Growing Older

Last Sunday afternoon, I did something I've never done before ... I went caroling with a group from my church. Oh, I've gone caroling before, lest any of you deem me a bah humbug kind of gal. But I've never gone caroling where we went last Sunday ... we caroled for older folks at assisted living facilities and nursing homes. The group from church was a diverse one, with the youngest participant being seven years old, and the oldest being ... well ... older than me.

We were told before we left the church that we could go into the people's rooms and greet them, and the children in the group had made cards to hand out to the residents. To say that I was touched as we went from room to room would be a gigantic understatement. As I took the hands of one older person after another, my thoughts flew to my mom and dad and how I miss them ... their love, their wisdom, their laughter. Before we finished singing that afternoon, I had decided that I was going to volunteer at one of the area retirement centers ... I'd like to start a reading group and read to the residents.

Walking the halls of the facilities last week, I couldn't help but wonder how many of the people there lived most of their days alone, how many of them rarely had a visitor, how many of them were lonely and afraid. I never used to think about where I would spend my aging years, but seeing the elderly folks last Sunday has given me pause to think about what my own future may hold in store for me.

Today is my 51st birthday, and perhaps that explains in part why I've been so affected over the past week by the folks I met last Sunday. I've never been bothered by a birthday, and I've never measured myself by the number of years I've lived. But I'll be honest, today has been a hard day for me. It is amazing what a difference a year can make ... in health, in love, in life. And it's also amazing what a difference a moment can make ... in a smile, in a hug, in a word.

This morning, my pastor spoke about the importance of measuring our time, being aware of how short life can be, making the most of every opportunity and seeking God's will every day. So as I embark on my next year of life, I pray that I will be ever aware of the preciousness of the gift of life and that I will measure my time here on earth not by years or wealth or position but only by my walk with my Lord.

May the Force Be With You

When my two sons were young, they loved Star Wars ... the movies, the books, the toys ... they loved all things Star Wars. They would spend literally hours reenacting scenes from the films, and the words, "May the Force be with you," would drift upstairs time and time again as they played in the basement. Matt and Brad would always take turns being the "bad guys," and it always amazed me that they never seemed to argue over who played the good guy and who played the bad. They were equally content with being Luke Skywalker or Darth Vader.

Last Sunday, my pastor's sermon was about darkness, and how Christ's entrance into the world shattered the darkness that permeated the world. One of Ken's points was that darkness is progressive ... that darkness breeds darkness, and the only way out of that darkness is through a personal relationship with Christ. Some sermons cause me to think far beyond Sunday, and last Sunday's was one of those. I've been thinking about the whole concept of darkness versus light all week.

Each morning this week as I've readied myself for work, I've noticed that it seems that the light of morning comes so slowly, especially on a cloudy day. As I've prepared to come home from work each evening, I've been struck with how quickly darkness falls and how fast that darkness becomes deep and penetrating. Driving home tonight in the midst of freezing drizzle, in the dark, I began to think about the slippery slope of sin.

It is amazing how quickly darkness can envelop me when I choose to walk out of the light ... how easily I can find myself wandering, alone, frightened, unable to see the path before me. But it is even more amazing how bright the light of God's love shines upon me when I fall to my knees and cry out for Him to rescue me, to let me come home into His arms, to tenderly guide me out of the darkness and back into the light of His love and forgiveness.

Darkness ... light ... hmmmm. I wonder if the boys' light sabers are still in the basement. I feel like whooping up on the dark side, and I need the power of the Light to do that. The power of the One and Only Light. May the Force ... the true Force, God's Son ... may the Force be with you, today and forever.

Spilling My Guts

Birthdays have never been a big deal to me, perhaps because of when mine is ... December 26 ... yep, the day after Christmas. When I was a kid, I only had one party on my actual birthday where my friends were invited. Out of 25 kids who were invited, two actually showed up. As much as I would like to say the feeling of most of my friends not coming to the party didn't bother me, even though I am almost 51 years old, I still remember how I felt that day. It was my 12th birthday, and I still remember thinking I was a dork, a nerd, an outcast, a reject. I'm fairly certain the day after that attempted party was the day that I decided that I would bury my feelings and emotions far within myself ... that no one would ever know how deeply I was hurt.

Down through the years, I've honed my level of skill when it comes to keeping my emotions in check, to hiding my pain, to painting a smile on my face and not letting people get too close in fear that they might see behind the mask I've worn for so long. The last year of my life, however, has shown me that I've been wrong in my quest to keep the vault of my heart so tightly sealed, to always be strong and never weak or vulnerable. It's been an arduous year, one that has brought with it some difficult and trying situations ... physically, emotionally and spiritually.

One of the many doctors I have had reason to see over the last year ... I'll call him Dr. John ... has a mantra, an insight, a truth that he graciously imparted to me, a new way of thinking that has changed me forever. Open. Honest. Real. Transparent. Each time I would visit him, he would speak those words to me ... pray those words over me ... sear those words into me. I can count on one hand the people I've let inside, the ones I've allowed to get past my ironclad pride and my stubborn will. And I can count on a couple of fingers the people I've let dig around in the depths of my soul, the ones who have shoveled the dirt of my life and yet love me still.

I've spent more time in the desert over the last year than I ever have before. I've wandered away from my Lord, and I've found my way back to Him. I've suffered the pain of loss, and I've experienced the joy of love. I've walked knowingly into sin, and I've known the redemptive power of forgiveness. I've fought to stand alone, and I've learned to let others hold me up. I've tried desperately to hold on, and I've learned to let go.

For as much as I've come to understand that I need to be more open with others, to be honest in every single word and deed, to be real and vulnerable in every emotion, to be a transparent vessel for whatever work my Lord desires to do in me and through me, I've come to understand even more that each of those traits should rule supreme in my relationship with Jesus Christ. Open. Honest. Real. Transparent.

Help me, Lord, to share this life You've given me ... the good, the bad, and all things in between. Help me to spill my guts, Lord ... to trust, to love, to honor, to risk, to feel. 

Wrap Me Up

This post begins with a confession ... I do not like to wrap gifts. Not even a little bit. In fact, I come dangerously close to detesting the whole wrapping process. I have a difficult time judging how much paper to cut to cover a gift, and even more difficulty then cutting said paper in a straight line. I can never seem to make the folds at the end come out equally which totally messes with my mind (see my post called "Don't Mess With My Cool Whip" for reference). The feel of tape on my fingers has often made me nauseous, and the whole bow thing just pushes me over the edge. Needless to say, I'm a huge fan of gift bags.

If I had my way, I would never wrap another gift. But, my children fully expect their Christmas gifts to be wrapped and under the tree (which I haven't put up yet) when they come home for the holidays. I tried using gift bags a couple of years and got a tremendous amount of grief from my young adult kiddos about tradition and how opening a bag just wasn't the same as ripping the paper from a package. So each year, I procrastinate and wait until the day before they are scheduled to come home to wrap their gifts. And I dread doing so up until the minute I drag out the paper and tape and begin the arduous task of wrapping.

Last night as I sat on my couch wrapped in an electric throw trying desperately to get warm, I began to think about my aversion to gift wrapping and my overwhelming lack of Christmas spirit this year. As so often happens, God had a lesson ready and waiting for me when I finally listened to His voice. As I piled a fleece blanket on top of the heated throw, I couldn't help but think about last Christmas ... lots and lots of snow ... and my little J.R. the wiener dog ... and how different this Christmas feels than last year. Tears filled my eyes as I thought of how J.R. would shake when he got cold, or when the thunder would roll, or if his back was hurting. Countless times during the time he was with me, I would wrap him in a blanket and hold him close, speaking gentle words of comfort to him until he stopped shaking.

Sitting on the couch with tears streaming down my face, God's reminder, God's lesson, God's voice spoke to me in much the same way as I would speak to J.R. ... "I've got you, Terrie, I've got you. Wrapped in my arms, safe and sound, I've got you. Don't be afraid ... I've got you. Don't be cold ... I've got you. Don't hurt ... I've got you."

How precious is God's love for each of us ... that He desires to wrap me and you in His arms of love and mercy and grace. How amazing is the gift He sent to us in His Son Jesus, wrapped in swaddling clothes with a manger for His bed.

Wrap me up, Lord ... wrap me up.

Blah, Blah, Blah

I'm a talker. It's true. I like to talk. Those who know me well would abundantly agree, I'm sure. I'm definitely a talker. My mom always told me that I have the gift of gab. My kids are always embarrassed when I talk to complete strangers. I love telling stories and I especially love drawing other people outside of themselves ... finding out about their lives and getting them to tell me their stories.

I come by the whole chatterbox thing honestly ... it runs in my family in a big way, and perhaps part of my penchant for yapping is a Southern thing. I've definitely noticed that Southerners tend to talk more, visit more, chat more than a lot of folks in the Midwest. For example, funerals in the South are never a one-evening, one-hour visitation and then a half-hour funeral. No, no, no, my friends. Funerals back home involve at least two or three visitation times spread over a couple of days that often stretch into the late hours of the night, and a funeral service that can easily last an hour or longer, followed by a graveside service and then, of course, a meal that involves lots and lots of food and several more hours of conversation. Sorry ... I digress from my original premise that in many ways, I was destined to be a talker.

A few weeks ago, I was invited to speak to a group of women at a church in a small town just north of Kansas City. As I stood before the group of almost 250 women and prepared to begin the session with my customary funny story before launching into the real meat of our time together, I was suddenly overcome with emotion and tears filled my eyes as I struggled to hold myself together. Looking around the room, I was keenly aware that it was a definite "God moment" ... that my emotion was coming from Him and His leading and guiding and nudging and prompting. From somewhere deep within me, I knew that rather than my lighthearted story, God was calling me to pray ... to get on my knees and humble myself before Him and before the room filled with women ... and pray.

What followed was a sweet, sweet time of prayer among the women there that afternoon ... and very little speaking from me. For all the words I had planned to share, God had an entirely different plan in place, a plan that was far deeper and way more powerful than anything that I could have spoken about. I don't know about the other women, but I do know that God touched me that day, that He forced me to be quiet so that He could teach me once again that it is all about Him and absolutely nothing about me.

Stop me, Lord ... stop me in my tracks ... close my mouth ... open my ears ... break my will ... scrub my heart ... make me fully Yours ... all of me, Lord, all of me, fully Yours.

 

The Littlest Things

For as long as I can remember, I've loved to read ... losing myself in a hilarious comedy, a tear-jerking love story, a penetrating biography or a complicated mystery has always been one of my favorite things to do. When I was very young, I became captivated with a set of books called "The Littles." The main characters were tiny little creatures who were part human, part mouse who lived in the walls of the house belonging to a family named, of course, the Bigs. The books followed the Littles through a series of various adventures, and even now at 50 plus years of age, I still remember the storyline of several of those books. Recently, I've been thinking about the Littles ... and the big impact they had on my young mind. Those books are the first chapter books I recall reading on my own. I'm sure there were others before them, but the antics of the Littles were the stories that drew me in and truly instilled in me a love for reading that has remained throughout my life.

If I haven't learned anything in my 50 plus years of life, and certainly even more so over the last year, I hope I've learned that it's not the big events in life that should cause me to measure my time on earth but rather the little things. It seems to me that we often tend to gauge our lives by things that we deem big ... like graduations, marriages, deaths, births, jobs, houses, and so on. I've come to the conclusion that when I base my "life status" on only the large events, I'm missing the point of what really makes life ... well, life. Please don't misunderstand me, those big things are important ... some of them critically so ... but when I only focus on those, I often am blind to some huge meaning in some small packages.

I've always been a list maker, and over the last week or so, I've been working on a couple of very special lists ... my bucket list, things I want to do before I kick the bucket ... and my little things list, things that may seem small but that make a giant difference in my life. My bucket list has some big things like climbing a mountain, walking in a diabetes walk, traveling to Scotland, helping a total stranger, falling in love again, giving a large sum of money to someone anonymously, writing at least two more books ... but there are also some little things on that list as well ... dancing in the rain, building a snowman all by myself, making a cake from scratch, teaching my dog Julie to walk on a leash.

My little things list ... the list that really and truly matters most ... a hug from a small child, a heartfelt conversation with a hurting friend, the perfect cup of coffee, the sun on my face on a warm day, the sway of my hammock as I read a good book, the sound of my chimes on a windy Kansas day, the taste of sweet blueberries and sugar-free Cool Whip, the color of the leaves as they change in the fall, a midnight snowfall on a cold winter night, a kiss from a sweet dog who completely adores me, playing games with my children (and occasionally winning!), the music of birds in the trees along the walking trail ... and those, my friends, are only the tip of the iceberg.

My prayer is that God will keep me ever mindful, ever aware, ever appreciative of the little things that He so richly blesses me with every single day. That He will keep my eyes open and my heart seeking. That I won't miss ... that I won't skip ... that I won't ignore ... the littlest things.  

Just Right

Sometimes I look at my son Matt and wonder at how smart he is. He's working on his Ph.D. in marriage and family therapy and will complete it before he is 27 years old. When I comment to him that he is incredibly smart, he quite humbly gives me the same response ... "Not really, Mom, I'm just driven and I study really hard." Of course, he is also the son who when I asked if I would have to call him Dr. Mattie when he completes his degree said, "Not every day, Mom." Smart, humble and a comedian ... what a combination. I've mentioned previously that Matt has a thing about nicknames ... for as long as I can remember, he's graced everyone and many things in his life with nicknames. Some make sense and I can see the connection, like when he called our huge dog Ali "Beast" for a long while; others ... I have no clue where they come from, like when he called my mom "Galoop" for several years.

It wasn't long after J.R. the wiener dog entered my world that Matt began to call him Junior rather than J.R. ... and yes, I totally understood how that particular moniker presented itself in Matt's mind. Over the 15 months that J.R. was a member of my family, I found myself, too, at times calling him Junior, along with several other nicknames ... Jar Jar Binks, Binkers, Fat Buddy, Little Man and Prancer. And amazingly, he seemed to always know, no matter by what name I called him, that I was talking to him. 

From almost the first night that J.R. was at my house, I wondered what his initials stood for ... why he was given that seemingly odd name ... just initials, no "real" name. However, it wasn't long until I decided that I definitely knew what his name meant ... what those two little letters signified. Early on in our human canine friendship, I began to tell J.R. that he was Just Right for me. Just right in so many ways ... just the right size dog, just the right color, just right in his behavior, just right to walk with me, just right to snuggle in under my chin, just right to love ... just right to be the vessel that God chose to use to cause me to discover my diabetes. I'm more convinced than ever that J.R. stood for Just Right ... sent to me at just the right time, for just the right purpose.

I finally forced myself over the weekend to go for a walk on the trail where J.R. and I logged so many miles over the last 15 months. And I'm not going to lie to you ... that first walk without him on our beloved trail was the hardest walk I've ever made, and I sobbed the entire time. Don't worry, I've been keeping my promise to J.R. to walk, but I've been walking in a different place. Each step I took on the trail brought a memory flooding back to me, and each person along the way who asked how he was forced me to open the wound of his passing again and again.

As I've written about numerous times in this blog, God has taught and is continuing to teach me many lessons as I walk along the trail, and He especially taught me some sweet and life-changing lessons as I made my daily outdoor journey with J.R. I think, however, that perhaps the deepest and most poignant lesson thus far He gave to me today ... on a cold but sunny afternoon, on a deserted and lonely trail. Walking along holding my medical necklace with J.R.'s tag attached in my hand, I once again felt the emotion of losing my faithful companion wash over me in a big way. And that's when it happened ... that's when God began to whisper to me ... in the chirping of the birds, in the swaying of the trees in the wind, in the crunch of the leaves under my feet.

"I am here, Terrie, I am here. I am the great Healer. I feel your pain and hurt. I'm holding you in the palm of My mighty hand. I am just right for you, Terrie. My plan and my purpose for you is just right, Terrie. My love for you is just right, Terrie. My grace and mercy will cover you just right, Terrie. My forgiveness extends to you in just the right measure, Terrie. I am just right, Terrie ... I am just right."

To Everything a Season

Recently, someone told me that my blog posts are ranked by her and her friends as to how many tissues they need when they read them. If that's the case for others of you, then I'm telling you up front on this post ... you may want to grab the whole box. And I'm also warning you ... this one is going to be longer than most of my blogs because it's more than a blog post ... it's a tribute to an amazing little guy.

Fifteen months ago, a fat little wiener dog came trotting ... actually, it was more like waddling than trotting ... into my life. He was a foster dog that had been placed with my son and daughter-in-law on a Monday, and on the following Friday, they brought him to me to keep along with their dog while they went out of town for the weekend. His name was J.R., and he had a rough life before that fateful Friday evening when he landed in a little house in Kansas. He was afraid of everything and everyone, and rightfully so since he had been born into a puppy mill and then adopted by someone who abused him and then placed in four different shelters and with three foster families before he came to me. Did you take note of all those places and all he had lived through? Remember that path, because I'll come back to it in a bit.

That first night at my house, J.R. wouldn't come out of his kennel for a couple of hours, and he was shaking so badly that I thought the kennel would come apart. I kept going in and laying down on the floor in front of his open door and talking to him, offering him bites of food and extending my hand for him to check me out. My big dog, Julie, kept running in and laying in front of him, too, wagging her tail and begging him to come out and play. Just when I was ready to give up and call my son and tell him I didn't want to keep J.R. for the weekend, he came out ... very tentatively at first, and then, before I knew it, fat little J.R. was waddling along beside me with every step I took and even licking my legs when I would stop walking. When it was time to turn in for the night, I decided to see if he might sleep in bed with Andy, Julie and me, and the minute my head hit my pillow, J.R. snuggled in right next to me, with his head tucked up close to my neck.

When I woke up the next morning, there was a fat little wiener dog nose right up against mine, and the minute my eyes were open, J.R. promptly planted a wet dog kiss on my face. And that was the moment I knew that he was going to be mine, that I would never let him go back into the system and risk him being hurt again. I called Matt and Becca and informed them that J.R. would be staying with me and Julie ... that my little fat buddy had most definitely found his "furever" home. I knew that morning that there was something special about J.R. ... I felt a connection with him that was different than anything I'd felt for any other dog, a connection that was deep and strong, a connection that spoke to the very core of my soul. And thus began a journey that I never expected, a journey that has forever changed who I am, a journey of love and lessons and loss.

Those of you who are long-time readers of this blog know the story of how J.R. quite literally saved my life ... he had a recurring back issue from being abused and was carrying some serious extra pounds, so the vet said I needed to take him for a walk every day. About a month or so into those walks, I began having some intense recurring pain in my left leg which became so bad that I went to the doctor. I was eventually diagnosed with diabetes, and my doctor sat across from me more somber than I had ever seen her and said, "It's only by God's grace that you are sitting in that chair. You should be dead several times over. You think you rescued that little dog, but I'm telling you as strongly as I can, God sent that pup to save your life." I went home from the doctor that day and held J.R. close and kissed him right on his little wiener dog mouth, and I thanked him ... over and over and over, I thanked him. I suddenly fully understood the heart and soul connection I felt with J.R. ... he was sent to me on a life-saving mission according to God's plan and purpose.

Over the last 15 months, J.R. and I have walked more miles than I can count on our beloved trail. We've seen a beaver, a fox, ducks, a turtle and lots and lots of birds. We've made new friends, old and young, human and canine, as we've marched along together. We've made a road trip to Tennessee and one to Colorado. We've lost a lot of weight, me a few more pounds than J.R. We've eaten cheese and peanut butter in the middle of the night. We've waded in the creek on a hot summer day. We've snuggled under a fleece blanket and watched a midnight snowfall. We've played tug of war with Julie and never admitted that she let us win. We've stayed in bed late on a Saturday morning and read a book out loud. We've rocked in the recliner when the thunder rolled and the lightening flashed. We've run around the back yard chasing butterflies and bunny rabbits. We've lounged in the hammock and basked in the warmth of the sun. We've ventured off the path and listened to the sound of the autumn leaves crunching under our feet. We've lived life together ... we've shared an extra special stretch of time as best friends ... we've loved with a pure and loyal love that neither of us had ever known before.

Early last week, I could tell that J.R.'s back was beginning to hurt a bit, and I took him to the vet for a cortisone shot and started him on the normal routine we followed when his back problem flared up. This time, however, nothing seemed to help him, and we went back to the vet for another injection. As the week wore on, J.R. grew progressively worse, and by late Friday night, he lost the use of his hind legs. On Saturday morning, our vet sent us to the emergency animal clinic, and after running some tests, a grim doctor told me that the previous injuries to J.R.'s back had worn out his spine. He said that surgery was his only option, but that his chances for even a partial recovery were very low. Since he wasn't in any pain, I took J.R. home and spent the rest of the day and most of the night cradling him in my arms. By Sunday morning, his breathing had become labored and there was a definite shift in his comfort level, and I knew that J.R.'s time was drawing to a close. A friend drove us to the clinic, and from the time we left my house until he passed away, J.R. never left my arms. He drew his final breath on Sunday morning around 10:00 ... snuggled against my chest ... licking my hand as long as he could. He went quietly and quickly, his pain gone and his little life complete.

J.R. has taught me so many things over the last 15 months, so very many things. The lessons I've learned from him about trust and loyalty and freedom and happiness and gratitude and love will stay with me until the day that I, too, draw my final breath. Our time together was far too short, but our time together was also way beyond precious. Remember earlier when I mentioned the path that J.R. had traveled before he came to me? When I think of where he had been ... of all he had endured ... it is nothing short of a miracle that he came to me on that hot and humid day in August. God sent that fat little wiener dog to me, of that I have not even a tiny shred of doubt.

Around my neck, I wear a medical ID dog tag. Though I originally thought I would take J.R.'s tag and bury it by the trail where he so loved to walk, I changed my mind on Sunday afternoon and placed his tag on my medical tag for two reasons ... he's why I discovered my diabetes, and the medical tag rests near my heart. He saved my life, little J.R., and he will forever be near my heart. When my friend Dee Dee arrived at my house on Sunday morning to find me stretched out on my couch sobbing with J.R. laying on my chest, she said that a verse from God's Word had been in her heart since I had spoken with her on Saturday and told her of his condition ... "To everything there is a season ... a time and a purpose under heaven." I don't know that I will ever understand why my season and my time with J.R. was so short, but I do understand that he came to me to fulfill a specific purpose ... to give me the gift of life. As I sat at the clinic and held him and rocked him in my arms, I made a promise to J.R. ... I promised him that I would keep on walking, that I would take care of myself and do my best to honor his gift. 

J.R. left me with many special memories ... many precious and priceless and sweet memories ... and he left me with a final reminder of what he did for me. Last Sunday, November 14, 2010, was World Diabetes Day. Rest peacefully, little fat buddy, you truly were a good and faithful friend. And don't worry, I will never forget ... I will never ever forget.

Never Before

Birthdays have never meant much to me, perhaps because of when my birthday is ... December 26. I don't remember having parties as a kid where other children attended; my friends and their families were wrapped up in the aftermath of Christmas. Oh, we got together as a family, and my sister always made sure that I had a totally awesome cake. And, for the most part, my family was great about giving me a separate gift for my birthday and not a combination Christmas/birthday present. All the same, birthdays just never carried a lot of special meaning for me.

Last year, I turned 50 ... and quite honestly ... that was the first birthday that bothered me a little. All of a sudden, I just felt, well, old. Suddenly rather than seeing myself as still young and at times even rather cool and hip, I noticed that my hair is white; my bones ache when the weather changes; and I forget things a lot more than I used to. Instead of thinking that more than half of my life remained ahead of me, I found myself thinking that my life was more than half over. Little did I realize that my 50th year would be such a defining year, a year that would change me in so many ways.

As I was driving home from the vet with my wounded wiener dog on Tuesday morning, it hit me ... this year has been my "never before" year. Never before have I walked five miles a day every day. Never before have I lived alone for a whole year. Never before have I been invited to speak in England. Never before have I lost over 100 pounds. Never before have I written so many blogs. Never before have I danced with my dogs in the living room. Never before have I shared the deepest, darkest parts of my life with another person. Never before have I seen my beautiful daughter so in love. Never before have I slept all night outside in a hammock. Never before have I read over 200 books in one year. Never before have I seen my oldest son receive his master's degree. Never before have I gone fishing all by myself. Never before have I eaten spaghetti squash. Never before have I attended a film festival to see a film made by my second son. Never before have I had to learn to drink again. Never before have I had two such loving and devoted dogs. Never before have I been to Breckenridge.

And while all of those never befores have impacted me in major and significant ways, they pale in comparison with the never befores that really matter ... never before have I been so broken before my Lord ... never before have I experienced the kind of faith that demands my total and complete surrender ... never before have I spent so much time on my face before God ... never before have I felt God's arms wrapped so tightly around me ... never before have I shed so many tears of confession and repentance ... never before have I truly understood the depth of God's mercy and grace.

My 51st birthday is quickly approaching ... never before have I been 51 years old.

Pulling Rank

When my children were teenagers, for some reason that escapes my comprehension, they suddenly thought we were on equal ground ... they thought they had as much say so in the way things were done in our home or the establishment of rules as I did. I remember several huge battles of wills and minds, many of which ended with me completely exasperated with my arguing, obstinate teens and hearing myself utter the words, "I'm pulling rank on you, and you will do what I say whether you like it or not."

It's funny to me how God often teaches me lessons years later, and He's done just that over the last few days. I never really thought about how humbling it must have been for my children to have me pull rank on them, to force them to do what I knew at the time was best for them, what ultimately was for their own good or safety or protection. But now, years later, I completely understand the humility that comes from needing to have rank pulled on me from time to time ... to have others recognize when I need someone to step in and force me to do what is best for me ... what keeps me safe ... what protects me.

I can't help but think of all the times in my life when God has pulled rank on me, of all the times He so needed to pull rank on me because I wasn't listening to His voice, following His will or seeking His face. And while those times were difficult in the moment, beyond humbling, and often physically and mentally exhausting ... when I reach the other side, my heart is filled with thanksgiving and gratitude that He cares enough for me to do what He needs to do in order to rescue me from myself and mold me into the woman He desires for me to become.

So, here's to pulling rank on this old stubborn gal ... thank you to those of you who are the hands and feet of the Master to me ... those who make me eat when I don't realize I need to, those who force me to drink when I'm not thirsty, those who tell me to get praying when I don't feel like talking to God, those who love me when I'm not at all lovable. And thank you most of all to my Lord ... for chasing me when I try to run away, for wrapping Your arms around me when I don't want a hug, for showering me with grace when nothing in me deserves it.