A Little Encouragement

For many years, I grew vegetables in a garden in my backyard. Some years, I had a small garden; some years, I had a large garden. I've grown everything from okra to peppers to corn to squash to tomatoes. I even tried my hand at asparagus for a few years, but I failed miserably at growing my favorite of all veggies. Meghann, Matt and I loved the vegetables from the garden ... Meg loved to make BLTCC sandwiches (bacon, lettuce, tomato and cream cheese ... absolute deliciousness), and Matt loved to grill squash or okra (again, absolute deliciousness). Brad, on the other hand, is pretty much a meat and potatoes man. The few times I forced him to eat vegetables, he covered them with ranch dressing or honey ... seriously, that kid put honey on green beans. I suppose every family has to have one finicky eater in the bunch, huh?

I stopped planting a garden when all the kids moved out; it's less expensive and takes way less time to buy what vegetables I eat than to plant and water and cultivate them myself. There are times, however, when I miss walking into my garden, picking a ripe tomato from the vine, wiping it on my shirt and taking a bite of it outside under the hot sun. And there are also times when I miss seeing my big dog Julie do the same thing, minus the wiping it on the shirt part. That crazy dog would pick the ripest, prettiest, biggest tomatoes off the vine and eat them ... right in front of me with me yelling at her to stop. No matter how much I fussed at her, she would go straight for the tomatoes each time I let her outside. You see, finicky doesn't even begin to apply to Julie ... she will eat just about any food item that she can get her paws on or sink her teeth into, and she literally inhales her dog food at breakfast and dinner. Now, Ollie on the other hand ... Mr. Oliver is a whole different beast when it comes to food, especially dog food.

Before Ollie came to live with me and Julie, he lived in a home where he was almost starved to death. According to the folks who rescued him, he was so emaciated and thin that they were afraid to pick him up for fear that his bones might break. They had fattened him up considerably by the time I brought him home by feeding him biscuits and gravy each day for breakfast. Needless to say, he wasn't terribly excited those first few days at my house when I served him dry, crunchy dog food. It concerned me that he wasn't eating very well, so I began to mix a little chicken broth in with his dog food ... after all, he was in a new place with a new person and a new big dog following him around ... he simply needed some help in the area of food transitioning. And who in their right mind, human or canine, wouldn't prefer biscuits and gravy to ... well, just about anything really?

Those of you familiar with dachshunds know that they are an exceptionally stubborn breed of dog ... they are way too smart for their own good, and they dig their little paws in and refuse to budge if they don't want to do something. For the most part, Ollie eats his dog food, but their are times when he has to make sure I know that he doesn't really want the plain, dry, crunchy morsels. Those times, not only does he refuse to eat, he lays down in front of his bowl and gives me this, "Look how pitiful I am ... I'm really hungry, but you're making me eat this dry yucky stuff" look. And though I complain out loud about how he thinks he's special and that he needs to learn to be thankful for the dry food and gulp it down like Julie does ... those times when he won't eat, I end up sprinkling his food with some crushed-up Cheetos or shredded cheese and watch as he quickly gobbles up the suddenly much more appealing bites.

Yesterday was one of Ollie's more obstinate days, beginning with his refusal to step into the brown, crunchy grass to go potty, forcing me to pick him up and carry him out into yard. And I knew when I placed his bowl of food on the floor and he immediately laid down in front of it and looked up at me that he had no intention of eating the plain dog food. As I opened the refrigerator to grab the bag of cheese, a thought popped into my head. Tossing some cheese on top of Ollie's dog food, I said, "Ollie, buddy, sometimes we all need a little encouragement, don't we? Just like carrying you out to potty in the yard or putting cheese on your food ... sometimes we need to be encouraged to do the right thing."

I don't think I'll ever cease to be amazed at the huge life lessons God has chosen and continues to choose to teach me through my furry friends. Watching Ollie's tail wagging furiously as he chomped his food, tears pooled in my eyes as I thought about how many times God tries to feed me and I refuse to eat ... how many times He puts nourishment right in front of me ... how many times He urges me to eat from His overflowing bowl sprinkled with the encouragement of His grace, mercy and love.

Make me oh so hungry for You, Lord ... make me hungry for You.

Looking for a City

When we moved to Kansas City from Florida over 20 years ago after my then husband's job was eliminated, we had the choice of three different cities where he could transfer within the same company ... Washington, D.C., Oklahoma City or Kansas City. I don't remember exactly how or why we decided to come to Kansas City, but I do recall that at least in part, it was the closest city to our home in Tennessee. I've often thought about how it must have been within God's plan to bring us to the Midwest, and I've wondered what path our lives would have taken had we not come here. Two of my three children met their future spouses here; some of my most precious friendships have been forged here; and most important of all, the kids and I all came to know the Lord here.

One of the greatest challenges after we had decided that we were coming to Kansas City was deciding which part of the city we wanted to live in. We knew nothing about the town or the suburbs that surrounded it, but we had three small children and knew we needed to live somewhere safe that had good schools. Thankfully, we had a great real estate agent who steered us in the perfect direction, and time has proven that it was the right choice. My children and I built a life here on the outskirts of Kansas City ... a life filled with love and relationships and laughter, with some trials and heartache mixed in along the way.

I've only lived in three states in my 51 plus years of life ... guess I could never be accused of being a nomad. I'm not sure why, but it seemed like a much bigger deal when we moved to Kansas than when we moved to Florida, perhaps because for the first time in my life, I wasn't going to be living in the South. Though our home in Ft. Lauderdale was considerably farther away in miles and hours to drive than Kansas City, it felt like I was much farther from home when we moved here.

Though it feels like home here in the Midwest for the most part, lately I've found myself wishing I could just pack the dogs in the car and drive until I found a little city or town where I would like to live. I think it has more to do with my state of mind than it does with really wanting to move ... it's the whole running away feeling that sweeps over me so often now that spurs my desire to find a place to simply check out of the daily grind. Unrealistic, I know, but a girl can dream, I suppose.

I downloaded some new music onto my iPod last night and was listening to it this morning as I walked. I stopped dead in my tracks when a song titled "Looking for a City" began to play. As happens quite frequently when I'm out on my beloved trail, the tears that rolled down my cheeks hit the pavement as I started walking again. As clearly as if He were walking beside me, God began to speak to my spirit through the words of the song. You see, there's only one city that I need to be looking for ... the city that God has designed for me to spend eternity in ... I should be hoping and longing and looking for the city where the streets are paved with gold. The cares of this life are so temporary when I view them in the context of the eternal home that is waiting for me. As I crossed the final bridge toward home this morning, I whispered a prayer that God would make me content while I wait ... content while I'm looking for a city.

"Looking for a city where we'll never die
There the sainted millions never say goodbye
Where we'll meet our Savior
And our loved ones, too
Come oh Holy Spirit
All our hopes renew."

Time Will Tell

One of my strongest memories of my maternal grandmother involves a clock ... yes, a clock. Granny had a clock that hung on the wall above her fireplace, a large box-style clock that chimed every hour, the number of chimes corresponding to the time of day it was. I've spoken before about Granny being a short, stout woman with thick, snow-white hair crowning her head, and it still causes me to smile that her last name was Waddle. She did indeed waddle when she walked. Each night, my short little granny would push her old green ottoman to the front of the fireplace and climb up on it to wind the clock. There was a little wand that she used to wind the gears on one side that made the clock tick and the gears on the other side that made the clock chime. And each time she went through her clock-winding routine, I would ask her if the clock would tick and chime forever. Her reply was always the same, "Time will tell, won't it now, child? Time will tell."

I've been thinking about time a lot lately ... how slowly or quickly it passes, how much time is involved in accomplishing certain tasks, how the way I spend my time is sometimes my choice while at other times it's not, and how when it is within my power to choose how to divide my time why I make the choices that I do. Lots of people complain about not having enough time to do all they need to do, and yet, they manage to find time for things they want to do. I'm guilty of that myself ... telling someone I can't help out with a project or I don't have time to meet them for lunch or I'm too busy to serve at church. And even as the words come out of my mouth, I'm mentally planning time to accomplish a task that's important to me or meet someone else for dinner or go shopping on a Sunday morning.

How I spend my time really does tell a lot about who and what are important to me, and I hope that if I haven't learned anything else in my 51 plus years of life I've learned to make time for the people I love. I hope I've come to understand that none of us have the guarantee of our next breath or another moment of life and that it is only by God's grace that I wake each morning and greet another day.

I can't help but think of the last six weeks of my mom's life when she moved here to Kansas City. It was a challenge to keep up with everything in my life ... working full-time, being a single mom to two teenagers still at home and my oldest in college, and doing everything I needed to do to take care of Mom, including seeing her every day, taking her to doctor's appointments, doing her laundry, and cooking all of her meals. Had Mom lived for many more years, I would have gladly accepted the responsibility of caring for her even though it would have taken up a great deal of my time. I would not take back one second of the time I spent with her, not one second ... not one second. In fact, I'd give everything I own to have one more hour just to sit and talk to her, to listen to her stories, to see her little eyes squeeze shut when she laughed, to wrap my arms around her and tell her one more time how very much I loved her. I never fully understood the importance of those moments until she was gone, and her unexpected death forever changed the way I view spending time with the people I love.

Granny's clock hangs in my small family room now, and each time I look at it on the wall, I think about Granny standing on her green ottoman going through her nightly winding routine. It hasn't ticked or chimed in many years, and to have it repaired is quite expensive. But it doesn't matter to me that it doesn't work anymore ... it doesn't matter at all. What matters is that it's a reminder to me ... a reminder of the legacy of my family, a reminder of how fleeting time can be, a reminder to make time to listen and laugh and love. Granny was right all those years ago ... time really will tell.

I Remember

Maybe it's my age or maybe it's my current state of mind, but I've been walking down memory lane a great deal lately as those of you who read this blog regularly know. Memories are powerful parts of the heart and mind, I believe ... some are sweet and tender, and some are painful and haunting. I consider one blessed who has more positive memories than negative, because there are times when good memories go a long way toward helping a person through a dark and lonely night.

I've written a lot about my family in this blog ... my children, my siblings, my parents, my grandparents ... because those memories and the relationships I had or currently have with them are part of what makes me who I am. I've been asked more than a few times why I never write about my marriage in this blog, because those years also served to shape the woman I am today. I've been asked if I've erased those memories from my mind, and the answer is no, of course I haven't. But I won't be writing about them in this blog, or anywhere else for that matter ... I simply won't.

Tonight, however, I am going to write a bit about my former father-in-law because he's been on my heart through the night last night and all day today. He suffered a heart attack earlier this week and underwent extensive heart bypass surgery yesterday. I remember well from my dad's heart surgery what a difficult and life-changing event that particular surgery is, especially for someone at Mr. Johnson's age. He and I had our differences during the years that I was married to his son, but after our divorce, he always treated me with respect and dignity. I've done a lot of remembering concerning him today ... and my own dad as well.

As I'm sure most of you have realized by now, my dad was a huge influence in my life ... and the memories I have of him continue to impact me even today. I remember so many things about Daddy, some small and some big. I remember him tossing a softball with me in the evenings when he came home from work. I remember him bringing home puppies in boxes. I remember him putting a worm on my hook for me. I remember him singing or humming or whistling ... a lot. I remember him swimming in the ocean when we were on vacation. I remember him praying. I remember him reading his Bible. I remember him giving his coat to someone in need. I remember him telling me he loved me. I remember him holding my children when they were babies. I remember him in the hospital room with me when I was in labor with Matt. I remember him at the back of the church in his tuxedo on my wedding day. I remember him talking about Jesus and how much he loved him. I remember him as he drew his final few breaths.

My former father-in-law was a minister his whole life, pastoring mainly small Nazarene churches in the South. I always called him Mr. Johnson ... never Dad or Willard .... always Mr. Johnson. I think it was a respect thing for me; for some reason, it seemed wrong not to call him Mr. Johnson. I remember a funny story he told at our rehearsal dinner. I remember how much he loved opening gifts on his birthday and Christmas. I remember that he often shed tears as he preached, especially when he talked about Jesus. I remember some quite heated arguments concerning the business he and my ex-husband owned together. I remember that he went for a long walk every single day. I remember that he didn't eat meat and that he loved pinto beans and cornbread. I remember how worn his Bible was. I remember the times he came to sit with me at the hospital in the last days of Daddy's life. I remember a tender and sweet conversation with him at Matt and Becca's wedding. I remember phone calls from him to my kids after my divorce and how he would always ask to talk to me, too. I remember that despite any disagreements we had, I always knew that he loved the Lord with all his heart.

So tonight, I remember ... I remember my father, and I remember my former father-in-law. I'm praying for you, Mr. Johnson ... for a full and fast recovery, for God's healing hand upon you. And I'm praying for all of your family as well ... I remember how much they all love you.

 

Just Like God

Many years ago, shortly after my oldest son Matt was born, I made some promises to my firstborn that some might consider rather weird in light of the fact that Matt was barely more than a newborn when I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom and uttered the following words. "I promise that I will hug you a lot. I promise I will hold your hand a lot. I promise I will say 'I love you' a lot. I promise, little boy, that we will never part or say goodbye without you knowing how much you mean to me. I promise that to you with all my heart." And when Brad and Meghann were born, I stood in front of the same mirror and made the same promises to the two of them. I know I've failed miserably at holding true to my words at times over the last 27 years, but I'd like to believe that I've kept those promises way more than I've broken them. And even though they are all adults now, I try to always end my visits with them with hugs and to close every phone conversation with a heartfelt "I love you."

Last night as I was reading through some news feeds on the Internet, my attention was drawn to an article about the drastic rise in suicides over the last 10 years in middle-aged single women, an almost 50% increase. I am, after all, middle-aged, single and a woman, hence the reason the article garnered my interest. The article offered up several possible causes for the dramatic shift in the numbers, including pain, sleeplessness and depression that are more often treated with medications now than in the past, which has led to easier access to intentional overdosing on those prescription meds. The article also discussed the effects of long-term illness, new diagnosis of an illness and the effect of hormonal shifts experienced from the onset of menopause. All of the information in the article was interesting, but one particular quote leapt off the page at me.

"Women of this age group are divorced, separated or single at unprecedented rates, and they frequently have no human contact outside of work and the Internet. Frequently, the wide social safety net and companionship of peers and family members is entirely absent, especially if the woman is viewed as infirm or tarnished in some way. Since human psychology evolved in an essentially tribal environment, we are ill-adapted to withstand the social alienation of our modern, urban, self-absorbed mass culture." Whoa, I thought, as I read the lines several times. Just last week, I responded to an email from a friend, whose husband had given me a hug a few days before, with the following words: "You tell him for me ... he had no idea how much I needed that hug today, how alone I am right now, how I sometimes go for weeks with no human touch."

Needless to say, my encounter with Russell on the street yesterday afternoon (read yesterday's blog if you don't know who Russell is) lingered in my heart through the night and has taken up residence in my mind today as well. And as I read the words "no human contact" in the article last night, I thought of Russell's hand in mine ... his dirty, worn, battered hand ... a hand that quite possibly has not been touched by another human in months, perhaps even years. I didn't sleep well last night, thinking about the article I had read, thinking about Russell, thinking about so many things. It was just before daybreak as I lay on my back with Julie's head and paws across my legs and Ollie's nose tucked under my side that something dawned on me ... something big.

You see ... God didn't send me to touch Russell yesterday, He sent Russell to touch me. God knew the words I typed in my email ... He knew. And He chose to use the most unlikely of people to touch me ... a man with one hand and two wooden legs. It's just like God, you know, to take those the world has tossed aside and use them in a mighty, powerful and beautiful way.

Yesterday, Russell said he thought I was an angel ... you are the angel, Russell ... you are truly the angel.

I Met a Man

The office of the company I work for is in downtown Kansas City, well actually, it's kind of on the fringe of the core of downtown. But it's downtown in the sense that on a pretty regular basis, there are homeless folks walking the street in front of our building. Or climbing into the dumpster in our parking lot. Or standing under the overhang at our front door. I've written before about my friend Sam who was homeless until his son found him and took him to live with him. I've talked about how my heart is drawn to those folks in part because of the example my dad set in helping the homeless men who gathered in the railroad yard where he worked. Today, though ... today, I met a man like none I've ever met.

Someone I work with saw him first and caused me to notice him ... across the street, trying to find shade from the intense heat, sitting in a wheelchair. I stood at the window and watched him as he mopped his forehead and drank from a tattered cup. I stood at the window and watched as he placed a piece of cardboard behind his back. I stood at the window and watched as he tipped his head back and looked toward the sky. I stood and watched, and then I made a decision. I went into the kitchen in my office and filled a garbage bag with ice. I grabbed a 6-pack of bottled water. I walked across the street. 

As I approached the man, he said, "You gonna talk to me?" 

"I am," I said, "if that's OK with you. It's awfully hot out here ... I brought you some ice and some water."

"Why, thank you," he said gently as I noticed that he was missing all the fingers on one hand, that his skin was leathery and worn, that his clothes were tattered and dirty ... that he had two wooden legs ... wooden legs that had two different shoes attached to them.

"You're quite welcome, sir," I said. "I thought the ice and water might help you out in this heat. It's really a scorcher today."

"August will be hotter, girl," he said with a grin crossing his face. "August in Kansas City is always hot."

"Well, I'm ready for it to cool off a bit myself," I said. "You got somewhere to sleep tonight? It's way too hot for you to sleep outside."

"Oh, yeah," he said, "I always find a place to sleep. Always find a place to lay this old body down at night."

"You got a place inside to sleep tonight?" I asked, hoping that my concern for him wasn't pouring through my voice the way it was coursing through my heart and mind. This guy is old, I thought ... this guy is too old to be out here on the streets.

"I was in the war, you know ... that's how I lost my legs and my fingers. Had to amputate 'em cause they was so shot up," he said with a note of sadness in his voice.

"So you're a veteran?" I asked.

"Yes, maam, I sure am," he said. "I sure am. I love this country and I love God, too."

Feeling the tears springing to my eyes, I said, "I've got to go back to work. You sure you have somewhere to get in out of this heat tonight, my friend?"

"Yes maam," he replied. "God bless you for the ice and the water ... God bless you."

"God bless you, too, sir," I said as I turned and headed back across the street to my office ... my air-conditioned office ... my ergonomic chair ... my lunchbox filled with snacks ... my pink Vitamin Water perched on my desk. Trying to settle back into my spot in the corner of the building, I couldn't stop thinking about the man. I should have asked him his name, I thought ... I should take him the food I have left in my lunchbox. So I gathered up what I had left ... some peanut butter packets, some applesauce and a couple of pieces of cheese, and headed down the stairs toward the front door. I stopped and asked a couple of gals if they had any snacks they wouldn't mind giving the man, and they generously gave what they had. I placed everything into a plastic bag and crossed the busy street once again.

"Hello again," I called out as I approached the ragged, tattered gentleman. "I brought you some food. I'm worried about you, sir ... it's terribly hot. I brought you some food."

"Well, hello," he said as his eyes filled with tears. "You brought me food, too? Ice and water and food?"

"I did," I said and I showed him what I had in the bag, asking him to promise me that he would eat the can of vegetable soup and some crackers for dinner. "There's even a little bag of chocolate candy in here for you. You'll have to eat that up in a hurry so it doesn't melt out in the heat. Promise me you'll eat this soup for dinner tonight?"

"I promise," he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. "It will be like eating in a fancy restaurant ... a feast fit for a king! This food will last me three weeks or more. Thank you, maam, thank you."

"What's your name?" I asked. "My name is Terrie."

"My name's Russell," he replied with his gentle and kind voice. "I think you must be an angel from the Lord."

"Oh, no, Russell," I said as I shook my head. "I'm no angel, my friend. I just want to make sure you're OK for today. And if I see you out here tomorrow, I'll bring you some more ice. I'll bring some extra food from home, too, so that you'll have some more to eat. I've got to go back to work, but you eat this food and find a cool place to sleep tonight, OK?"

"Yes maam, I will, I will. God bless you, maam ... God bless you," he said.

"And may God bless you, Russell. Would it be alright if I shook your hand before I go?" I asked.

"My hand is dirty, maam, but I would be pleased to shake your hand if you don't mind the dirt," the kind old man gently replied. "You are the first person in a while who has talked to me, you know ... people don't see me mostly and that's OK ... I'm not much to see anymore."

Emotion tore through my heart as I took Russell's hand in mine and placed my other hand over his. "Russell," I said, my voice cracking as I struggled not to cry in front of him. "I am truly honored to shake your hand today, sir, truly and deeply honored."

I watched Russell from my office window as he slowly wheeled himself with one hand down the sidewalk. I watched and wondered where he was going. I watched from my window next to my desk as tears rolled down my cheeks. I watched a man whose only earthly possessions were contained in plastic bags that hung from his rusted, wobbly wheelchair. I watched a man who lost his legs fighting for my freedom. I watched a man who has nowhere to live. I watched a man who demonstrated more honor and dignity in our two short conversations than I could ever begin to possess.

Today, I met a man ... today, I met a man like none I've ever met. Be safe tonight, Russell, be safe.

The Goat Wrangler

If I ever doubt that God has a sense of humor, all I have to do is think about my son Brad. The very thought of my middle kid makes me know to the core of my being that God indeed must have a funny bone since I believe that Bradley, along with all the rest of humanity, is made in His image and likeness. And the thing about Brad is that he doesn't try to be funny, he just says and does things that although they seem normal or serious to him are actually quite hilarious to those of us on the outside of his creative brain looking in. Trust me, I could relate countless stories to back up my premise concerning my son, but in all fairness to you the reader and to Brad who is the fodder for this post, I've chosen one simple but eloquent example of the innate comedic nature of my son.

Those of you who read this blog regularly know that I originally hail from the hills of Tennessee, born and bred, as my Southern compatriots will completely understand. Almost every year for the last 20 plus years, we've traveled home to Tennessee to spend a week or so with family, and one of my children's favorite things to do while we were there was to visit my sister's farm just outside of town. It's a beautiful piece of property with rolling hills, two barns and a creek that runs on the back side of the land. Down through the years, my sister has had horses, cows, goats, ducks and cats on the farm ... at one point, she even thought about getting a couple of ostriches. She's like my dad when it comes to animals and farming ... she loves them both with all her heart.

On one particular visit home when it was just Brad and Meghann and me, one of my sister's goats had injured its foot and needed some ... as my sis would say ... some "homemade doctorin'" that involved Brad and Meghann attempting to hold the goat while my sister applied medicine and a bandage to the animal's wounded appendage. It only took one or two attempts for Meghann with the smelly, twisting, bucking beast for her to decide that she wanted no part of holding that crazy goat, and I must say, I agreed with her ... I wanted no part of it either. Brad and my sister, however, were of one mind about the process, and that goat stood no chance against the two of them. It took a few tries and a couple of tumbles in the dirt, but Brad eventually got the goat in a death grip and held on for his life while Sis did her doctoring. When it was over and Brad released the goat, with a look of pride on his beaming face, he shouted, "Look what I did! I wrangled me a goat ... yep, this city boy wrangled a goat!"

Now while watching Brad tussle with the goat was funny in and of itself, what he did a couple of months later in regard to his experience still causes me to chuckle even now several years later. Needing to obtain a new part-time job, Brad asked me to look over his resume for him before he began submitting it to potential employers. Brad's a great writer, but one line on his list of previous "jobs" made me laugh until tears rolled down my face. There, in black and white, were these words: "Experienced goat wrangler." When I suggested to Brad that he had really only sort of wrangled one goat in his entire life and that it might not be a sought-after job skill, he said with all the seriousness he could muster, "It doesn't matter, Mom ... I have experience wrangling a goat."

And that's been Brad's take on life from the time he was a little guy ... see the potential story in every event or circumstance you experience and tell that story in the best way you can. It's part of what makes him a great filmmaker. It's part of what makes him a great son, a great friend, a great man. And it's definitely what makes him an experienced goat wrangler.

Love you, kiddo ... thanks for all the times you've made me smile.

B 7. I 19. N 42. G 50. O 63. BINGO.

My dad taught Sunday School for many, many years ... he taught little kids; he taught high-schoolers; he taught young adults; he taught married couples ... he taught a lot of Sunday School in his day. Daddy's last stint as a teacher before he got sick and had to stop was for elderly gentlemen; the youngest guy in the class was 80 years old. While Daddy enjoyed each age he taught, I think those older fellows held an extra-special place in his heart. He was in his mid-60s when he had to give up teaching because he could no longer remember how to read, and I often heard him say, "I sure do miss my old men's Sunday School class ... I sure do miss those old boys ... I sure do." In addition to teaching the older men in Sunday School, Daddy would often attend the monthly senior citizen Bingo games that were held in the family life center at church. I can remember him coming home and talking about how serious the old folks were about playing Bingo. I can close my eyes and see the twinkle in his eye and the grin on his face as he talked about his elderly friends.

I have a friend who works at a local retirement home coordinating and facilitating activities for the residents there, and Thursday nights are Bingo nights. There are several folks there who need a little extra help to play, so volunteers come each week to do just that ... help those who need help. And from time to time, my friend will ask me to come be a helper, and there's never been a time when I went to help that I wasn't touched or moved in some way by one of the residents. So when my friend said she could use my help last week, I was glad to lend a hand.

Last Thursday, I was paired with a sweet and gentle lady, a lady I've helped before. Her trembling hands and the puzzled look in her eyes remind me very much of my dad, and perhaps that is part of why I like it when I get to help her. She asks me over and over what my name is, and if I'm going to help her play. Each time I tell her my name, she repeats it ... and then a few minutes later, she asks again and I tell her and she repeats it. I tell her the letters and numbers that are called, point them out to her, and she slides the plastic covering over the number. When she gets a Bingo, I tell her to raise her hand and point to the numbers as she reads them aloud to confirm that she has won a game. Then I help her choose a prize from the prize cart another volunteer brings to each resident who gets a Bingo.

It sounds simple and relatively unimportant, doesn't it? Not so much, my friends, not so much. As I sat there last Thursday evening looking around the room, I couldn't help but think that if I were to live to be old, I would probably spend my final days in a similar place. I wondered how many of the residents in the activity room have no one who visits them, no one who loves them, no one other than the staff of the facility who knows if they live or die. I wondered if they sometimes wish to be done with this life, if they long to go on to their heavenly home. I wondered about the stories of their lives ... where they had been, what they had done, whom they had loved. I wondered, and I wondered, and I wondered some more.

My attention was drawn back to the lady I was helping when she asked, "Did I get anything?" When I said, "Not yet," she nodded her head as if she understood what I was saying. A few minutes later when she got her second Bingo of the night, she again asked for a stuffed dog from the prize cart. I said, "Are you sure you want another dog?" and she replied, "I like dogs." "Me, too," I said as I chose a brown and white Beanie Baby dog to accompany the white one she had won earlier. "I like dogs, too," I said, with emotion causing my voice to crack. A kindred spirit, I thought, a kindred spirit who likes dogs. 

So here's the thing ... the reason I said earlier that being there last Thursday to help with Bingo wasn't simple and unimportant at all ... I feel like I don't fit or connect or belong with anyone anymore. And yet ... on Thursday night, I fit, even if only for a moment, with a sweet little lady who likes dogs. A sweet little lady who said, "I like you," when I brought her walker to her when the games were finished. A sweet little lady who will never know how much those three small words meant to me or how long it's been since I felt words like that were spoken to me without the person speaking them doing so out of a sense of duty or obligation. I went there to help, but instead ... a sweet little lady managed to touch my soul.

Bingo. Bingo. Bingo.

Lifting Holy Hands

For the last couple of weeks, I've been going for physical therapy on my shoulder. It's sure not the most fun I've had in my life, but my shoulder does seem to be improving somewhat. Each time I go, the therapist has me perform a series of exercises and sends me home with printed instructions outlining the schedule she wants me to follow until my next appointment. For many of the movements of my shoulder while I'm at her office, rather than me moving my arm, the therapist moves it for me. And each time, she says, "Just relax, Terrie, and let me move and lift your arm ... remember, you're injured, and I'm not. Let me do the hard part for you ... relax and let me do the work ... rest ... relax ... let me help you." As I left my appointment on Monday, I couldn't stop thinking about her words and the way she lifted my arm above my head time and time again. She was patient and kind, never tiring in holding my arm up and never stopping in her encouragement to me to press on through the pain.

Turning into my driveway, I began to think about the story in Exodus 17 about Joshua fighting against the Amalekites. Moses and his two friends, Aaron and Hur, went to the top of the hill to watch the battle as God had commanded. As long as Moses kept his arms lifted, Joshua and the Israelites were winning, but whenever Moses lowered his arms, the Amalekites were winning. Listen to what verses 12 and 13 say: "When Moses’ hands grew tired, they took a stone and put it under him and he sat on it. Aaron and Hur held his hands up—one on one side, one on the other—so that his hands remained steady till sunset. So Joshua overcame the Amalekite army with the sword." When Moses got tired, when his arms started hurting, when he was weak, when he could no longer stand ... his friends helped him find a place to rest and held his arms up for him ... they helped him follow God's instructions and commandments when he couldn't do it on his own ... they stayed by his side until the battle was won.

It's hard for me to do what the therapist asks of me ... to relax and let go, to let her lift my arm. It's hard for me to admit that I can't raise my arm over my head by myself. It's hard for me to agree that I need her to do the hard part for me. And yet, my shoulder hurts and I need the physical therapy so that hopefully, the pain will ease and I'll again have strength in my arm and the ability to move as I once did. Standing at my kitchen sink drinking a glass of water, it struck me ... there are probably people who are holding up the arms of my heart and soul and mind ... people who are lifting me up in prayer and asking God to protect me from the sadness that has left me weary and hurting, weak and lonely, treading water in the darkest and deepest sea of my life. And just as I need my arm raised by the therapist, I need my heart held up by those of you whom I haven't managed to drive away by my silent and distant mood.

Last night as I was walking, I was listening to some of the old Southern gospel tunes that I mentioned a few posts ago, and I'd like to close with the lyrics to one of those songs. I'd also like to say thank you to those of you who haven't completely given up on me or run away from me ... thank you for holding up my arms ... and my heart.

"I had gone till I just couldn't go anymore
My faith had walked right out the door.
I thought there was just no way I could ever be free.
Someone looked at me with love and concern
And you started to let your prayer wheel turn.
Glory hallelujah, somebody touched God for me.

Somebody touched God when I was down
Picked me up and turned me around.
Then went to the throne of God to intercede.
When I was sinking deep in despair
My brothers and my sisters held me up in prayer.
When I was weak, somebody touched God for me.

Now God told Moses if you want to win
Keep your hands in the air till the very end
But he got so tired, he thought he was facing defeat.
So with one on the left and another on the right
They held up his hands till the end of the fight.
Intercessory prayer helped win the victory.

Somebody touched God when I was down
Picked me up and turned me around.
Then went to the throne of God to intercede.
When I was sinking deep in despair
My brothers and my sisters held me up in prayer.
When I was weak, somebody touched God for me.

When I was hurt, somebody touched God
And all alone, somebody touched God
Somebody touched God and took me to the cross
They called my name, and He heard their cry
When I was weak, somebody touched God for me.
Somebody touched God for me."

Homesick for You

When I was in college, I spent a summer attending school in Guadalajara, Mexico. I lived with an older couple, Guillermo and Carmen, incredibly sweet folks who each year opened their home and their hearts to students from the United States. It was the summer before my senior year at The University of Tennessee, and I had really never been away from home very much ... even during my times of raucous and wild living, I always hung around pretty close to home. I remember how excited I was to get away from Chattanooga when the day finally arrived for me to climb on the airplane and start my adventure ... away from home, away from rules, away from everyone. I also, remember, however, the feeling in the pit of stomach only two or three days later when I was so homesick I thought I would die. I missed my friends; I missed my job; I missed my dog; I missed American food; I even missed my family. I would have given anything to be able to go home. I made it through the summer, but that time away made me realize just how important and special home really was.

I've been homesick more than a few times since I moved away from my family and the little town of Red Bank, Tennessee, over 20 years ago, but that missing feeling has always passed pretty quickly as I've recognized that my home is now more in Kansas than in Tennessee. I'm not sure why, but lately ... lately, I've been homesick more than I can ever remember being. Perhaps it's because my family was here for Meghann and Barrett's wedding ... perhaps it's because my friend from Tennessee visited me for several days over the 4th of July weekend ... perhaps it's because of the deep sadness that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my soul. I don't know why, but I know I'm missing my family and the hills of Tennessee in a big way.

Tonight as I was driving home from work in the billion degree heat, I started thinking about the trips I've made back home over the years. I thought about the time the kids and I went without telling anyone we were coming ... I will always remember the look on my mom's face when she opened her front door and the four of us were standing on her porch smiling broadly. I thought about the trip I made home at the end of Daddy's life, knowing I was going there to stay until he passed away. I thought about the many trips my three children and I made to Chattanooga for Thanksgiving and the mountains of food our family consumed. I thought about the trip Meghann and I made for my nephew's commissioning ceremony when he was deployed to Iraq. I thought about my most recent trip home almost two years ago. Two years, I thought, has it really been almost two years since I made that trip? No wonder I'm so homesick ... I need a good old dose of Southern love and hospitality.

The more I thought about going home, my thoughts began to shift and I began to think about heaven. I wonder, I said to the air in the car, if God wants me to long for heaven the way I long for the mountains of Tennessee. It's so easy to get caught up in the daily events of life that I forget that this world ... Kansas or Tennessee ... is truly not my home. People often ask me where home is because of my slight ... yes, slight ... Southern accent, and when they do, I often say that I miss home. It struck me tonight that I should be homesick for heaven, and I should be sharing the hope of my heavenly home with those around me every day.

Help me to remember, Lord, when I'm homesick for an earthly place ... help me to remember that my real home, the only home that matters, is the home You have waiting for me. Make me homesick for You, Lord ... homesick for You.