosen to take their pain over losing a loved one to suicide and turn it into a way to fund programs to prevent others from ever having to experience the same pain. The people at the walk have chosen not to allow their yesterdays to steal their tomorrows ... they have chosen to share their yesterdays with others in the hope that they will help them see many tomorrows yet to come.

I'm going to close tonight with the words I closed with yesterday when I spoke ... some of which I stole from a friend who said them to me on Friday ... words about what yesterday was ... words about what tomorrow may be. God bless each of you, friends ... God bless you and keep you in the shadow of His abundant love and mercy and grace. 

“Today isn’t about the color of our skin. It isn’t about if we’re rich or poor or short or tall. It isn’t about if we are male or female or gay or straight. Today is about life. Today is about remembering, hoping, making a difference. Today you are making a difference in the lives of people you will never meet. Today is about walking the journey of life together, helping each other, running together at times and carrying one another at others. Today is about you.”