In the Still of the Night

When I was a kid, I was terrified of the dark ... not just a little scared, but completely and totally terrified. I always slept with a light on, and many nights I would sneak into my mom and dad's room and sleep on the floor beside their bed. As hard as I've tried to remember some event that occurred during my childhood that made me so afraid, I can't recall a single thing.

I'm not sure when that fear of the dark left me, but I'm no longer afraid. In fact, I turn off every light in my house when I go to bed now, except for the light over the stove which I keep on so that I can see when I have to check my blood sugar in the night. I turn off all the lights, climb into my bed and go to sleep.

A few weeks ago, my doctor instructed me to set my alarm and get up a couple of times in the night and check my blood sugar. If it is low, I have to eat something before going back to bed. And each time I get up, my wiener dog J.R. feels that he must get up and accompany me. Julie sleeps through all of my awakenings, but not J.R. He trots right by my side, sits and waits patiently for me to finish my middle-of-the-night routine and then announces that he needs to go outside. Several nights ago, as I was waiting for J.R. to return, I couldn't help but notice the quiet and still of the night. Nothing stirring, no cars driving by, no people talking ... just stillness and complete quiet.

I find it more than slightly interesting that during a stormy time in my life, a time when I'm struggling to find my way, I am forced into the quiet and calm and stillness of the night. Perhaps God is preparing me for something ... perhaps He is bringing me to my knees ... perhaps He is breaking me so that He can change me, grow me, mold me ... perhaps He is calling me to focus solely on Him.

And perhaps, just perhaps, He is simply saying, "Be still, and know that I am God."

Learning to Lean

Up until the last few years of her life, my mom was pretty spry and active. She could often be found hosing off the plethora of porches that surrounded her home or planting a multitude of flowers in the pots that adorned each of those porches. She wouldn't hesitate to jump in her car and head to the mall in search of another pair of shoes (Mom had a definite thing for shoes!), or to chauffeur several of her friends out to lunch or a senior adult meeting at church.

Time and age eventually began to take its toll on Mom as congestive heart failure and arthritis slowly hampered her ability to maneuver as she once did. She needed oxygen to help her breathe more comfortably and a cane to help her walk more steadily. She recognized her need to stop driving and gave her car to one of her grandsons. She became dependent on others in a way that she never had been before.

I am sure that I never recognized or fully understood how difficult it must have been for Mom to go from being such a fiercely independent, stand-on-her-own kind of woman to learning to rely upon others to help her in so many ways. And looking back, I am very sure that I wasn't as sensitive to those age and health-related changes that came Mom's way as I should have been. Instead of getting impatient with her for moving so slowly, I should have slowed down my own pace to match hers. Instead of watching her struggle to stand, I should have encouraged her to lean on me. Instead of being frightened by her medical needs, I should have made a greater effort to learn so that I could have been of more help to her when she needed me.

Recently, I've had some issues with my diabetes that have caused some of my friends and family to give me "a talking to," as Mom always called such encounters. I've had to concede that there are things I need to share with others concerning my health so that they know how to help me should a crisis arise. I've had to relinquish a bit of my fiercely independent nature and learn that it's OK to lean on others when I'm having a little trouble standing alone. And perhaps for the first time in my life, I've gained a whole new respect and appreciation for a feisty, little old gal named Mary Louise Dennard.

You're on my mind and in my heart today, Mom ... I miss you.

Fried Green Tomatoes

Spring always makes me think of gardening. And gardening always makes me think of my dad. And my dad always makes me think of growing up in the South. And growing up in the South always makes me think of fried green tomatoes.

My dad enjoyed cooking quite a bit more than my mom did. Not that Mom didn't cook, because she did ... I just never felt that she truly enjoyed cooking. Daddy, on the other hand, made quite a production out of things when he cooked. And when he cooked fried green tomatoes, it was like watching a gifted artist or talented musician at work.

The process began with Daddy donning an apron, which would always make me smile. My dad was a big guy, and he was a rugged guy. And yet, when he cooked, he didn't care if he had on an apron that was more manly or one of Mom's frilly pink or yellow ones. It was all about the cooking with Daddy, and never about the chuckles that his appearance might invoke.

Dad would dip the sliced tomatoes into an egg and milk mixture, and coat them in yellow corn meal ... taking great care to make sure that each tomato slice was adequately dipped and coated. He would then carefully place them in a skillet (cast iron, of course) filled with sizzling oil. He would stand watch over his creation as it cooked, knowing just when to flip the slices over to brown on the other side. Finally, at just the perfect moment, Daddy would take his "special" spatula and throw the slices into the air, catch them on a plate and proudly serve them to anyone who was there to dig in.

Looking back on those fried green tomato times with my dad, I realize now that Daddy was always teaching me something in everything he did and said. Sometimes it was a lesson on having fun, sometimes a lesson on growing compassion for others, sometimes a lesson on dealing with hurt or pain, sometimes a lesson on building a strong work ethic, sometimes a lesson on being happy and content. I've also come to realize that my heavenly Father is much like my dad in that regard ... nothing He ever does in my life is without purpose or meaning; there is always a lesson, always a reason, always a reward at the end.

Come on ... let's go to the kitchen ... I think I smell fried green tomatoes cooking.

The Lonely Road

One of the greatest joys as a mother is watching your children grow into mature adults and head out to make their own way in their world. The old saying, "When your children are young, you give them roots, and as they grow, you give them wings," is so true.

I've been an empty-nester since last July, and while it was difficult to see my last child move out of my home, it has also been a time of growth, not only for my daughter but for me as well. There have been some funny adjustments such as learning to cook for one person or finding enough dishes to fill the dishwasher before I run out of clean spoons (heaven forbid that I wash anything by hand!). The first few weeks brought with them some sadness ... coming home every night to an empty house and knowing that no one would be walking through the back door was challenging at times. But eventually, I found myself slipping into a routine and actually enjoying life on my own.

Recently, however, I've experienced a time of loneliness, and for no real reason that I am able to determine. I've been sort of melancholy ... or subdued, as a close friend labeled my current mindset. There have been other times in my life that I've walked the lonely road, but the feeling usually didn't last long and there was most often a definite cause to explain my solitary path. This trip has been a longer one, and one that has been harder to shake free from.

Over the last few days, I've come to understand that God puts the perfect people in our lives for the perfect season at the perfect time. Some are there for decades, and some for only a short while. Some friendships are forged through fire, and some flower from times of great happiness. Some connections happen quickly, and some are like a slow walk on a sunny day. All are special and precious in their own right, and all are blessings from a God who cares about the details of my life.

So to you, my friends, and you know who you are ... my friends who push me, tug me, invite me, encourage me, love me, challenge me ... to those of you who drag me out of my hiding place into the light ... thank you. And even more, thank God for placing you on the path alongside of me. It's a journey, and I'm so very grateful that I'm not alone.

Let Go

My big dog, Julie, loves to play. I've had numerous dogs throughout my 50 years of life, but I've never owned a dog who loved to play as much as she does. Most evenings, weather permitting, I'm outside tossing a Frisbee or tennis ball for her ... she catches them in her mouth and brings them back, drops them at my feet and anxiously awaits the next launch of the toy.

When the snow falls and the temperatures drop, or the rain and thunderstorms arrive, Julie and I play tug-of-war in the house. I bought her an industrial strength rope toy with a heavy-duty rubber tube in the middle. I learned early on that she needs the toughest toys on the market, because she is a very strong girl and can rip almost anything to shreds as she plays.

As much as I enjoy playing with Julie, there is one huge dilemma when we play tug-of-war. Julie never wants to let go of the rope; and since she is so strong, I can only tug with her for so long until my arms and shoulders cave in from the workout and I release the rope. Without fail, however, Julie always brings the toy back, begging for more playtime.

As those of you who frequent this blog know, I often am struck with great truths during times spent with my dogs. A couple of nights ago, as I was tugging on the rope with Julie, I heard myself saying to her, "Why can't you ever just let go, girl? Why do you always have to fight so hard to hold on to this old, dirty rope?" As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I had a moment ... a moment when I knew that God was speaking to me, when He was imparting some knowledge, some wisdom into my heart and mind.

Watching Julie fight for control of her toy caused me to realize that I am much like her concerning things in my own life. I fight to hang on to things that I should let go of ... things that are not what they should be, things that are less than noble or pure, things that keep me distant from other people and from God. When I should let go and let God have control of the ropes in my life, I tug and fight and hang on with everything I have in me.

It's raining here today, which means there will be a round or two of tug-of-war tonight in my house. And recently, there have been some rounds of tug-of-war in my heart as well. So tonight, I'll let Julie tug on her rope, and I'll try to let go of mine.

Two Words

For the last couple of weeks, I've been infatuated with two-word statements. Yep, two words put together to form a sentence ... no more, no less. This obsession began when I saw a bumper sticker on a car that read simply, "How much?" That short combination of two words has caused me to expend a great deal of thought and contemplation in recent days. And now, it seems as if everywhere I turn, a new two-word pearl of wisdom is placed before me.

Jesus wept. Seek Me. Don't worry. Read carefully. Love you. Drink deeply. God thing. What's wrong? Grace abounds. Walk slowly. Hang on. So sorry. Come in. Not enough. Have fun. Pay attention. He cares. Wait patiently. Speak thoughtfully. Be well. Let go.

These little nuggets have arrived via some rather unique delivery avenues. Bumper stickers, billboards, emails, the Bible, conversations, Facebook comments, books, television, radio ... one of them I even noticed when I was walking one evening - a tattoo on a young woman's shoulder.

I'm not sure why suddenly I am attentive to these phrases or so consumed to analyze them completely, to pick them apart and try to understand any deep philosophical meaning present in them. Perhaps it is nothing more than the "word hound" in me, but then again, perhaps it is something much more.

I wonder. You, God?

Drink Deeply

Before I was diagnosed with diabetes last October, I was thirsty all the time ... really ... all the time. I could never get enough to drink and carried a glass of tea or a can of diet soda with me constantly. My thirst was unquenchable, never-ending and relentless.

Within a month or so of beginning my medication and altering my diet, I noticed a big change in my level of thirst. All of a sudden, I wasn't really thirsty anymore ... ever. I went from not being able to consume enough liquid to having no desire to drink at all. In fact, my thirst level dropped so much that I had to begin setting an alarm on my phone to remind me to drink something.

Looking back over the last five months at all the changes that have taken place in my life, the whole lack of thirst area has been one of the most perplexing to me. And one of the most puzzling and interesting pieces of my "non-thirstiness" is that it seemed to happen literally overnight ... I went to bed thirsty and woke up the next morning not thirsty. Something switched in my body chemistry as I slept that night, a culmination I'm sure of changes that had been taking place when I didn't realize they were happening.

There are times when I am spiritually thirsty, times when I can't get enough of God, when I seek His face and read His Word constantly. And then there are times, often that occur without seeming rhyme or reason, when I find myself trudging through a barren and dry desert in my walk of faith. At a time when the heat of the day and the darkness of the night should make me have an unquenchable thirst, I need to be reminded and encouraged and prodded to drink from my Savior's well.

Make me thirsty, Lord, so thirsty that I'm driven to you and no other. Help me find my way out of the desert and into the cooling waters of your love. Take me to the oasis, God, and let me drink deeply of You.

The Return

Every time I come home, there are two furry creatures who are always happy to see me. They come bounding toward me with tails wagging their whole bodies ... filled with joy that their favorite person in the world has come home once again. It doesn't matter if I've been gone for 10 minutes or 10 days, they are overwhelmingly elated when I return. Whatever my mood, good or bad, I can't help but smile at the love and loyalty that reside in the hearts of my canine companions.

It's a rainy night here tonight ... my sweet mom used to always say that rainy nights were good sleeping nights. And that is what Julie and J.R. have done all evening, curled up as only doggies can do, right beside me on the couch. Peaceful, quiet, rested, content ... next to the person they love most in this world.

Watching them sleep, I think about how God must feel when I've been away from Him ... away from home ... and how He must feel when I return, when I find my way in the dark night, back into the safe haven that is Him. His joy must be boundless when he hears me put my key in the lock and open the door to my heart, when I call out, "I'm home," when I curl up beside Him and slip into a contented, restful, quiet, peaceful sleep.

"I'm falling on my knees, offering all of me."

Over the Fence

When I was a little girl, our neighbors to the southwest of us had a six-foot wooden fence surrounding their backyard. From the time I was about 10 years old, one of my missions in life was to see what was on the other side of that fence. It was more than mere curiosity that drove me; it was a mystical force of some sort that caused my friends and me to spend hours devising plans to scale the jail-like wooden bars and creating scenarios of what might lie in wait over the fence.

Eventually, when I was in my late teens, our neighbors sold their house and the new owners promptly removed the fence from the property. You can imagine my disappointment in seeing that there was nothing more than a patio with a table and chairs, some flowers and a few trees populating the land that in our childhood imaginations had been filled with aliens and prairie folk and even The Partridge Family bus (stolen of course by our neighbors who were spies).

Recently, I've been thinking a lot about that fence and about my childhood home. Losing family members and reconnecting with old friends seems to be drawing my heart toward home quite often. Perhaps it is simply that I'm growing older and getting more nostalgic as time passes. Whatever the cause, my mind in its travels homeward has paused more than once to contemplate the fence and the fascination that it held for me during my years of innocence.

I've always heard it said that with age comes wisdom, but I'm not so sure about the truth in that particular maxim. I find myself still searching and dreaming and wondering what is on the other side of the fence ... wishing that I knew all the answers and had x-ray vision to see through the boards of life. I'd like to know that there is adventure ahead, dreams to be pursued and love to be embraced.

I'm still pretty short in stature, and the fence is still pretty tall, much like when I was a young girl. And I've come to realize that while I'm trying to see over it or create scenarios for what lies beyond its boundaries, I often miss the beauty of what lies right in front of me. I'm so busy trying to figure out the future that I'm missing the present.

So keep me in today, God. Help me to look at You, to trust You and to know that whatever lies over the fence, you already hold in Your hand.

Weak, Weaker, Weakest

Some people have no problem at all asking for help, and I must admit, I admire those people. People who can readily reach out to others for help when they are ill, when they are hurting emotionally, when they are struggling spiritually. And I also admire the people who offer assistance when someone calls out in the midst of a deep need. People who prepare meals or clean house for a friend who is sick, people who listen and counsel when another's heart is breaking, people who point the way to the Father when someone has lost their way.

Most of the time, I'm relatively good about helping others ... most of the time, but not always. Asking for help, however, has never come easily for me. Somewhere along the path of life, I became convinced that I had to be strong, to somehow be able to handle everything that came my way on my own, to always be the one to whom others came for help. And somewhere, somehow, I learned to cover my sickness, my pain, my sin ... to hide behind a mask of strength and a veil of perfection.

While I want to believe that I never need to ask for help, the truth is that at times my illness is so severe, my hurt so painful, my sin so deep, the only way out is to open up and allow someone else to see inside of me. To let a friend to take my hand and walk beside me, to love me unconditionally, to pray for me and with me, to take care of me, to help me.

I'm learning that help may come in human and divine form. I'm learning that asking for help shouldn't come only when I have carried my burden so long that I am too weak to take another step. I'm learning that when I ask, there are friends who will answer. I'm learning that God is always there, waiting for me to whisper, "I need help."