Maybe it's a Southern thing, but for as long as I can remember, there's been one particular expression that we use when we are sick. "I feel like dog poop." Which of course for me and my often unusual thinking mind begs two questions ... where in the world did that saying come from and why do we associate dog poop with feeling cruddy? It seems to me that a dog would feel better after it pooped ... I know, sometimes it scares me, too, as to where my brain heads at times.
At any rate, I feel like dog poop today ... actually, I've felt like dog poop for a couple of days, but today I caved in and went to the doctor (thank God for a doctor's office who is open for urgent care on the weekends). I've got ear infections and a yucky throat, an upset stomach and a pounding headache. So for those of you who email me if I don't blog for a few days ... no blog until I feel better. I'm snuggled on the couch with my hounds and some Life Water, wishing I could have a giant Sonic Reese's Blast and watching worthless and meaningless movies ... think Without a Paddle and Dumb and Dumber ... yep ... told you I feel like dog poop.
If you're in Kansas City, enjoy the beautiful evening ahead ... heck, wherever you are, enjoy the beautiful evening that God has blessed you with ... every day is a gift from our Father ... even days when you feel like dog poop.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
I Will Testify
My dad was pretty easy going for the most part, but there were a few things I learned pretty early on that were Daddy's way or the highway. Things like where he kept his tools in his workshop or the way he carved his cheese or the level of respect he expected me to give to my elders ... certain things I simply knew were never going to be negotiable with Daddy. And one of those non-negotiable items was church ... growing up in my dad's house meant growing up in a Southern Baptist church, no questions asked, no debate, no argument ... as long as I lived in his house, Daddy expected me to attend the Baptist church. And attending a Baptist church in the South meant going to services not only on Sunday mornings but on Sunday and Wednesday evenings as well ... every week ... yes, three services a week, every week. I know that boggles the minds of some of my friends from the Midwest, many of whom attend churches that only have Sunday morning services and then meet in small groups once a week away from the church itself. But honestly ... we went to church three times a week, and we had full-blown services each time, plus we did Sunday School and Training Union before the Sunday morning and Sunday evening services.
I have a ton of memories from my youthful church years, but one type of service we often had left many fond recollections seared into my heart and mind. Quite frequently, our pastor would step aside from the pulpit and ask if anyone had any prayer requests or anything on their heart they would like to share. Many, many times the needs would be so great or the pain so deep that he would ask the congregation to come to the altar of the church and pray ... oh, do I remember those prayer times ... oh, do I remember the fervent prayers of some of those older saints ... down on their knees, lifting up their brothers and sisters before the Lord. I also remember times when someone would rise to their feet when the pastor asked if anyone wanted to share ... when a person would stand and say, "I will testify," and then proceed to proclaim the name of Jesus, to praise Him for the gift of salvation, to recount the change He had brought about in his or her life.
It's been almost 12 years since I met Jesus Christ ... face down on the floor in a small prayer room at my church. Even though I grew up in the church, my knowledge of God was head knowledge only. It wasn't until my life was completely unraveling that I finally admitted my need for a real and life-changing heart relationship with my Savior. And the most amazing realizations of that day for me? He had been waiting for me to come to Him ... He was ready with open arms for me to invite Him in ... He loved me long before I loved Him. I was baptized that same afternoon ... a cold and rainy Monday afternoon in September ... with my children and a few close friends there to share the moment with me. My life, as those of you who read this blog on a regular basis well know, has certainly not been perfect since that day; in fact, in some ways, it's been more challenging than ever before. But I can't imagine life without Jesus, and I'm so grateful that He stepped into that little room that day and covered me with His precious blood.
Sometimes I miss church the way it was when I was young, sometimes I really do. I attend a rather large church, so I understand that one of those old-time praying and testifying services just wouldn't work well for our format. But there are still times when I find myself wishing for the front of the church to be filled with people on their knees praying for one another. There are times when I'd like to see someone jump up and say, "He saved this old sinner boy ... He surely did ... praise His holy name." And there are times when I would like to hear an entire service filled with voices raised in unison in praise and worship to the Father. Even as I type those words, I'm well aware that God calls me to pray for my brothers and sisters every day, that He gives me countless opportunities to testify to His saving power and immeasurable grace and mercy, that He desires my heart to reside in a constant state of praise and worship.
Thank you for the day You saved me, Lord ... thank You for the people You put in my life to lead me to You. I will pray, Lord, and I will testify ... You saved this old sinner gal ... You surely did ... praise Your holy name.
I have a ton of memories from my youthful church years, but one type of service we often had left many fond recollections seared into my heart and mind. Quite frequently, our pastor would step aside from the pulpit and ask if anyone had any prayer requests or anything on their heart they would like to share. Many, many times the needs would be so great or the pain so deep that he would ask the congregation to come to the altar of the church and pray ... oh, do I remember those prayer times ... oh, do I remember the fervent prayers of some of those older saints ... down on their knees, lifting up their brothers and sisters before the Lord. I also remember times when someone would rise to their feet when the pastor asked if anyone wanted to share ... when a person would stand and say, "I will testify," and then proceed to proclaim the name of Jesus, to praise Him for the gift of salvation, to recount the change He had brought about in his or her life.
It's been almost 12 years since I met Jesus Christ ... face down on the floor in a small prayer room at my church. Even though I grew up in the church, my knowledge of God was head knowledge only. It wasn't until my life was completely unraveling that I finally admitted my need for a real and life-changing heart relationship with my Savior. And the most amazing realizations of that day for me? He had been waiting for me to come to Him ... He was ready with open arms for me to invite Him in ... He loved me long before I loved Him. I was baptized that same afternoon ... a cold and rainy Monday afternoon in September ... with my children and a few close friends there to share the moment with me. My life, as those of you who read this blog on a regular basis well know, has certainly not been perfect since that day; in fact, in some ways, it's been more challenging than ever before. But I can't imagine life without Jesus, and I'm so grateful that He stepped into that little room that day and covered me with His precious blood.
Sometimes I miss church the way it was when I was young, sometimes I really do. I attend a rather large church, so I understand that one of those old-time praying and testifying services just wouldn't work well for our format. But there are still times when I find myself wishing for the front of the church to be filled with people on their knees praying for one another. There are times when I'd like to see someone jump up and say, "He saved this old sinner boy ... He surely did ... praise His holy name." And there are times when I would like to hear an entire service filled with voices raised in unison in praise and worship to the Father. Even as I type those words, I'm well aware that God calls me to pray for my brothers and sisters every day, that He gives me countless opportunities to testify to His saving power and immeasurable grace and mercy, that He desires my heart to reside in a constant state of praise and worship.
Thank you for the day You saved me, Lord ... thank You for the people You put in my life to lead me to You. I will pray, Lord, and I will testify ... You saved this old sinner gal ... You surely did ... praise Your holy name.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Walk Together Children
Someone asked me not too long ago why I tell stories about my son Brad so often in my posts. Brad would quickly tell you he thinks it's because he is my favorite child. But Brad also thinks he is everyone's favorite friend, brother, nephew, cousin, roommate, employee, filmmaker ... you fill in the blank, and I promise Brad will think he fits the bill of being the favorite in that category. The truth is that I love all of my children equally ... sorry to pop your bubble, Bradley. But it is also true that Brad is the one of my children who somehow seems to offer up the most material for story-telling and the one who doesn't mind his mother sharing those tales with the entire world ... again, sorry, Bradley, but you are indeed like a simmering cauldron brewing up some really good stories.
I've mentioned before that Brad has a tendency to ... well ... get very passionate about certain subjects from time to time, and he's been that way for as long as I can remember. In our little family, we affectionately call them "Brad rants" ... given the necessary kindling, Brad can really get fired up on a subject. And the thing is that he's stinking smart, so when he gets going, I often feel that I have nothing intelligent to contribute to the discussion. So I just listen ... especially when his rants involve politics or economics ... I just listen and wonder at all the information that is packed into my son's brain. I mention the semi-famous "Brad rants" because this particular post is going to be my own rant of sorts ... just a word of warning in case you want to bail out rather than continue reading.
One thing I have tried to hold true to in penning this blog is that I maintain a spirit of openness and transparency in my posts, which has precipitated my disclosure concerning many areas of my life. I think perhaps I underestimated, however, the number of readers this blog would eventually generate when I first began writing in this format back in 2008. But even now three years later and with the number of readers growing daily, I still feel led to be transparent in this forum. That means that on occasion I will write a post that may offend some of you ... a post that may convict some of you ... a post that may sadden some of you ... a post that may anger some of you ... but hopefully, many posts that may bless some of you. Having said that ... here comes my rant.
My southern friends will understand these words completely ... I've been stewing on this subject for a while now. I recently received an email from someone explaining why she hadn't been in touch with me for several months. She didn't say she was too busy. She didn't say she had moved out of town. She didn't say she had been sick. She didn't say she had gotten divorced. She didn't say someone in her family had passed away. She did say that she was afraid of "catching" my depression. She did say that if someone as positive and upbeat and strong as she had known me to be could "fall" to depression, she certainly could as well and that terrified her. She did say that when the "old happy" Terrie returned, so would she. My prayer for my "friend" is that she nor anyone in her family ever suffer from a chronic, lifelong illness or fight the war of depression.
I've posted before about people distancing themselves from me, and the truth is that began because of my diabetes (which, I might add, I have learned to keep under control very well), and not because of my depression. Some would say that I've isolated myself from others, and yes, that is true as well, especially in recent months. And it is true that part of my self-isolation is due to depression. But it is also true that a great deal of my withdrawal is a direct result of others first pulling away from me. I refuse to argue the cause or effect or why of it all ... it simply is what it is. What I do want to say is this ... God commands us to love one another. He doesn't say when the person is healthy. He doesn't say when the person is clean. He doesn't say when the person is young. He doesn't say when the person is a believer. He doesn't say when the person is wealthy. He doesn't say when the person is smart. He doesn't say for a while. He says love one another. He says care for one another. He says listen to one another. He says pray for and with one another. He says help one another. He says forgive one another. He says do all those things for one another even when it's hard. He says walk together children. He says walk together all the way until the end of this life. He says love ... He says care ... He says listen ... He says pray ... He says help ... He says forgive. He says walk together children.
"Walk together children, don't you get weary
Walk together children, don't you get weary
There's a great camp meeting in the promised land.
Keep on walking when you're happy
Keep on walking when you're low.
Keep on walking through the midnight
Keep on walking down that long, long road.
Walk together children, don't you get weary
Walk together children, don't you get weary
There's a great camp meeting in the promised land.
Walking through the wilderness, the burning desert sand
Sometimes it's the hardest thing to find a place to stand, Lord.
On the far horizon where the golden sunset glows
We'll sit down by the Jordan where the milk and honey flow.
So don't you be discouraged children, don't you be afraid
Let's walk that straight and narrow way.
Walk together children, don't you get weary
Walk together children, don't you get weary
There's a great homecoming in the promised land."
I've mentioned before that Brad has a tendency to ... well ... get very passionate about certain subjects from time to time, and he's been that way for as long as I can remember. In our little family, we affectionately call them "Brad rants" ... given the necessary kindling, Brad can really get fired up on a subject. And the thing is that he's stinking smart, so when he gets going, I often feel that I have nothing intelligent to contribute to the discussion. So I just listen ... especially when his rants involve politics or economics ... I just listen and wonder at all the information that is packed into my son's brain. I mention the semi-famous "Brad rants" because this particular post is going to be my own rant of sorts ... just a word of warning in case you want to bail out rather than continue reading.
One thing I have tried to hold true to in penning this blog is that I maintain a spirit of openness and transparency in my posts, which has precipitated my disclosure concerning many areas of my life. I think perhaps I underestimated, however, the number of readers this blog would eventually generate when I first began writing in this format back in 2008. But even now three years later and with the number of readers growing daily, I still feel led to be transparent in this forum. That means that on occasion I will write a post that may offend some of you ... a post that may convict some of you ... a post that may sadden some of you ... a post that may anger some of you ... but hopefully, many posts that may bless some of you. Having said that ... here comes my rant.
My southern friends will understand these words completely ... I've been stewing on this subject for a while now. I recently received an email from someone explaining why she hadn't been in touch with me for several months. She didn't say she was too busy. She didn't say she had moved out of town. She didn't say she had been sick. She didn't say she had gotten divorced. She didn't say someone in her family had passed away. She did say that she was afraid of "catching" my depression. She did say that if someone as positive and upbeat and strong as she had known me to be could "fall" to depression, she certainly could as well and that terrified her. She did say that when the "old happy" Terrie returned, so would she. My prayer for my "friend" is that she nor anyone in her family ever suffer from a chronic, lifelong illness or fight the war of depression.
I've posted before about people distancing themselves from me, and the truth is that began because of my diabetes (which, I might add, I have learned to keep under control very well), and not because of my depression. Some would say that I've isolated myself from others, and yes, that is true as well, especially in recent months. And it is true that part of my self-isolation is due to depression. But it is also true that a great deal of my withdrawal is a direct result of others first pulling away from me. I refuse to argue the cause or effect or why of it all ... it simply is what it is. What I do want to say is this ... God commands us to love one another. He doesn't say when the person is healthy. He doesn't say when the person is clean. He doesn't say when the person is young. He doesn't say when the person is a believer. He doesn't say when the person is wealthy. He doesn't say when the person is smart. He doesn't say for a while. He says love one another. He says care for one another. He says listen to one another. He says pray for and with one another. He says help one another. He says forgive one another. He says do all those things for one another even when it's hard. He says walk together children. He says walk together all the way until the end of this life. He says love ... He says care ... He says listen ... He says pray ... He says help ... He says forgive. He says walk together children.
"Walk together children, don't you get weary
Walk together children, don't you get weary
There's a great camp meeting in the promised land.
Keep on walking when you're happy
Keep on walking when you're low.
Keep on walking through the midnight
Keep on walking down that long, long road.
Walk together children, don't you get weary
Walk together children, don't you get weary
There's a great camp meeting in the promised land.
Walking through the wilderness, the burning desert sand
Sometimes it's the hardest thing to find a place to stand, Lord.
On the far horizon where the golden sunset glows
We'll sit down by the Jordan where the milk and honey flow.
So don't you be discouraged children, don't you be afraid
Let's walk that straight and narrow way.
Walk together children, don't you get weary
Walk together children, don't you get weary
There's a great homecoming in the promised land."
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Side by Side
There are certain statements that come from the mouths of teenagers that can send chills down a mother's spine. Those of you who are moms who either had or currently have teens in your homes know the types of statements I'm referring to ... "I wrecked the car" ... "I'm failing English" ... "He (referring to his younger brother) was here when I left" ... "That money was for food?" ... or one of my all-time favorites ... "Mom, don't be mad." I look back on the years of raising three children alone and I marvel at the fact that the four of us managed to live through all the "stuff" that we encountered along the way. I know now that the only way I made it as a single mom was because of God's grace and mercy ... and, of course, more than my share of Starbucks cafe vanilla frappuccinos. I miss those, by the way, in case you haven't gleaned that little tidbit from reading my posts. But, as usual, I digress ... back to the subject at hand.
Around six years ago, I came home one evening and was met by Brad at the door leading from the garage to the kitchen. As soon as I got out of the car, he said, "Mom, don't be mad," ... not good first words to hear after a stressful day at work and a long commute home in the car. "Oh, Brad," I started to say when he interrupted with "Wait until you see what she can do, Mom." You see, Brad and Meghann had taken me a couple of times to see a yellow Lab at the shelter near our home and I knew when I got out of the car and saw Brad in the doorway that I had lost the fight over getting another dog. Hence, after watching her catch sticks and then tennis balls and then a Frisbee and bring them back and drop them at Brad's feet, Julie the Lab became part of our family.
It became evident very quickly that Julie was Brad's dog ... she adored him. She slept in his bed. She sat in his lap. She wrestled with him on the floor. She rode in his Jeep. She went to the dog park with him. She ate his food. No, really, she did eat his food every chance she got. She seriously loved Brad. When Brad moved out to go to college, the apartment complex he chose to live in didn't allow pets so Julie stayed home with me. Not very happily, I might add ... she missed her boy in a big way for a long time. But then, all of a sudden, Julie decided life with this old gray-haired gal wasn't so bad and began to transfer some of that Brad adoration to me. After all, I was the one filling her food bowl every day and tossing the Frisbee with her each evening. I suppose she decided she might as well love me since she was stuck with me.
That was a little over four years ago, and recently I've come to realize just how deeply my big hound dog loves me and how in tune she is with my daily routines. Perhaps I'm just more aware in this season of my life what true unselfish love really means, the importance of sticking with someone through thick or thin, the soul-touching power of a hug, the loyalty and devotion present in a paw on my knee. Last night as I trudged upstairs to walk on the treadmill, it struck me that Julie walked right by my side as I climbed the stairs ... just as she does every single time I walk those stairs. In fact, it struck me in a big way that Julie is always by my side when I am home; no matter where I am, she is always with me. When I go into the kitchen, Julie comes in and lays on the rug in front of the sink. When I sit on the couch and type on my laptop, she places her head on my leg. When I lay in the hammock in the backyard, she climbs in with me. When I'm cleaning in my room, she finds a spot on my bed and watches me. When I am sick, she faithfully sits by my side. And when I'm walking on the treadmill, she stretches out next to it and patiently waits for me to finish.
I know that God teaches me life lessons through my furry friends ... I know that He does. And as I looked at Julie resting and waiting for me next to the treadmill, I knew that He was again whispering a lesson. "I am always with you, Terrie ... I will never leave you or forget you or forsake you ... I am ever loyal and true and patient and faithful ... I love you unconditionally and unfailingly ... for now in this temporary life on earth and for all eternity ... I am here ... I am here ... I am here."
Thank you, Lord ... thank you.
Around six years ago, I came home one evening and was met by Brad at the door leading from the garage to the kitchen. As soon as I got out of the car, he said, "Mom, don't be mad," ... not good first words to hear after a stressful day at work and a long commute home in the car. "Oh, Brad," I started to say when he interrupted with "Wait until you see what she can do, Mom." You see, Brad and Meghann had taken me a couple of times to see a yellow Lab at the shelter near our home and I knew when I got out of the car and saw Brad in the doorway that I had lost the fight over getting another dog. Hence, after watching her catch sticks and then tennis balls and then a Frisbee and bring them back and drop them at Brad's feet, Julie the Lab became part of our family.
It became evident very quickly that Julie was Brad's dog ... she adored him. She slept in his bed. She sat in his lap. She wrestled with him on the floor. She rode in his Jeep. She went to the dog park with him. She ate his food. No, really, she did eat his food every chance she got. She seriously loved Brad. When Brad moved out to go to college, the apartment complex he chose to live in didn't allow pets so Julie stayed home with me. Not very happily, I might add ... she missed her boy in a big way for a long time. But then, all of a sudden, Julie decided life with this old gray-haired gal wasn't so bad and began to transfer some of that Brad adoration to me. After all, I was the one filling her food bowl every day and tossing the Frisbee with her each evening. I suppose she decided she might as well love me since she was stuck with me.
That was a little over four years ago, and recently I've come to realize just how deeply my big hound dog loves me and how in tune she is with my daily routines. Perhaps I'm just more aware in this season of my life what true unselfish love really means, the importance of sticking with someone through thick or thin, the soul-touching power of a hug, the loyalty and devotion present in a paw on my knee. Last night as I trudged upstairs to walk on the treadmill, it struck me that Julie walked right by my side as I climbed the stairs ... just as she does every single time I walk those stairs. In fact, it struck me in a big way that Julie is always by my side when I am home; no matter where I am, she is always with me. When I go into the kitchen, Julie comes in and lays on the rug in front of the sink. When I sit on the couch and type on my laptop, she places her head on my leg. When I lay in the hammock in the backyard, she climbs in with me. When I'm cleaning in my room, she finds a spot on my bed and watches me. When I am sick, she faithfully sits by my side. And when I'm walking on the treadmill, she stretches out next to it and patiently waits for me to finish.
I know that God teaches me life lessons through my furry friends ... I know that He does. And as I looked at Julie resting and waiting for me next to the treadmill, I knew that He was again whispering a lesson. "I am always with you, Terrie ... I will never leave you or forget you or forsake you ... I am ever loyal and true and patient and faithful ... I love you unconditionally and unfailingly ... for now in this temporary life on earth and for all eternity ... I am here ... I am here ... I am here."
Thank you, Lord ... thank you.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
God, Dogs and Drugs
Perhaps one of the areas in life that best exemplifies God's creation of us as individuals is that of our professions, the jobs we work at, many of us for most of our lives. When it comes to what we do to earn a living, we are as diversified as snowflakes in the winter. Even within the same field ... say, teaching, for example ... you would be hard-pressed to find two teachers who approach the sharing and teaching of knowledge in exactly the same way. And while we may spend time in our youth searching to discover what we are supposed to do in life in regard to a job, most of us eventually come to know and understand that there are some forms of employment that are more suited to us than others.
I have a ton of respect for people in the medical profession and especially more so during the last couple of years. I respect folks who provide medical assistance to both humans and animals alike. It's a good thing that God chose to make me a language person, because I would not have made a good doctor, nurse or veterinarian. It's not that I couldn't care for people or animals ... that part of medicine I could handle just fine. It's the making of life and death decisions that would rip me apart; to know that the choices I made could influence the length or quality of their lives would make me crazy.
A couple of weeks ago, I had to take Ollie the wiener dog to the vet because he had a rash on his tummy ... turns out it's a staph infection, which, according to the doggie doc, is pretty common for low-rider wiener dogs whose bellies rub the dry, crunchy grass in the summer. He prescribed a 4-week course of antibiotics, which I give to Oliver twice a day in a dollop of peanut butter. He hates the capsules, but he loves the peanut butter. And of course Julie has to have a dollop of peanut butter when Ollie gets his ... fair is fair after all.
On my kitchen counter, there is quite the array of prescription bottles along with my morning and dinnertime pill organizers. Call it a pride thing if you will, but I refuse to purchase another set of containers for the medications I now am supposed to take before I go to bed each night. It already goads me that I have to use organizers at all and that I have four I use on a daily basis to keep up with all the meds. Hence the reason I have the assortment of bottles on my counter ... I simply will not add another pill organizer into the mix. When I brought Ollie's medicine home, I placed it with my prescriptions so that I would remember to give it to him. It only took until his second dose for me to realize how easily I could goof up and take his medicine or give him mine, so I came up with a plan ... I would lay his bottle on top of my breakfast and dinner organizer, and believe it or not, that has worked flawlessly. I take my drugs and then I open his bottle and give him his little capsule.
As I stood at my counter last night swallowing my pills and giving Ollie his, the tears that now seem to ever lurk just below the surface for me began to fill my eyes. There are three things that are keeping me on my feet, I thought ... three things that are keeping me going ... my faith in God, my dogs who depend on me, and the drugs that I take each day. The truth is that I have days when I stay in my pajamas all day and don't leave the house, days when it takes every ounce of energy I have to make myself get out of bed, days when fear of the future grips my heart like a vise, days when I long for the person I once was ... the fun-loving, happy gal whose life was filled with family and friends, lots of laughter and an abundance of good times. Maybe one day, that old gal will return, maybe she's gone forever or maybe ... maybe ... maybe God is trying to shape me into someone completely different and new. Maybe His way of telling me to hold on, to be patient, to wait it out is in causing me to think in threes ... keep your faith in Me, Terrie ... care for the dogs I've entrusted to you ... take the drugs I've provided to help you. God, dogs and drugs ... God, dogs and drugs ... God, dogs and drugs. I suppose that only God knows the answers to the multitude of questions and wonderings that pulse through my mind on a daily basis now ... I suppose He is the only One who does.
"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze." Isaiah 43: 1-2
I have a ton of respect for people in the medical profession and especially more so during the last couple of years. I respect folks who provide medical assistance to both humans and animals alike. It's a good thing that God chose to make me a language person, because I would not have made a good doctor, nurse or veterinarian. It's not that I couldn't care for people or animals ... that part of medicine I could handle just fine. It's the making of life and death decisions that would rip me apart; to know that the choices I made could influence the length or quality of their lives would make me crazy.
A couple of weeks ago, I had to take Ollie the wiener dog to the vet because he had a rash on his tummy ... turns out it's a staph infection, which, according to the doggie doc, is pretty common for low-rider wiener dogs whose bellies rub the dry, crunchy grass in the summer. He prescribed a 4-week course of antibiotics, which I give to Oliver twice a day in a dollop of peanut butter. He hates the capsules, but he loves the peanut butter. And of course Julie has to have a dollop of peanut butter when Ollie gets his ... fair is fair after all.
On my kitchen counter, there is quite the array of prescription bottles along with my morning and dinnertime pill organizers. Call it a pride thing if you will, but I refuse to purchase another set of containers for the medications I now am supposed to take before I go to bed each night. It already goads me that I have to use organizers at all and that I have four I use on a daily basis to keep up with all the meds. Hence the reason I have the assortment of bottles on my counter ... I simply will not add another pill organizer into the mix. When I brought Ollie's medicine home, I placed it with my prescriptions so that I would remember to give it to him. It only took until his second dose for me to realize how easily I could goof up and take his medicine or give him mine, so I came up with a plan ... I would lay his bottle on top of my breakfast and dinner organizer, and believe it or not, that has worked flawlessly. I take my drugs and then I open his bottle and give him his little capsule.
As I stood at my counter last night swallowing my pills and giving Ollie his, the tears that now seem to ever lurk just below the surface for me began to fill my eyes. There are three things that are keeping me on my feet, I thought ... three things that are keeping me going ... my faith in God, my dogs who depend on me, and the drugs that I take each day. The truth is that I have days when I stay in my pajamas all day and don't leave the house, days when it takes every ounce of energy I have to make myself get out of bed, days when fear of the future grips my heart like a vise, days when I long for the person I once was ... the fun-loving, happy gal whose life was filled with family and friends, lots of laughter and an abundance of good times. Maybe one day, that old gal will return, maybe she's gone forever or maybe ... maybe ... maybe God is trying to shape me into someone completely different and new. Maybe His way of telling me to hold on, to be patient, to wait it out is in causing me to think in threes ... keep your faith in Me, Terrie ... care for the dogs I've entrusted to you ... take the drugs I've provided to help you. God, dogs and drugs ... God, dogs and drugs ... God, dogs and drugs. I suppose that only God knows the answers to the multitude of questions and wonderings that pulse through my mind on a daily basis now ... I suppose He is the only One who does.
"Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have summoned you by name; you are mine. When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze." Isaiah 43: 1-2
Friday, August 5, 2011
Please Forgive Me
Last night it was actually cool enough that I went for a walk outside, and I took Ollie the wiener dog with me. I've written before about how my newest dog friend knows no strangers. After being cooped up in the house for the last two weeks because of the heat, he had to greet every single person he saw as we made our way along the trail. But there was one group of folks in particular that Ollie seemed unusually drawn to ... a young mother surrounded by her three blond-haired, blue-eyed children.
The kids were quite taken with Ollie, so the young woman and her children walked with Ollie and me for a while. When I told the gal that I had three kiddos who are close in age like hers, she asked me a question that made me laugh out loud. "Did your children argue and bicker when they were young?" When I replied that they still argue and bicker from time to time, she asked me how I handled those sibling battles when they were young. I shared a couple of funny "fight" stories about my kids, and as we reached the place where she said they needed to turn to go home, I said, "You know, in the end, it's all about forgiveness ... about being able to ask for it, able to extend it and able to receive it ... it's really all about forgiveness."
Forgiveness, I thought as Ollie and I said goodbye to the little family and continued on down the trail ... forgiveness really is what it's all about. Ultimately, it's the forgiveness of my sins by my Father in heaven that is the most important piece of forgiveness, but lately I've been heavily burdened with the need to extend forgiveness to others and to also ask for forgiveness for wrongs I have done. I have a burning desire to make things right with anyone whom I've hurt or offended or slighted in any way. I want to be certain that my heart and soul are right with my Lord first and foremost, but also that I have a clear and clean peace about my earthly relationships as well. I've never felt the way I do ... oh, I think for the most part, I've tried to make amends with others when I was wrong, but this is different ... it's as if I am driven to have there be no ill will or hard feelings between me and other people. Perhaps my awareness of the brevity of this life has given me pause to consider things in a much deeper manner than I ever have before; perhaps God is refining me in preparation for eternity. At times it almost feels as though He is scrubbing my heart and soul and mind with a Brillo pad ... that He's trying to get rid of all the grit, all the baked-on hurt and pain and unkind words or thoughts, all the dirt that has ground its way into my life over the years.
Tears filled my eyes as I walked ... forgiveness ... forgiveness ... please forgive me, Lord ... please forgive me. Before Ollie and I ventured out on our walk, I had set my iPod to the shuffle function which means that it randomly selects songs to play from all the music files on it. I almost came out of my skin when the song "Please Forgive Me" began to play ... I'm telling you, friends ... God lives and walks and breathes and speaks to me out on my beloved trail. I wept all the way home, overwhelmed with the knowledge that God made the way for my forgiveness through the sacrifice of His only Son ... overwhelmed with the knowledge of how deeply God desires that I long for His forgiveness ... overwhelmed with the knowledge that He urges me to seek forgiveness from my fellow man ... overwhelmed with the knowledge that His Word demands that I graciously extend forgiveness to others.
The kids were quite taken with Ollie, so the young woman and her children walked with Ollie and me for a while. When I told the gal that I had three kiddos who are close in age like hers, she asked me a question that made me laugh out loud. "Did your children argue and bicker when they were young?" When I replied that they still argue and bicker from time to time, she asked me how I handled those sibling battles when they were young. I shared a couple of funny "fight" stories about my kids, and as we reached the place where she said they needed to turn to go home, I said, "You know, in the end, it's all about forgiveness ... about being able to ask for it, able to extend it and able to receive it ... it's really all about forgiveness."
Forgiveness, I thought as Ollie and I said goodbye to the little family and continued on down the trail ... forgiveness really is what it's all about. Ultimately, it's the forgiveness of my sins by my Father in heaven that is the most important piece of forgiveness, but lately I've been heavily burdened with the need to extend forgiveness to others and to also ask for forgiveness for wrongs I have done. I have a burning desire to make things right with anyone whom I've hurt or offended or slighted in any way. I want to be certain that my heart and soul are right with my Lord first and foremost, but also that I have a clear and clean peace about my earthly relationships as well. I've never felt the way I do ... oh, I think for the most part, I've tried to make amends with others when I was wrong, but this is different ... it's as if I am driven to have there be no ill will or hard feelings between me and other people. Perhaps my awareness of the brevity of this life has given me pause to consider things in a much deeper manner than I ever have before; perhaps God is refining me in preparation for eternity. At times it almost feels as though He is scrubbing my heart and soul and mind with a Brillo pad ... that He's trying to get rid of all the grit, all the baked-on hurt and pain and unkind words or thoughts, all the dirt that has ground its way into my life over the years.
Tears filled my eyes as I walked ... forgiveness ... forgiveness ... please forgive me, Lord ... please forgive me. Before Ollie and I ventured out on our walk, I had set my iPod to the shuffle function which means that it randomly selects songs to play from all the music files on it. I almost came out of my skin when the song "Please Forgive Me" began to play ... I'm telling you, friends ... God lives and walks and breathes and speaks to me out on my beloved trail. I wept all the way home, overwhelmed with the knowledge that God made the way for my forgiveness through the sacrifice of His only Son ... overwhelmed with the knowledge of how deeply God desires that I long for His forgiveness ... overwhelmed with the knowledge that He urges me to seek forgiveness from my fellow man ... overwhelmed with the knowledge that His Word demands that I graciously extend forgiveness to others.
Please forgive me, Father God, for all the times I fail You ... for all the times You call me and I don't listen ... for all the times my heart is filled with stubborn will and pride. Please forgive me for those I wound ... for those I abandon ... for those I disappoint. I need Your grace and mercy, Lord ... please forgive me.
"My sleep is gone, my heart is full of sorrow
I can't believe how much I've let You down.
I dread the pain that waits for me tomorrow
When the sun reveals my broken dreams scattered on the ground.
Please forgive me
I need Your grace to make it through.
All I have is you, I'm at Your mercy.
Lord, I'll serve You
Until my dying day.
Help others find the way
At Your mercy, please forgive me.
I can't believe the God of earth and glory
Would take the time to care for one like me
But I read in the Bible that old story
How he pled for my forgiveness while he was dying on a tree.
Please forgive me
I need Your grace to make it through.
All I have is you, I'm at Your mercy.
Lord, I'll serve You
Until my dying day.
Help others find the way
At Your mercy, please forgive me."
I dread the pain that waits for me tomorrow
When the sun reveals my broken dreams scattered on the ground.
Please forgive me
I need Your grace to make it through.
All I have is you, I'm at Your mercy.
Lord, I'll serve You
Until my dying day.
Help others find the way
At Your mercy, please forgive me.
I can't believe the God of earth and glory
Would take the time to care for one like me
But I read in the Bible that old story
How he pled for my forgiveness while he was dying on a tree.
Please forgive me
I need Your grace to make it through.
All I have is you, I'm at Your mercy.
Lord, I'll serve You
Until my dying day.
Help others find the way
At Your mercy, please forgive me."
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Finally Out
I can count on one hand the times in my life when I knew I "had" to do something, not "wanted" or "needed" to do something, but absolutely, totally and completely, beyond the shadow of any doubt knew I "had" to do something. Writing this book was one of those times.
It's finally out, and it's available on Amazon.com. Just type in God Even Loves Wiener Dogs or Terrie Dennard Johnson. It's also available on createspace.com ... https://www.createspace.com/3641759. You should order one ... or a dozen and give some away.
It's finally out, and it's available on Amazon.com. Just type in God Even Loves Wiener Dogs or Terrie Dennard Johnson. It's also available on createspace.com ... https://www.createspace.com/3641759. You should order one ... or a dozen and give some away.
I'm hoping you'll love it. And that you'll tell everyone you know and that they will love it, too.
Thanks for reading, friends ... thanks for reading.
Thanks for reading, friends ... thanks for reading.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
27 Years
There are certain events concerning motherhood that a mom never forgets, and I suppose there are some events concerning motherhood that a mom wishes she could forget. Each year when August 3rd rolls around, my first thought when I wake on that morning is of my firstborn son Matt. And this morning I made a special phone call to my son Matt ... a call to wish him happy birthday and to tell him I love him. You see, 27 years ago today, my Mattie entered my world, and my life has never been the same since.
It strikes me as funny that Matt seems to always be in a hurry now to get things accomplished, because he certainly took his time in making his initial entrance into the world. He was my longest and most difficult labor, and the only one of my three deliveries that required me to have an epidural. But once he was here ... once he was placed into my arms for the first time ... I never knew I could love anyone as much as I loved that sweet, scrunched-up-looking little boy, and all the difficulties of pregnancy and the pain of labor and delivery faded quickly in the presence of such overwhelming and unconditional love. I hope I've always let each one of my children know how very much I love them, and I hope they will always carry my love with them no matter where life takes them or what may come their way.
But today ... today, I'm thinking about Matt ... about him pushing his plastic lawn mower behind his dad in the backyard; about patting his behind to get him to go to sleep in his crib; about the way he would squish his toes in the dirt of my dad's garden; about his high school and graduate school graduations; about his wedding day; about the stitches in the back of his head when he fell off the slide; about late-night talks as he sat on the side of my bed when he came home from work; about his early Southern twang that now lives on only on old home movies; about him fainting at the sight of needles; about his excitement for me to meet the woman who became his wife; about his gentle and kind heart; about his tears as he and his brother and sister sang at Mom's funeral; about his love of reading and learning and teaching; about his own little baby girl coming in January; about the way he has blessed this mother's heart ... over and over and over again.
So, happy birthday to you, Mattie and thank you for the last 27 years, buddy. I can't imagine how empty my life would have been without you in it ... I love you, young man ... I love you.
It strikes me as funny that Matt seems to always be in a hurry now to get things accomplished, because he certainly took his time in making his initial entrance into the world. He was my longest and most difficult labor, and the only one of my three deliveries that required me to have an epidural. But once he was here ... once he was placed into my arms for the first time ... I never knew I could love anyone as much as I loved that sweet, scrunched-up-looking little boy, and all the difficulties of pregnancy and the pain of labor and delivery faded quickly in the presence of such overwhelming and unconditional love. I hope I've always let each one of my children know how very much I love them, and I hope they will always carry my love with them no matter where life takes them or what may come their way.
But today ... today, I'm thinking about Matt ... about him pushing his plastic lawn mower behind his dad in the backyard; about patting his behind to get him to go to sleep in his crib; about the way he would squish his toes in the dirt of my dad's garden; about his high school and graduate school graduations; about his wedding day; about the stitches in the back of his head when he fell off the slide; about late-night talks as he sat on the side of my bed when he came home from work; about his early Southern twang that now lives on only on old home movies; about him fainting at the sight of needles; about his excitement for me to meet the woman who became his wife; about his gentle and kind heart; about his tears as he and his brother and sister sang at Mom's funeral; about his love of reading and learning and teaching; about his own little baby girl coming in January; about the way he has blessed this mother's heart ... over and over and over again.
So, happy birthday to you, Mattie and thank you for the last 27 years, buddy. I can't imagine how empty my life would have been without you in it ... I love you, young man ... I love you.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Pipeline to God
Several years ago, before I had to go to work at a real job, I wrote poetry to earn extra money. Yep, poetry. And I'm talking the real old-fashioned rhyming kind of poetry. I met an incredible artist, and we formed our own company called Happy Endings. I wrote the poems, and Becky did the artwork. We traveled to gift shows around the country and sold our prints. But then I got divorced and had to get a real job with real benefits that paid me real money. Our art/poetry venture sure was fun while it lasted, though ... a ton of fun. People have often asked me what my favorite print was that Becky and I created, and I don't know that I have a true favorite. One in particular, though, seems to cross my mind quite a bit lately for some reason ... one about children praying.
If you've never had the blessing of listening to a kid pray, you have no idea what you're missing out on. I remember lots of prayers by my three children ranging from the very serious "God, please make my friend be well and don't let him die," to the somewhat silly "God, please make Mom say we can have another dog." And in case I never told the three of you, kiddos, some of my sweetest memories with each of you come from times of listening to you pray ... times spent kneeling by the side of your bed with you or stretched out next to you as you snuggled in for the night and said your prayers before drifting off to sleep.
I've often thought that kids have a pipeline to God ... their innocent hearts, sweet spirits and unconditional love seem to usher them directly into His presence. It's almost as if they are never far from Him, unlike many of us older folks who are jaded by life and often too busy to have that ever open, always flowing pipeline to the Father. Sometimes I wonder if children are closer to God because they aren't as far away from Him knitting them together in their mothers' wombs ... closer to His life-giving touch than those of us who have been on the journey of life for a long while.
A few days ago, I was blessed to hear the prayer of a child ... a precious and sweet prayer ... a prayer before our meal that touched the depths of my soul. As she thanked God for my dogs that I have now and for all the dogs I've ever had, I smiled at the pure and complete innocence in her words. As she thanked God for me and said that I was a blessing, my eyes immediately filled with tears ... I sure don't feel like I'm a blessing to anyone right now, and her words of thankfulness to our Father humbled me. As she closed her prayer, I understood that she was the blessing ... God has used her to bless me over and over again. And I knew that He heard her words, because I know that she's got a pipeline ... a pipeline to God.
Thank you, Lord, for children who pray ... my own children and the children whom others graciously share with me. Thank you, Lord, for children who love You, for children who know You, for children who listen to You, for children who are blessings to me and many others ... for children who pray, for children who have a pipeline to You.
If you've never had the blessing of listening to a kid pray, you have no idea what you're missing out on. I remember lots of prayers by my three children ranging from the very serious "God, please make my friend be well and don't let him die," to the somewhat silly "God, please make Mom say we can have another dog." And in case I never told the three of you, kiddos, some of my sweetest memories with each of you come from times of listening to you pray ... times spent kneeling by the side of your bed with you or stretched out next to you as you snuggled in for the night and said your prayers before drifting off to sleep.
I've often thought that kids have a pipeline to God ... their innocent hearts, sweet spirits and unconditional love seem to usher them directly into His presence. It's almost as if they are never far from Him, unlike many of us older folks who are jaded by life and often too busy to have that ever open, always flowing pipeline to the Father. Sometimes I wonder if children are closer to God because they aren't as far away from Him knitting them together in their mothers' wombs ... closer to His life-giving touch than those of us who have been on the journey of life for a long while.
A few days ago, I was blessed to hear the prayer of a child ... a precious and sweet prayer ... a prayer before our meal that touched the depths of my soul. As she thanked God for my dogs that I have now and for all the dogs I've ever had, I smiled at the pure and complete innocence in her words. As she thanked God for me and said that I was a blessing, my eyes immediately filled with tears ... I sure don't feel like I'm a blessing to anyone right now, and her words of thankfulness to our Father humbled me. As she closed her prayer, I understood that she was the blessing ... God has used her to bless me over and over again. And I knew that He heard her words, because I know that she's got a pipeline ... a pipeline to God.
Thank you, Lord, for children who pray ... my own children and the children whom others graciously share with me. Thank you, Lord, for children who love You, for children who know You, for children who listen to You, for children who are blessings to me and many others ... for children who pray, for children who have a pipeline to You.
Monday, August 1, 2011
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.
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.
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