Heaven Bound

Some of the greatest blessings that come with being a speaker are the people I meet as I travel from town to town and church to church. Like the gals in Solomon, Kansas, who put a fake snake and mouse and frog in my bed. Or the woman in Polo, Illinois, who met Jesus at the weekend retreat at a church camp. Or the young man in St. Louis, Missouri, who called me "Tennessee Tater" for four days. Or the women from all over who keep in contact with me and have become my friends. So many different folks over the last 10 years ... so many stories, so many entwined and connected lives, so many blessings in these brothers and sisters in the Lord.

For those who are avid readers of this blog, you have followed me along on my beloved walking trail, keeping step with me as God teaches me lesson after lesson as J.R. and I march along on our nightly walks. I've met quite a few people as we hoof it each night, and earlier this year, I met Andy, a Baptist minister whose love for the Lord was contagious and recognizable in our first conversation. Andy and I have had many conversations since that initial one, and he recently asked me to come and speak to a group of folks at his church for their Wednesday evening gathering. As is so often the case, I left the church last Wednesday feeling more than abundantly blessed myself.

Andy's group was ... well ... different than many of the groups I'm asked to address. Most often, I speak to women's groups whose ages run the gamut from young to old. Andy's crowd was made up of men and women, and they were an older, wiser group than my usual audience. And, to be completely honest, I was a little nervous as to how well they would receive my at times warped sense of humor. There's nothing worse as a speaker than delivering a line that you think is hilarious and have it met with complete silence ... or worse yet, groans of disapproval. These folks, however, were simply awesome ... warm and welcoming, smiling and laughing and nodding their heads in agreement as I spoke.

Andy had asked me to share my testimony, and in doing so, it seems that at some point during the story, I always end up talking about heaven. As I began to tell the group that my view of heaven has changed recently ... that I think about heaven more ... that I wonder about heaven more ... that I long for heaven more ... I noticed smiles cross the weathered faces of many of the precious men and women in the group. Their countenances reflected something deep, something touching, something tender. It was one of those God moments ... a moment when it was as if I suddenly knew what those kind and gentle souls were thinking. "We're closer to heaven than you are, young woman, we are closer to heaven than we've ever been." Tears welled in my eyes as I looked around the room and saw the peace, the serenity, the comfort in the knowing and wise eyes that gazed back at me.

Only God knows the numbers of those precious ones' days, just as He is the only one who knows the number of the days He has appointed to me or you. Age doesn't matter ... sickness doesn't matter ... time doesn't matter ... all that matters is that my Father in heaven is in control of all things, and He will one day call me home to be with Him for all eternity. As I drove away from the church last Wednesday, one prayer flooded my mind and engulfed my heart.

"Help me to cherish every day, Lord, every moment that You allow me to have ... help me to be your servant in all I say and do ... help me to live my life wisely in a way that honors You at all times. I want to be all yours, God, all yours, so that when that day comes ... when the days you have appointed to me are complete ... when I'm heaven bound ... You will find me ready for the journey."

Don't Mess With My Cool Whip

For as long as I can remember, I've been just a touch on the weird side when it comes to food. There are certain foods, such as beets or Brussels sprouts, that, in my opinion, should be banished from all dinner tables for all time. There are certain foods, such as candy corn and caramel apples, that, again in my opinion, should earn their rightful place as part of the necessary daily requirements for healthy living ... except that now I can't eat either of those wonderful creations ... bummer, dude.

People who have had occasion to share a meal with me have graciously drawn attention to another of my food oddities in that I tend to be a little ... OK, I'm a whole lot ... ritualistic in my method of consuming food. I don't like the different items on my plate to touch each other; I eat the foods individually, meaning I eat all the broccoli, then all the squash, then all the meat; and I save my favorite item until the end of my meal, even if that means I have to pick all the shrimp out of my salad and set it to the side.

Food has taken on a whole new meaning to me, or lack of meaning, I suppose, since I was diagnosed with diabetes almost a year ago. Now I eat to live rather than live to eat. It's funny to me that though I have to think about food and eating all the time now, food doesn't bring me anywhere near as much joy as it previously did, except for two delicious combinations ... combos that I look forward to every day - lime jello with strawberries sliced on top and sugar-free pudding with Cool Whip. And the whole ritualistic eating thing? Yep, definitely applies to both of the aforementioned items ... every bite of jello has exactly two slices of strawberries with it; and the Cool Whip goes on the spoon first and then the pudding, in perfectly symmetrical proportions, of course.

Yesterday I realized that God has changed me over the last year in ways that I didn't even imagine, and that recognition came last night, from all places ... my Cool Whip. When I went to get my nightly snack and opened the Cool Whip container, I laughed and laughed and laughed. In fact, I laughed until I cried ... even the dogs came to the kitchen to see if I had gone off the deep end. You see, I have a way that I scoop my Cool Whip out of the container ... I know exactly how much to scoop to make it match my pudding serving, and I scoop it very uniformly ... always, always, always from the side of the container while being very careful to leave a nice edge on the remaining Whip for the next evening. I never, never, never scoop my Cool Whip from the middle in a random, willy nilly kind of way. And yet, there it was ... a giant hole right in the center of my Cool Whip ... shouting to me that my sweet friend who often cares for me and feeds me when my blood sugar drops had been in my Cool Whip that morning when she came to help me.

Early on in our friendship, I mentioned my Cool Whip weirdness to my friend, thinking she would realize what a true benefit it could be to her if she would model her Cool Whip scooping skills to match mine. Her reply? "You are crazy, and I am so going to mess with you on this every time I feed you Cool Whip. Every time." And being gut honest ... it drove me crazy in the beginning ... to the point that I would spend a lot of time smoothing out my beloved Cool Whip when I next opened the container. 

My big Cool Whip realization last night? I've had to learn to let go of a lot of things over the last months ... my pride, my strong will, my independence to a certain degree, and I've fought the surrendering of each of those with everything I had in me. But when I opened my Cool Whip last night, it hit me ... what I have gained far surpasses what I've lost or given up. I've gained a much deeper and sweeter relationship with my Lord; I've gained a new appreciation for the need to ask for help at times; and I've gained friends who are honest and real and true.

And how can I be so sure that God has changed me? Well, the proof is in the pudding ... or in my case, the Cool Whip. Last night, when I stopped laughing, I grabbed a spoon and scooped out my Cool Whip for my pudding ... right from the middle, in great random and willy nilly style ... and then I snapped the lid on and put it back in the fridge. And then ... then I bowed my head and said a prayer out loud thanking God for my Cool Whip lesson ... and my precious Cool Whip friend.

Raising the Roof

This weekend I attended a women's conference. I've said or written that particular phrase a multitude of times over the last years since God called me to be a speaker, but this weekend ... I really attended a women's conference. As much as I know that speaking is the calling that God has placed on my heart, and as much as I love speaking and being in the center of His purpose for my life, it's a whole different experience when I get to attend a conference or retreat as a participant rather than as the keynote speaker. And this weekend, God blessed me and touched me and humbled me and grew me as I listened to another sister bring His Word and His message to the group of ladies in attendance. And bring it, she did. Her passion for God's Word and her desire to serve Him fully were an inspiration not only to me, but to each woman in the room.

One of the greatest blessings I have received in my years of speaking has been to experience worshipping in song with the groups of women that God has placed along my journey. As my sweet mom used to say, I can't carry a tune in a bucket, and perhaps that is part of why I have gained such a deep appreciation for folks who have the gift of musical talent, whether that talent is instrumental or vocal in nature. I so often leave women's conferences or retreats feeling that I'm the one who has received the greatest blessing, and so many times, that great blessing is tied into the times of praise and worship as women lift their voices in unison to the Lord. And this weekend's music held true to that premise ... the worship leader ushered us into the very presence of God, with a humility of heart and a sensitive spirit that touched my soul.

As if the speaker and the worship leader were not enough, God used another sister today to ... well ... to put the icing on the cake ... my favorite kind of icing, too. He's pretty awesome in that, you know, to give me so much more than I could ever expect or dream of or deserve in any way. This gal provided the special music today, and from the moment she sang her first note, I had goosebumps ... man, oh, man, oh, man ... this woman could sing. She had a deep alto voice and a heart for the Lord that was contagious and infectious. I'm telling you, friends ... this sweet sister in the Lord could sing. I closed my eyes in worship, and I couldn't help but hope that when I go to heaven one day, maybe God will let me live in a little cabin next door to her so that I can hear her offer up her praise for all eternity.

Sometimes the ceiling falls in on me, and I can't see out from under the rubble of the cares and worries and troubles of day-to-day life. Sometimes I need to have my roof raised, and I need to look up into the eyes of my heavenly Father and be reminded that He is all I need. So thank you, dear sisters in Christ ... for teaching God's Word ... for ushering me into His presence ... for raising the roof and helping me see my Lord.

 

Balancing Act

One of my favorite things to do is to lie in my hammock in the back yard on a crisp fall evening when the sky is filled with fluffy clouds. You know the kind ... they look like cotton and appear to be close enough that you could reach out and pluck one right out of the sky. It never ceases to amaze me how the clouds just hang in the sky, perfectly balanced, just floating happily along.

Recently, I've had reason to gain a whole new appreciation for the necessity of balance, both physically and in the way I live my life in general. It's more than a bit interesting to me how one small misstep physically can have major implications ... a broken bone or torn muscle or cracked head. It's so important that I am steady when I go for my nightly walk ... that I pay attention as I hoof it each evening on my beloved trail, especially when J.R. the wiener dog is weaving from side to side around my feet. I've learned to watch my feet, to look down and keep my eyes locked on the path in front of and underneath me.

Just as it is important to maintain my balance on my physical walk, it is crucial that I remain steadfast and faithful in my walk with my Lord ... that I stay focused and balanced in my relationship with Christ. It's amazing to me how easily I falter in that walk at times ... how a harsh wind or strong storm, or sometimes even a slight breeze or gentle rain, can cause me to sway or wobble or stumble along. Like Peter, when I take my eyes off Jesus, that's when I get into trouble and risk loosing my footing. And just as I've learned to watch my feet as I walk on the trail, I'm learning more every day ... every hour ... every moment ... to watch Jesus, to look up with my soul and keep my eyes fixed on Him to stay balanced in my faith walk.

Keep me looking at you, Lord ... keep me watching Your will ... keep me standing on Your word. Keep me balanced, God ... keep me balanced and steady and faithful and honest and true and focused ... keep me in You and You alone.

Sister Sister

When I was a kid, I was always jealous of my older siblings. Not because they had more things when they were young, because they certainly didn't. Not because they lived in a nicer house growing up, because they certainly didn't. Not because they attended more prestigious schools for their education, because they certainly didn't. The reason I was jealous was because they had something so much more important than any of those things ... they had each other ... they all grew up together and were relatively close in age. I, on the other hand, came into the world 15 years later than the youngest of the three of them, my sister Elsie. My brother Tommy was 18, and my brother Jerry was 22 when I was born. I was really more like an only child growing up than one who had three siblings.

My sister took care of me a great deal as I was growing up since Mom and Dad both had full-time jobs. In many ways, she was more like a mom to me than a sister; even as an adult, my relationship with Sis has always had somewhat of a motherly component to it due in part to the difference in our ages. So last week when I injured my elbow and shoulder and couldn't make my planned trip to Tennessee, my sweet sister hopped a plane and swooped in for a few days to give me some much-needed TLC. Though she was only here for a few days, the time with family did my soul (and my aching body) a ton of good.

I've lived away from my family for over 20 years, first in Florida and now in Kansas. And honestly, there have been times through the years when I have missed my family so much it hurts, when all I wanted in this world was to move back "home" to the South. And I still experience times when I seriously think about quitting my job, selling everything I own, packing up my dogs and heading for the hills of Tennessee.

While my heart often longs to live closer to my extended family, I've also come to learn some valuable lessons in living out in the land of Dorothy and Toto. I've learned that it's good to have a basement to hide in when the tornadic thunderstorms roll across the plains, and I've learned to hide my heart and soul in my Lord when I am homesick or lonely. I've learned that there are better ways than others to drive in the snow and ice, and I've learned to let God steer my course and designate my path when I am tempted to take matters into my own hands. I've learned that the flowers of spring, the heat of summer, the color of fall and the frigidness of winter can each be appreciated for their own beauty, and I've learned to appreciate and treasure my "friend" family here and the love and blessings they shower upon me.

So, here's to you, Sis ... thank you for coming to see me, for caring for me, for loving me, for tolerating me when I was a kid (and now, too, I suppose!), for sharing your heart with mine. I miss you and can't wait until we can be together again. And here's to my honorary sisters and brothers in friendship and faith ... thank you for adopting this gal from the South into your families and your hearts.

In or Out?

Ever have one of those "Uh-oh" moments? You know the ones ... something seems like such a good idea at the time, and then you follow through on that idea and find that you've gotten yourself into a situation that you just simply cannot get out of no matter how hard you try. Like the time it seemed like a great idea to try and fix the shower upstairs in my kids' bathroom, and I ended up flooding the ceiling of my bathroom downstairs. Three days later, I was finally finished scraping, priming and painting my bathroom ceiling and had called a plumber to fix the upstairs shower. Now that, my friends, was a brilliant idea. Or the time it seemed smart to me to eat a whole watermelon in one sitting to prove I could do it. My life, it seems, has been peppered with ideas, genius ideas, that seemed so good at the time and turned out to be not so good in the long run.

Last Friday, I had a big run-in with my kitchen floor ... not fun, not fun at all. And it happened on the eve of another one of my super smart ideas; I was planning to get in my car alone the next morning and drive 700 miles to see my brother and sister. In my up close and personal greeting with the floor, I managed to crank my elbow and shoulder in pretty good fashion ... enough that I've now been wrapped and in a sling for a week. The next day after my injury, following a very sleepless night, lots of tears and two painful doctor visits complete with multiple x-rays, I got the incredibly awesome idea that perhaps I could get comfortable in my quilted hammock outside and get some much-needed sleep. No pressure points ... two pillows ... my Bible ... sleepy dogs ... gorgeous cool day ... it seemed like such a wonderful idea at the time.

After 20 minutes of trying, I finally managed to get myself in the hammock ... and the minute I was in, I realized there was absolutely no possible way that I was going to be able to get out of the hammock on my own. Rather than panic ... OK, truth is I panicked in a big way thinking I was going to die in my hammock and the mailman would find me. I laid there with tears streaming down my face, partly because I was dumb enough to think getting in the hammock was a good idea and partly because I was injured and in pain. As is so often the case, it was in my broken and wounded state that God began to whisper to my heart in a big way. And as is also so often the case, it takes me being broken and wounded before I really, really listen to my Lord.

When I think of how many times I go storming into situations without asking God's direction or guidance, I am amazed that I am ever able to get out when things don't go well or work out the way I imagine they will. Trapped in my hammock, unable to get out under my own power, God's whispering voice became a thundering reality ... I need to trust Him first, ask Him first, listen to Him first ... not after I'm stuck, but before I ever go to the place where I can't get out.

Thank You, Lord, for getting me out when I get myself in, for Your forgiveness of my headstrong actions, for Your patient longsuffering of my stubborn will ... thank You, thank You, thank You, Lord.

 

Me? Stubborn?

I remember well the first time my son Brad showed his rather independent streak peppered with more than a fair amount of stubbornness. He was about three years old, and we were shopping for new tennis shoes for him. He wanted a certain pair of Spiderman tennies that were not very good quality and cost way more than what I had budgeted for shoes. When I told him that we were not purchasing the shoes, he first cried, then screamed, then laid on the floor writhing around like a snake while chanting, "I want the Spiderman shoes!" over and over, coupled with a periodic, "I hate you, Mommie," thrown in for emphasis. As those of you who are parents would agree, I'm sure, little Bradley completely sealed his fate with his outburst and temper tantrum. I still smile when I recall his last-ditch effort as I dragged him from the store. He dug his little feet in as firmly as he could and shouted, "I am never wearing shoes again ... never, ever, ever, Mommie!" Funny, the last time I saw Brad, now almost 23 years old, he had shoes on.

Over the last few months, I've been told over and over again that I'm stubborn, that I don't always listen to the advice of others, that I'm fiercely independent. And though it pains me to admit it, all of those things are most definitely true. I've always struggled with obedience and submission, and I certainly have a hard time with other people telling me what to do. Stubbornness is a longstanding family trait passed down from generation to generation ... I can remember my grandmother talking about how stubborn her mom was, my mom talking about how stubborn my granny was, and I talk about how stubborn my mom was. I guess I come by my stubborn streak honestly, and so does my Brad.

I had planned for several weeks to head out yesterday to Tennessee for a week, via a stop at my brother's house in Kentucky for a couple of days. Quite a few people in my life didn't think it was a wise decision for me to drive alone, and even though I assured all of them that I would have a companion along for the ride ... albeit a small one of the wiener dog persuasion ... they didn't think it was a smart choice. I, however, was bound and determined that I was going no matter what anyone else thought. And if I'm open, honest, real and transparent about it, I wasn't really considering what God had to say on the decision either ... dangerous waters to be in when I don't want to listen to my Lord ... dangerous waters for sure.

Once again exuding His power and protection over me (in spite of me), a span of 10 minutes changed everything, and I had to cancel my planned trip. I was angry; I cried; I yelled at my dogs; I cried some more ... and then ... then I decided to listen. God had been telling me for weeks through the voices of my family and friends that the timing wasn't right for this trip ... maybe in a few months, but not right now. And as a friend said to me after it was made quite obvious that I wasn't going anywhere, it's a real shame that God has to hit me on the head, or the elbow and the shoulder as the case may be, to get my attention.

So, in the tradition of all my fellow 12-steppers out there ... Hello, my name is Terrie, and I'm a stubborn, bull-headed, independent gal who needs to turn it all over to my Higher Power and trust Him to bring me down a few much-needed notches. And if it's OK with You, God ... could You maybe leave my elbow out of it next time?

Dirty Laundry

There are certain chores around the house that I don't mind doing at all, and then there are some that I just simply do not enjoy even a little bit. Laundry is one of those that falls into a category all its own ... I absolutely, positively, completely and totally loathe doing laundry. And even though I now only have to do my own (which amounts to a couple of loads each week), I still do not like to do it. I think perhaps my strong aversion to laundry came about when I had three kiddos under the age of six, and it only increased as they grew into teenagers ... teenagers with stinky, smelly, sweaty laundry and mountains of it. 

As much as I don't like to do laundry, it is one of those "musts" in life. I have no choice but to wash and dry my clothes when they are dirty ... I can't go to work in dirty clothes; I can't go to church in dirty clothes; I can't even go to Walmart in dirty clothes. I have to have clean clothes ... no choice, no option, no way out of cleaning my clothes. I simply don't want the world to see me in dirty clothing; I want to be clean and presentable whenever I leave the confines of my home and go out into society.

Recently, I've been involved in some exercises that have caused me to examine the "laundry" of my life, and the concept of clean vs. dirty has given me pause to think deeply. Just as I don't want to venture out of my home in dirty clothing, I also don't want the dirty laundry of my heart or life put on display for others to see. And yet, I've come to realize over the last weeks that each one of us possesses laundry that isn't clean, laundry that we'd rather keep hidden away in the hamper ... laundry that we want no one to see or know about.

I've also come to understand that it's not up to anyone else to make the call as to how dirty, how offensive, how smelly my dirty laundry may be. The ultimate opinion of my dirt, my sin, my disobedience, my laundry, comes only from my heavenly Father. And I'm beyond grateful that when God looks at me now, now that I have placed my faith, my hope, my trust in His Son, He only sees me one way ... washed clean in the blood of Jesus Christ. Clean ... fragrant ... worthy ... forgiven ... pardoned ... protected. 

Yep, I'm beyond grateful. 

Up, Up and Away

In the neighborhood I previously lived in, there was a big summer picnic each year. And at that picnic, there were always prizes and giveaways and tons of food. One particular summer, my mom happened to be visiting at the time of the annual picnic and attended with me and my children. My oldest son, Matt, decided he would put Mom's name in the drawing for a rather unusual prize ... a ride for two in a hot air balloon. And yes, you guessed it, she won the ride. Mom was in her 70s at the time, and I just assumed that she would laugh it off and the prize would go to someone else. Much to my surprise, however, she announced that she had always wanted to ride in a balloon, and a couple of weeks later, I found myself at an airfield watching my 72-year-old mother and 12-year-old son climb into a balloon and slowly rise into the air and embark on a very special journey together.

The memory of Mom and Matt and their sky adventure came flooding back to me a couple of nights ago as I was on the last leg of my nightly walk. I had my headphones in, and as usual, was a bit oblivious to my surroundings when I heard what I initially thought was thunder though there wasn't a cloud in the sky. I kept walking, hearing the sound again, and wondering what in the world it could be. Exiting my land of oblivion, I noticed the trail was suddenly filled with people pointing in the direction behind me. I stopped walking and turned around and directly behind me landing in the field was a beautiful multicolored hot air balloon ... close enough to me that I could almost touch it.

I stood for several minutes watching as the folks in charge of the massive billowing creature went about their tasks as they helped their passengers out of the basket and began the process of deflating the balloon. And I wasn't the only person gazing upon the sight in wonderment ... not only was the trail filled with people, but cars had stopped all along the road as well. Guess there is something about a hot air balloon landing in a field between a walking path and a road that simply garners people's attention.

When I finally headed for home, one overriding thought kept pounding in my brain ... that balloon was close enough to me that I could almost touch it ... and I was so focused on accomplishing my appointed task that I almost missed it ... one of those memory-making experiences, and I was so wrapped up in "my thing" that I almost missed it altogether. Even two days later, I can't help but think about that event and the meaning behind it ... yet another God lesson for me on my beloved walking trail.

I wonder how many times I'm so focused on me that I miss something glorious that God puts right in front of me (or behind me, as the case may be) ... something huge and beautiful and spectacular that He so desperately wants me to see, to pay attention to, to stop and gaze upon. How many times do I just put my head down and keep on walking my own path, too busy or too worried or too hurried or too tired to take the time to turn around and look ... just look ... at what He is trying to show me. I also can't help but wonder how many times I'm the balloon ... drifting in the wrong direction, landing in an undesignated spot, ignoring the direction and guidance of my Captain, my Navigator, my ultimate Compass.

Slow me down, Lord, slow me down and make me look at the wonders you set before and behind me. Control the winds of my life, and keep me flying with You.

Just Sam

My dad always called me Sam. I have no idea why, but he always called me Sam. That's one of those questions I have tucked away to ask him when I get to heaven ... one of those questions I wish I would have asked him before he died. I've talked about my dad often in this blog, so those of you who are faithful readers know that he was truly an exceptional man ... a loving man, a giving man, a compassionate man.

Daddy taught me many lessons, far too many to recount in this blog post, but I'm certain future posts will be sprinkled with them as I continue to write. One particular lesson, however, has come back to me recently in full force. I recall once when I went to work with Daddy at the railroad, there was a group of homeless men huddled around a small fire near the tracks at the back of the train yard. Daddy didn't hesitate as he grabbed his lunchbox, Thermos of coffee, a bag of chips and some cups and walked deliberately toward the men. I hustled to keep up with him, more than a little frightened as we drew nearer to the dirty, smelly group. I watched in amazement as my dad greeted the men by their names and then opened his lunchbox and took out several sandwiches and began to distribute them along with the chips to the hungry men. He handed me the strofoam cups to hold as he poured coffee into each one and passed those as well to the men. And then ... then Daddy did something that I've never forgotten. He went around that circle of homeless men, and he hugged each and every one of them, not caring how they smelled, what they wore, or how they lived.

Three years ago, I sat at my desk and listened as some of my co-workers made fun of a homeless man who was struggling outside on the sidewalk in front of our building. Tears sprang to my eyes as I heard the derogatory commentary and the laughter directed toward the poor man on the street. As I listened, I suddenly saw my dad ... handing out sandwiches and coffee, and wrapping his arms around those whom mainstream society had rejected and discarded. I practically leapt from my chair that day, grabbed my lunch, filled my water bottle, ran down the stairs and bolted out the front door. After I got past the smell, I handed the man the supplies I was carrying, and then ... then I asked his name. "My name's Sam," he said. "I'm just Sam."

What began as an impulse that day has grown into meeting Sam once every couple of weeks. I give him food, yes, but I also give him God's Word, some of my time and a listening ear. Every couple of weeks for three years ... until three weeks ago. I usually stop after work on Thursdays at the place where Sam makes his "home," under a railroad bridge off of the boulevard, to drop off water and some food. As I pulled up, I noticed Sam's best friend Marcus, but Sam was nowhere to be seen. I rolled down my window and handed the water, lunch meat and bread to Marcus and asked where Sam was. Marcus often has a hard time communicating, and today he was really struggling to speak. "Sam left me. He went away." My heart skipped a beat and my breathing quickened as I questioned Marcus further. "Where did he go, Marcus? Where did Sam go?" "His boy, Tony, came and took him to home," Marcus said. "To Tony's home, Marcus? To live with Tony?" "Yes, Sam, he go to home with Tony." 

My eyes filled with tears and I breathed a prayer of joy and relief as I drove away and headed for home. You see, Sam often said his son Tony would come and rescue him one day and take him home. Whenever Sam would say that, I often wondered if he really meant an earthly home or a heavenly one, and on this day, I couldn't help but think of the day that Jesus will take those of us who are His home to be with Him ... safe, secure, cared for, protected, warm, dry, fed, clean.

Coincidence that Daddy always called me Sam? That a man that God placed in my path who was in need was named Sam? I don't think so ... I don't think so at all. And Sam, should you ever read this, I want you to know something. You are so much more than "just Sam," my friend ... so much more ... to me and to God.