Follow Me

I've come to a conclusion over the last few days ... actually, I've been arriving at this conclusion for the last year and a half or so. And it probably says a lot about my stubborn will that it's taken that long for me to finally get here. To the point of my conclusion, that is. OK, OK ... here it is ... God teaches me some of His greatest truths through events and circumstances that I never expect. He brings me to places and people and situations for the purpose of teaching me something of profound value, of speaking to me in a way that screams that it is Him, of growing me in a manner that may be painful but that is always worthwhile.

For the last two weeks, I've been working on "homework" with my big dog Julie that was given to us by the professional trainer that my son Brad enlisted to teach Julie and me how to walk together. For those of you who missed the blog about Brad's Christmas gift to me, that was his gift ... his incredibly awesome gift ... hiring the trainer for Jules and me. When I first received the email from the trainer outlining our homework until he came to meet with us, my initial reaction was, "This is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of, and it will never work." I was instructed to feed Julie by hand as we walked through the house, starting and stopping, over and over, while I said the words out loud, "Follow me."

That exercise, as ridiculous as it seemed to me, went very well and Julie seemed to fully enjoy the game as well as having my undivided attention. The trainer's email for our work for the second week instructed me to hook a leash to Julie's collar as we played the food game, allowing it to trail along on the floor as we traipsed through the house. While I would love to tell you that the second week was as much of a success as the first week ... well, Julie chewed all the way through four leashes during that week, so I'll let you draw your own conclusion as to how successful we were. The third week, I was told to hold the leash as we played our now familiar food game, starting and stopping, over and over, while I again instructed Julie to "Follow me."

I remained quite skeptical as to the trainer's reasoning as to how this was supposed to teach Julie how to walk on a leash with me outside in the wide open spaces. It's one thing to hang on to her in my little house, but it's a whole different ball game when she drags me down the street or through the yard when we get outdoors. When he arrived at my house last Friday evening, I greeted him with more than a twinge of doubt as to him making any progress at all with my big boisterous hound. I soon discovered just how misplaced my doubts were when within 20 minutes, he had taught Julie not to bolt out the door when he opened it. Within 45 minutes, he had Julie and I not only walking together to the end of my driveway and back, he had her turning and following me without me having to say a word. As he bid us farewell that evening, the trainer smiled and said, "Now you understand the homework, don't you?"

As I snuggled in my bed for the night, it struck me ... Julie wasn't the only one who had been training for the last three weeks. I had so wanted to walk Julie and my little J.R. together; I even bought a connector leash to tether the two of them together, but Julie would pull and strain against the leash so badly that I finally gave up and walked only with J.R. Tears filled my eyes as I realized that the 15 months I had to walk with J.R. was his time, and he was never happier than when he was alone with me on the trail. And now ... now this is Julie's time to walk with me, to be alone with me on the trail. Time, I thought, as my tears spilled onto my pillow ... God's timing in my life is always perfect, always just, always part of His ultimate plan for me. Starting and stopping, over and over ... while God consistently holds out His mighty hand and says, "Follow me."

"Follow me, Terrie, through the darkest times of life. Follow me, Terrie, when you are on the mountaintop. Follow me, Terrie, even if you can't see the path in front of you. Follow me, Terrie, when the sun shines brightly."

"Follow me."

Sweet Baby Girl

Ask any mother with more than one child about each one's birth and I can almost guarantee you that unless she was unconscious, she can recount (often in vivid detail) the similarities and differences between each child's entrance into the world. For example ... my oldest son Matt took his time in announcing his presence, keeping me in labor for over 13 hours. He was the one of my three children who came dangerously close to causing me to need a C-section because his cord was wrapped twice around his neck. Son number two, Brad, entered the scene in quite a different manner. He was born 10 minutes after I arrived at the hospital following only a few slight labor pains. In fact, Brad was almost born ... well ... I went to the bathroom after changing into a hospital gown, and he ... well ... suffice it to say that he was almost born in the toilet. My daughter Meghann made her debut in the most normal way of all three of my children. I was in labor for about six hours, and was able to deliver her by natural childbirth. Perhaps since she was my third child, and she followed Brad by only 18 months, God gave her to me on Mother's Day so that I would never forget her birthday.

Perhaps another universal truth when it comes to mothers and children is that the hopes and prayers and dreams a mother has for her child begin the moment she discovers that a little life is growing within her. You begin to wonder if the baby is a boy or a girl, if they will be healthy, what their personalities will be like, what path they will choose to follow when they grow up. You hope for high school graduations, college diplomas, and careers that are fulfilling. You pray that they will have a strong and deep relationship with God, that they will desperately seek His will and follow His direction, and that they will immerse themselves in His Word. You dream of weddings, their first home, and future grandchildren.

With all three of my children now adults, I've been blessed to see many of those hopes and prayers and dreams that I had for them as babies come to fruition over the last 26 plus years. I've seen each of them endure some hurts and go through some deep pain as well. I've watched them grow and learn life lessons, and I've seen them fall down and get up and try again. And I will soon watch my little girl walk down the aisle and marry her Prince Charming. Yep, her longtime boyfriend Barrett asked Meghann on Christmas Eve to become his wife. They haven't officially set a date yet, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if there is an early summer wedding.

A couple of weeks ago, I went with Meghann to watch her try on wedding gowns. I watched her walk out of the dressing area and step up onto the platform in the store, and I began to weep. As Meghann said, "Mom, don't cry," in my mind I saw a little blonde-haired two-year-old girl after surgery on her ears cuddled against my chest with her night-night blanket. I saw a 5-year-old riding her pink tricycle down the basement stairs. I saw her in elementary school playing on the playground. I saw her participating in junior high basketball games. I saw her with two broken arms when she accompanied me on a speaking engagement and garnered lots of sympathy from the women present at the event. I saw her graduating from high school. I saw her in her classroom working with children with autism. I saw my sweet baby girl as a beautiful young woman shopping for her wedding gown.

Happy engagement, sweet baby girl ... happy, happy engagement. Happy wedding to come ... and happy marriage for the rest of your life. Happiness to you, my sweet baby girl ... all the happiness that life can bring to you ... I love you!

I Don't Yike It

When my daughter Meghann was a little girl, she would often say, "I don't yike it, Mommie." She didn't "yike" green beans or sand or bugs or the color yellow or riding in her car seat or being told what to do. I always found it curious that for all the things that Meghann liked, she didn't say, "I yike it." Instead, she always said, "Mmmm, that's good." Things like puppies or the color blue or baths or a certain pair of white tennis shoes or her dolls were always worthy of an "Mmmm, that's good" comment.

I've always considered myself to be a fairly positive and upbeat kind of gal. I make friends fairly easily, and I get along pretty well with most people with whom I have a relationship. I try to look for the good in every situation, and I strive to encourage others to do the same. I've always been a glass half-full person ... an "Mmmm, that's good" lady rather than an "I don't yike it" woman.

Recently, however, my glass has been kind of empty, and I've found myself more and more often not "yiking" things or situations or events. I don't yike that I can never have another Starbucks frappucino for the rest of my life. I don't yike that my basement has sprung a leak. I don't yike that there are days at work when I simply can't do everything that needs to be done. I don't yike that I no longer drive a Jeep Wrangler. I don't yike the cold weather and that it makes my feet hurt. I don't yike that I have to take so much medication or have someone accompany me to the doctor.

As I thought about my seeming tendency to trend toward the negative, I find myself more determined not to be consumed by the darkness that is trying to creep into my life. I am acutely aware of the need to search for the "Mmmm, that's good" parts of my daily walk ... sugar-free cinnamon roll pudding with sugar-free Cool Whip on top, a warm home on a cold night, a job that provides for my needs and some of my wants, a reliable car that gets me where I need to go, thermal underwear and having feet to walk on, drugs to keep my diabetes under control and people who love me enough to care about my health. Mmmm ... those are good ... no, those are wonderful things.

So, here's to glasses that are half-full, to "Mmmm, that's good," and to everything in between. Here's to God blessing me with another day, another breath, another chance to live.

Starting Over

The older I get, the more I wonder where time goes. Or has gone. Or will go in the future. I remember when I was young, it seemed that I would never be old enough to drive. Or get married. Or have my own house. Now that I either can do, have done or currently am doing, I often don't want to. Or regret that I did. Or think that I should sell it. Funny ... the more I wonder where time goes, or has gone, or will go in the future, the more I think that I should make some changes. Or undo some things. Or start something new.

As this year winds to a close, I can't help but reflect on the last year and wonder what the next one holds in store. It would be easy to focus on the rough spots of the last year, and trust me, there were plenty of them. My health for a good part of the year felt like trying to ride a surfboard in the middle of a hurricane. I spent months in the desert in my walk of faith. And I lost my little J.R. It would be so very easy to see last year as one of the most difficult of my 51 years of life.

But ... but ... but ... my blood sugar, cholesterol and triglycerides are well within normal range for the first time in a decade, and I've lost over 100 pounds. God was with me through the desert even when I didn't think He was, and He's deepened my faith and humbled me in ways I never imagined. And little J.R. ... though I am still grieving his loss, the joy and blessings he brought into my life will stay in my heart forever.

My prayer as a new year begins is that I will embrace the opportunities God gives me to begin again ... to pursue dreams and chase rainbows ... to make the most of every single moment ... to love with all my heart ... to serve others with true abandon ... to live each day with gratitude ... to follow Him completely ... to put the past where it belongs ... to start over.

A Gift From the Heart

My son Bradley has a talent for making me laugh. It seems that no matter how down in the dumps I may be, he can always say something that will at the very least elicit a smile from his old mom's wounded spirit. He has a quick wit and a dry sense of humor that makes his personality infectious and winsome to the people who are blessed to know him well. Brad is also one of the most spontaneous young men I've ever known, especially when it comes to his passion for filmmaking. He has been known to decide to make a short film on a Monday morning and basically have it completed before the week is over ... the writing of the script, selection of actors, choosing a location, filming and editing ... amazing to me, but he's done it more than once.

Brad possesses another talent, however, that is far more precious to me as his mother. Brad has a knack for putting words on paper that truly touch me to the core of my soul. Several years ago, he gave me a multiple-page letter at Christmas that made me weep as I read it then, and still makes me weep when I read it now. He puts his heart onto the page, and his words come from the depth of his soul.

The last year has been a difficult one for me on many fronts ... I've had some health issues as those of you who are faithful readers know; my job has been quite stressful; and six weeks ago, I lost my little J.R. I've shed an ocean of tears over the last 12 months, but the ones I shed on this year's Christmas morning as I read a card penned by my Brad were tears that I will forever remember and hold close to my heart.

The card began with, "Mom, I know it's been a tough year," and as I read those few words, that's when my tears began to flow. The card said a lot of things which I will always treasure, but a few words in particular warrant sharing with those of you who read this blog. "I searched and searched for something you could 'open' but it just never seemed like the right fit. So I decided the best gift I could give you is a walking Buddy."

You see, Brad knows and understands how very much I miss my little J.R. being out on the trail with me, and how hard it has been for me to walk without him. So Brad arranged for a dog trainer to come to my house and teach my Julie how to walk on a leash, and teach me how to walk with her. We've tried everything down through the years to get Julie to behave on a walk, and she almost tears my arm off when I try to walk with her.

As special as Brad's gift is to me ... what is even more special is that he "gets it." He understands the depth of my grief for J.R., and he appreciates the importance of a walking buddy for me. As I wept while I read his card, Brad quickly reminded me that Julie alerts me when my blood sugar is falling and how good it would be for her to be on the trail with me as I go for my daily walk. He gets it ... Brad completely and totally gets it.

So Bradley Bear ... this blog is for you, buddy. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for your gift from the bottom of yours.

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.