Dirty Words

Someone asked me recently if I had kept a count of how many events I've spoken at over the last decade, and my answer was a quick, "Nope." She then promptly told me that I should have kept a record of where my speaking engagements were, what type of group it was, what subjects my topics addressed, and so on. The more I've thought about her comments, the more I think she's correct ... I should have kept a journal about my speaking adventures, and from here on out, I'm going to do just that. One of the coolest things about being a speaker for various women's events is that I often get the opportunity to hear other speakers, whether it's through sharing the responsibilities of speaking for the main events or I get the chance to sit in on workshops that others are leading. I've heard some phenomenal speakers, men and women who are truly gifted orators. 

Former Secretary of Defense Robert Gates gave the commencement address at Matt's Ph.D. graduation ceremony last week, and while his entire speech was well-delivered and filled with wonderful advice for the graduating master's and doctoral students, one statement he made struck me in a big way. I can't recall the context of the words that made such an impression on me, but I haven't been able to get what he said off of my mind. "The words compromise and sacrifice have become dirty words in today's world." If you take some time and think about them, I think you will agree with me that those are powerful words, words that in and of themselves imply action and change. The more I've thought about Mr. Gates' statement, the more I've found myself wondering which of the two is most difficult ... to compromise or to sacrifice ... and the truth is that I'm just not sure. I've also found myself wondering why he chose to link those two words together ... compromise and sacrifice, so of course I went to the dictionary to check out their meanings. Compromise ... to solve a problem or end an argument by agreeing that you can't have everything you want. Sacrifice ... to give up something valuable or important for the greater good of another. Here's the thing that strikes me as I've pondered those definitions ... compromising and sacrificing both involve giving of oneself ... giving of oneself in situations and circumstances when human nature would make a person want to do just the opposite. In our often me-oriented world, Mr. Gates is correct in saying that those are dirty words, dirty words indeed.

I think there are a lot of words that could be placed on the dirty words list ... words like loyalty, faithfulness, honesty, compassion ... words that also invoke the necessity of giving of oneself, of putting the needs of others before my own. The more I think about it, the more profound I believe the words of Mr. Gates truly were. And the more I try to wrap my arms around his statement, the more I know that I'm going to be chewing on those words for a while to come ... compromise and sacrifice ... I'm going to be contemplating whether I treat them as dirty words or whether I embrace the still, small voice deep within my soul that says, "Give, give, give ... and then give some more."

Yep, I'm gonna chew on them for a while ... "The words compromise and sacrifice have become dirty words in today's world."  

In Memory

I grew up in a little town called Red Bank, Tennessee, a suburb of Chattanooga. I've written quite a bit about my growing up years, but I haven't really written much about my school experiences from my youth. I'm not sure why I haven't penned much about some of the things I remember so vividly from my years at Red Bank Elementary, Red Bank Junior High and Red Bank High. Some of those memories are tender and sweet, like walking to the furniture store where my mom worked that was just a block away from the elementary school. Once we got to the store, mom would give me and my friend Cindy each a quarter and let us walk across the street to the Red Bank Drug Store where we would sit on stools at the fountain counter and drink real cherry cokes and eat penny candy. Some of those memories center around my teachers, like my junior high English teacher who took me under her wing and challenged me to write from my heart. And some of those memories involve my renegade behavior from when I was in high school, like going under the bleachers during Friday night football games and sneaking a smoke or kissing boys. It's funny how I can close my eyes and picture those scenes in my mind as if they happened yesterday ... I can see the entrance to Red Bank Elementary at the end of the long drive up the hill; I can hear the squeak of Converse shoes on the basketball court at Red Bank Junior High; I can smell the old wooden plank hallways of Red Bank High. Lots and lots of memories from my school years for sure.

A couple of years ago, I stumbled upon a Facebook group called In Memory - Red Bank High School, a page where people could post information about folks who had either attended or taught at the school and have since passed away. After reading through several of the postings, I decided to post a comment asking if anyone remembered my brother Jerry. A few people replied saying what a great guy my oldest brother was, and then for over a year, there was no more commentary in response to my original post. A few weeks ago, however, people began commenting again and telling me what an awesome teacher Jerry was ... weird because it had been so long since anyone wrote anything. Just yesterday, a lady who taught with Jerry left a very sweet comment that ended with the words, "Jerry was a very special person." I think most of us who have lost loved ones hope they are remembered and thought of fondly, but when I realize that people are telling me of the impact my brother had upon them ... get this ... 40 years ago ... Jerry died 40 years ago ... it is both honoring and humbling at the same time. You see, my brother made a difference to people, he changed people's lives, he gave more than he took, and the people who knew him loved and respected him.

Those of you who've been reading my blog for a while know that I don't believe there are many things in life that happen by chance. Instead, I tend to view all of the events of my life as being God-things ... lessons He wants me to learn, truths He wants me to absorb, directions He wants me to follow. So for the last couple of days, I've found myself wondering just why people have been commenting about my brother on the In Memory site; in fact, when I read the lady's post yesterday, I said out loud to Julie and Ollie, "What's up with that, dogs? Wonder why God has me thinking about Jerry so much all of a sudden?" By the time I went to bed last night, I was waffling between sane thoughts (it's just a fluke that people have started posting again, not God, not a lesson, nothing but a fluke) to irrational ones (maybe they aren't just random posts, maybe they are from Jerry and he's trying to communicate with me) ... oh, don't worry ... the places my brain goes now scares me, too. 

After my quick walk this morning, I turned on my laptop to check my bank account and decided to hop on Facebook for a minute to look at some photos a friend had texted me about last night. The message icon indicated that I had a message, so I clicked on the tab to open it. I didn't recognize the name, but the subject line was "Your dear brother Jerry," so I figured it wasn't junk or spam or some malicious virus that would destroy the entire universe. My eyes immediately filled with tears as I read the first line of the message ... "You don't know me, but I knew your brother, Jerry." And as I continued to read, the tears flowed and flowed and flowed. "I worked with Charlotte at the hospital and my husband and me were good friends with Jerry and Charlotte. We shared so many fun times together, and I want you to know that your brother was a special man. He loved Charlotte and his sons so much, and he loved being a teacher. There are many of us who still live in Chattanooga who think of him often and remember the night of his accident. I remember that night very well because I was working that night. I was one of the nurses in the operating room. I was there when your brother passed away." 

Her note went on to tell me of how many lives Jerry had touched in his 30 years of life, of students who attributed part of their success in life to a teacher and coach named Jerry. Needless to say, I shed a lot of tears as I got ready for work this morning and I couldn't help but ask God as I stood weeping in the shower ... "Why now, God? Why all this about Jerry now?" And as He often is, God was silent ... no answer, no nudge, no quiet inner voice. It was as I was driving home tonight this evening that I began to hear Him whispering to me. "Remember the tree house Jerry built for his sons and you?" I thought ... Of course I remember. That's why I named my blog The Tree House ... because it was in that tree house that I first told Jerry that I wanted to be a writer one day. It was in that tree house that I dreamed big dreams and watched the stars and ate cheese sandwiches and listened to my big brother read stories to his two young sons. It was in that tree house that I finally cried over his death. It was in that tree house that I begged God to bring him back to me. Of course I remember the tree house, God ... of course I remember the tree house. By the time I pulled into my garage, tears were once again streaming down my cheeks as memories of times with Jerry in the tree house swept through my mind. I laid my head back on the headrest in my car as His whisper became a thundering truth pounding in my brain and spilling over into my heart.

"Climb into the branches of my grace and love, child ... climb into the tree house and rest in me. Remember the peace that embraced you as the wind blew through the tree and Jerry whistled in time with the breeze ... remember the safety that held you as Jerry wrapped a blanket around you in the cold ... remember the love, Terrie ... remember the love your brother gave so freely to you. Climb the ladder, Little Bit ... climb the ladder and come into the tree house with Me."

Lay it Down

Back when my three children were all in junior high and high school at the same time, I always had mixed emotions when school conferences came around twice each year. You see, unless I used vacation time, I had to go straight from work to their schools and try to speak with 18 or 21 teachers during the two evenings that conferences were scheduled. While it was awesome to hear the teachers tell me how smart my kids were and how well they were doing in school, I was always exhausted by the time I was done. But every year, I went to those parent teacher conferences ... every year, I went to those conferences because I loved my children and was determined to do my part to support them in receiving a good education.

Yesterday I sat between my daughter Meghann and my son Brad, and together we watched Matt as he received his Ph.D. ... his Doctor of Philosophy in Human Ecology. I wondered what thoughts were running through Brad and Meghann's minds as they watched their brother, if they were remembering times from their childhood or if they were contemplating the future. For some reason, I couldn't help but think about school conferences from when the three of them were young, about the teachers who had impacted my children's lives, about the deep love Matt has for learning, about the fact that Matt will soon be teaching students of his own in Canada.

The ceremony lasted a little over two hours, and after snapping a few pictures, we headed to Matt and Becca's apartment. They had decided a month or so ago that they wanted to have a cookout at their place to celebrate his graduation, and Matt had asked if my kiddos and I, along with Becca's parents, would hustle over to help get everything ready before their guests arrived. I should probably back up a bit and tell you that I had spent a good part of the night before and that morning throwing up, not because I was ill, but because I was nervous and anxious. My ex-husband, his girlfriend and his parents had come in from out of town to attend the ceremony and planned to attend the cookout as well. I'm not going to give details about my marriage ... I've said that before ... but in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent ... suffice it to say that not only did we have a bad marriage, anytime we've been forced to attend events together such as graduations or weddings, you could cut the tension between us with a knife ... a dull knife, in fact. It's one thing to experience that from a distance across a crowded reception hall or university arena, it's another thing altogether to experience it in the close quarters of a back yard or small apartment.

I've come to realize in the last few weeks that tension for me is no longer about anger or hurt, though it was in the early years after our divorce. The tension that exists for me now is about fear ... plain old unmitigated fear. So last night as I was sitting on the patio eating, I drew in a deep breath when I saw them walk through the gate ... and I thought, "Oh boy, here we go." My heart began to pound, and I felt goosebumps rise on my arms. And then, something happened ... all of a sudden, I realized that I wasn't afraid. Before I knew it, I stood up, put my plate down on my chair, and walked over to my former in-laws. I hugged and kissed them, and told them it was good to see them. I extended my hand to my ex-husband's girlfriend and introduced myself. And then ... then I extended my hand to my ex and said, "Hi ... how are you? I'm so very proud of our son today." Now before you think that the rest of the evening was perfect and filled with uplifting conversation between the two of us ... I said I wasn't afraid anymore, I didn't say that I suddenly became a saint. He and I didn't talk again until I was leaving and I went over and said goodbye to him. I did, however, spend most of my time at the cookout chatting with my ex in-laws ... and it was good, relaxed and tension free.

Yesterday was about Matt, all about Matt, and God in His infinite mercy chose to remove the fear and tension from my heart and replace it with grace. As I drove home alone after dropping Brad and Shelby off at his house, I couldn't help but recall the words of my doctor ... "You can't experience the kind of deep depression that you have and not be changed. It's impossible for it not to change you ... you will never be the same person again ... that which doesn't kill you makes you stronger, you know. You will be a stronger, more honest, more real person than you have ever been before. It will change you, Terrie, it will." It scares me more than a little, you know ... it scares me as to what those changes will be, and it scares me as to the pain that may accompany them. But last night ... last night, God helped me to lay down one enormous bag of fear, and I know in the deepest part of my soul that I won't be picking it up again. Remember my last post about baby steps? Just so you know, I'm still terrified of storms and airplanes and grass ... baby steps, friends ... baby steps ... baby steps ... baby steps.

God is good ... God is good ... all the time ... He is good.

Baby Steps

Twenty-six or so years ago (at least if I remember correctly, he was around a year old), I watched my son Matt take his first steps across the living room floor at our house on Boy Scout Road in Hixson, Tennessee. That sounds like such a long time ago, but today ... today, it feels like it was only yesterday that all three of my children were but babies in my arms. Each time I see my granddaughter C.J., even if it's only been a couple of weeks, she has grown and changed. In three short months, she's become a little person with her own unique personality and opinions. There's probably not a parent who hasn't said the words, "They grow up so fast." Because kids do, you know ... they do grow up so fast. Tomorrow, I will watch my son Matt walk across the stage in an arena and receive his Ph.D. ... tomorrow, my little boy who toddled across the living room will become a doctor.

Wednesday, I had appointments with both of my doctors, and both of them talked to me about baby steps ... more than a bit interesting in light of the fact that I've been thinking about the steps of babies since Matt, Becca and C.J. were here last Sunday. As I watched Matt talking and laughing with the people who came to wish him well as he and Becca prepare to move to Canada, I didn't see a young man about to receive his Ph.D. and start a new journey in his life. As I watched him across the room, my mind flashed back to him taking his first steps, to him reaching for my hands as he neared me, to him needing my help to get back up when he took a tumble. I thought about when C.J. would take her first steps and how Matt and Becca will watch her ... I thought about how far away they are moving and about the huge steps they will be taking over the next few months. I watched him ... and I thought about how much I love my son.

Baby steps ... small, tenuous steps. Baby steps ... a few at a time, falling time and time again, helping hands reaching to pick us up and encouraging us to give it another try ... baby steps may be the hardest ones we ever take in life, especially for those of us who aren't babies anymore, those of us who've been knocked down a time or two in life, those of us who are struggling to walk at all. Here's to little steps and big steps and all the steps in between ... here's to you, Dr. Mattie ... may God guide the steps you'll be taking not only tomorrow ... may He guide all the steps of your life. Here's to you, Dr. Mattie, and your baby steps from long ago ... here's to you, Dr. Mattie, and the man you have become.

Dear Fat Buddy

I've been thinking about you a lot lately for some reason, little fat buddy ... a whole, whole lot. There hasn't been a day go by since that fateful day in November of 2010 ... the day I cradled you in my arms and you took your final breath ... there hasn't been one day that I don't think about you, my furry friend. But for the last few weeks, my heart and mind have drifted toward you over and over again each day. It's weird, I know, and some people who read this post will think I've gone off the deep end for sure ... but today I read an article about the brains of dogs and the uncanny connection that sometimes forms between a human and a dog, and so I don't care if people think I'm crazy for writing you a letter. Heck, a ton of people already do think I'm loony, so what difference does it make if a few more join the group?

So many times  I wish that I could go for a long walk with you on our trail and tell you everything that's on my heart right now ... that I could pour out all the stuff in my soul to you like I used to when we walked together. I miss the way you would cock your head and look up at me, seeming not only to listen to every word I said as I talked but to understand as well. I miss those walks with you, J.R., I miss them so very much. I love to walk with Ollie, too, but it's different ... he's too busy peeing on everything and barking at all the big dogs we pass to listen to me. He's funny alright, and he makes me smile every single day. I'm so very thankful that he's with me, but Ollie's not the listener you were, little buddy ... no one, human or canine, is the listener you were.

A friend and I talked a couple of weeks ago about you being in heaven ... I can picture you there in my mind, fat buddy ... running and jumping and wagging your tail. I never told you, but one of the hardest parts of the week before you died was when you couldn't wag your tail anymore. I remember the first time you wagged your tail at me, just a little bit, and then more and more with every passing day. The truth is you didn't have much to wag your tail about before you found me, J.R. ... your few years of life had brought you nothing but pain, and humans had hurt you time and time again. I think that's part of why you were meant to be with me ... so that I could love you the way you deserved to be loved, so that you could learn to trust again, so that the last 15 months of your life would be happy ones. I hope your spot in heaven is filled with Cheetos and Milk Bones and butterflies and soft fleece blankets. I hope when you snuggle in for a nap that your little doggie mind dreams about an old gray-haired gal who wrapped you in a blanket and rocked you when it stormed, who rubbed your hurting little back, who read to you and talked to you and watched you play with Julie. I hope you dream about the day you'll see me again, and that you wait at the gates of heaven, wagging your tail and watching for me, fat buddy. 

The truth is it's been a rough couple of years for me, J.R., and sometimes I've wondered if I'll ever be able to really find my smile again. Oh, I can put it on when I have to ... you remember how good I am at covering up my pain, just like you were, buddy ... just like you were. I know that you hurt way more than you let me know, and now I know why, too. You chose to stay with me until you knew that I could go on without you, until you knew that I would keep walking, until you knew that I would wage a strong battle against diabetes. When I tell our story and that you died on World Diabetes Day, people say they get goosebumps ... even they know that was no coincidence or accident ... that was God's way of giving me a lasting reminder of how He used you to save me. You and I both know that's the biggest part of why you came to me, so that I would find out how sick I was. My doctor was right when she said you saved my life, little buddy ... you saved my life. I so wish I could have saved yours in return, furry friend, I so wish I could have saved yours.

I know I thanked you many times when you were with me, but I want to thank you again for what you did for me, J.R., because there's a very special little girl in my life now ... a very special little girl that I wouldn't have ever known if it weren't for you. I wish you were here to meet her ... C.J. is my granddaughter, J.R., and she's pretty incredible. She was at my house on Sunday, and she laughed out loud at me, buddy ... when she laughs, she kind of sounds like the ducks you and I used to see in the creek by the trail. She's moving to Canada in a few weeks with her mom and dad ... Matt's a doctor now, J.R., and he's going to be a professor at a university there. I have lots of reasons to thank you for saving me, fat buddy, but if I had no other reason, C.J. is worth a universe full of thank yous.

There's been a lot of big life stuff that's happened since you left, little guy, and I find myself so often longing that you were here to walk through it all with me. Even as I type those words, fat buddy, I know your spirit will be with me as long as I live ... and I want you to know ... I'm not giving up, J.R. ... I'm not giving up. Thank you, little warrior dog ... thank you.

Aloha

My nephew Charlie is one of the finest young men you will ever meet, a kind man, a noble man, a man of honor, a man of integrity ... and a man with an incredibly warped sense of humor. He once took a picture of his arm, made it look just like a person's butt cheeks and set it as the wallpaper on my phone, and it took me a month to figure out how to erase it. When he graduated from college, Charlie and his wife, Allison, moved to Hawaii for a few years ... what a place to be stationed for military duty, huh? I didn't get to talk to Charlie very often while he lived on the island ... that was before the days of unlimited cell phone minutes ... but when I did call him, he would answer the phone with a lilting "Aloha," the Hawaiian word for hello. And when we finished talking, Charlie would close our conversation with, "Love you ... aloha." You see, in Hawaiian, aloha means both hello and goodbye ... which I think is completely weird. I mean, come on ... it seems to me that I would always be wondering whether I was coming or going.

Yesterday afternoon, several people dropped by my house to say hello to little C.J. ... and to say goodbye to Matt and Becca, and wish them well in their move to Canada. Meghann and my son-in-law Barrett, and Brad and his girlfriend Shelby were here, and it was good to have them all home for the day; in fact, it's been a long time since we were all together here at my house ... and I was very aware as I watched my kiddos yesterday that it will be a long time before it happens again. I had gone to bed completely exhausted Saturday night, with every single muscle in my body aching after working in the yard and cleaning house all day. As I watched my children talking and laughing and hugging all the people who came and went throughout the afternoon, I knew that all my hard work was worth it ... it was so, so worth it to see their smiles and hear their voices as they recalled memory after memory with those who have been such big parts of their lives down through the years.

It was a bittersweet time for me ... knowing that every person who walked through my front door yesterday was coming to say hello to C.J., but also to say goodbye to Matt and Becca. Those of you who have been reading along with me know that tears seem to never be far away from the surface for me now, and I had ducked into the bathroom several times yesterday to throw cold water on my face in an attempt to keep myself from crying. It ended up not working, of course, and before the afternoon was over, I was a weepy mess. But ... but ... but ... Matt and Becca were having such a good time ... smiling, laughing, hugging ... they are so excited about the adventure they are getting ready to embark upon. And C.J. ... C.J. is perfect ... she laughed out loud at her old Granny, probably because she knows just how crazy I really am.

Our day ended with the plans we had to go to dinner to celebrate Meghann's birthday being changed ... most of us spent the evening in my basement with the tornado sirens sounding and the weather reports saying that a tornado had touched down not far from my house. I say most of us because Meghann and Barrett had gone on to the restaurant in spite of the sirens, and they had a great steak dinner without us. They will tease us for as long as we live about being weenies and hunkering down in the basement ... with my Julie and Ollie, three additional wiener dogs, and my neighbors and their cat. And yes, for those of you who are wondering, I was in total panic, freak-out mode, and my children had a front row seat to witness my irrational storm behavior. I cried buckets after all the kids left, and I made each of them promise to call me when they got to their respective homes. I finally drifted off to sleep, albeit a fitful one, around midnight, in spite of the still rumbling thunder that growled in the sky and the flashing lightning that filled my bedroom with light. And my last thought as my eyes began to droop ... the final picture in my tired and weary mind was of Matt ... holding his precious daughter as he beamed with pride and joy, laughing and smiling as he saw old friends, shooting looks of adoration to his equally adoring wife, savoring his time and making the most of each moment.

So thank you  ... thank you to all of you who came to say hello and goodbye, for the support and encouragement you've given to my family over the years, for loving us in the good times and the bad ... thank you for being our friends and for allowing our family to be part of yours.

The Bad Egg

Pancakes smothered in butter and syrup. French toast with powdered sugar on top. Buttery cinnamon toast with white sugar. Brown sugar cinnamon oatmeal. Grits with butter and honey. S'mores Pop-Tarts. Chocolate chip muffins. Cinnamon Life cereal. Biscuits and gravy. All of those yummy food items (plus a few others I could list ... think two pieces of toasted bread slathered with peanut butter, sliced bananas and honey) used to be among my favorite things to consume for breakfast ... "used to be" being the key words in that statement. Used to be my favorite breakfast items before diabetes came calling ... actually, in the spirit of being open, honest, real and transparent, I sometimes ate S'mores Pop-Tarts for dinner, too ... I really, really, really liked Pop-Tarts.

My love for the breakfast meal goes way back to when I was a kid; it was always, and still is, my favorite meal of the day. Back when I was young, though, loving breakfast really had little to do with what I ate and everything to do with the morning ritual that took place between me and Mom and Daddy. Mom would make breakfast for me and Daddy, hand it to us through the pass-through opening in the cabinets while we sat at the bar, and then she would stand at the opening and eat her own breakfast from the counter as her and Daddy chatted about the day ahead. Looking back now, I can't help but wonder why we did breakfast that way ... I can't help but wonder why we didn't all sit together at the table and eat. Maybe that's one of those "when I see them again in heaven" questions to ask. At any rate, when Daddy and I finished eating, he would gather my plate and his and take them to the sink. He would pack up the things he needed for the day, including his lunch that Mom had packed for him into his metal lunchbox along with his giant Stanley thermos filled with coffee. And then ... then he would pat me on the head and give me a hug and tell me to have a good day and to behave (I have no idea why he felt the need to add the "behave" comment every day), and he would wrap his arms around Mom and plant a big kiss on her lips. For many years, I would say, "Gross!" but as I aged, I grew to understand and appreciate the love and affection Daddy's daily morning kiss conveyed to Mom.

With the exception of when I've been traveling, I have eaten the exact same thing for breakfast for the last two and a half years ... three eggs over easy mixed with chive and onion cream cheese, and a glass of almond milk with sugar-free chocolate syrup. I've mentioned many times that food is just food to me now; I rarely get excited about meals like I used to ... except for breakfast. That's the only meal I look forward to every single day, even now when I have little to no appetite because of my new medication ... until Wednesday morning anyway. For all the eggs I've eaten, I have never experienced what I did on Wednesday. I sprayed my skillet with olive oil, cracked the first egg and almost threw up when the egg fell from the shell. Instead of the yolk being yellow and intact, it was ... it was ... well, it was bloody and runny and disgusting. I immediately grabbed the skillet and washed the bad egg down the garbage disposal in the sink, and then I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed my small skillet to make sure there was no trace of grossness left in it. I put it back on the stove and cracked three more eggs ... perfectly normal, good eggs ... and cooked them just like I do every morning. But here's the thing ... I could not bring myself to eat those eggs because of the one bad egg that had preceded them. I tried for a half hour to eat those eggs, friends, and I just couldn't do it. One bad egg had ruined the only meal I enjoyed ... one stupid little egg had taken away the only food joy I had left, and I ended up eating peanut butter for breakfast while I prayed that I wouldn't throw up as I drove to work.

I finally ate eggs again this morning, and as I sat on my couch eating, it struck me that perhaps there was a huge, gigantic, enormous lesson in that bad egg from Wednesday. And the more I've thought about it today, the more convinced I am that there is indeed something God wants to teach me. That disgusting egg was probably rotten, and had I eaten it, there is no doubt that it would have made me sick. Just coming near it ... just looking at it ... just the very thought of it made me sick, so had I actually consumed it ... just thinking about what could have happened makes me queasy all over again. And the lesson God has for me? Sin is a lot like that bad egg ... it only takes one sinful thought or action to sicken my heart. Even if all my other thoughts or actions are pure, the rottenness of sin can cause a detachment and separation from what is good or holy in my life. It shouldn't surprise me, I suppose, that God would choose to use something as small as an egg to teach me about something as big as sin ... it shouldn't surprise me at all.

"Finally, brethren, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things." Philippians 4:8

Grass vs. Weeds

I'm pretty sure the only time I ever really enjoyed mowing the yard was when I was a kid and got to mow with Daddy's Snapper Comet riding lawn mower. That was more like riding a go-kart for an hour and a half than it was actually performing a chore. I can still remember that mower ... going as fast as I could on the straight parts and waiting until the last moment to slow down on the curves. But what I remember even more was that Daddy would let me do the easy part and ride on the Snapper and mow while he would do the hard part and use the push mower to do all the trimming. You know ... there are some things you don't realize when you're young ... like how lonely Mom must have been all those years she lived alone ... alone when Daddy was so sick with Alzheimer's, bedridden and having no idea who she was ... alone after he died, in that big old house all by herself. Or how much Daddy's legs hurt as he grew older ... how he would put hot towels on his calf muscles when they would cramp and ache ... how his legs must have hurt as he walked behind the push mower around his large yard. Yep ... there are some things you don't realize when you're young ... and when you finally understand them as an adult ... there are some things you wish you could go back and change.

Since I didn't feel too great last weekend, I didn't mow my yard like I normally do most Saturdays and Sundays during the spring and summer months. The weather guys were predicting storms and rain last night (yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking, but after my favorite weather guy said there wasn't going to be severe weather, I slept in my bed instead of in the basement in my fort), so I hustled home from work, took care of Julie and Ollie, ate dinner, and headed outside to mow. I knew that if it rained, the grass would grow quickly and I didn't want to have to bag the clippings ... I hate it when the grass gets too tall and I have to bag it. It takes me three times as long to mow when I have to do that, and I hate the whole process of bagging ... stopping and emptying the heavy lawn mower bag into paper lawn bags, starting the mower over and over again, dragging the full bags to the curb for pickup. Thankfully, I just had to mow last night and not bag ... I'll have to mow again this weekend, but I'd rather mow twice than bag once.

I've been in a nostalgic mood lately, and as I pushed the mower through the grass last night, I couldn't help but think about how different my children were when it came to yard work when they were young. Matt loved working in the yard and growing flowers, and my yard always looked great when he lived at home. Brad hated mowing, planting, raking, gardening, mulching ... you name it, he simply hated working in the yard. And Meghann fell kind of in the middle ... she enjoyed mowing and she liked eating the vegetables from the garden, but she didn't care much for planting or weeding. As I mowed and thought about those days when the kids were here ... yep, I got pretty teary. All my kids will be here on Sunday ... a few people are coming over to meet C.J. and say goodbye to Matt and Becca before they move to Canada, and Meghann's birthday is on Monday so we'll get to celebrate with her while we are together, too. I couldn't help but think that the times when we will all be together will probably not happen very often once Matt, Becca and C.J. move ... yep, more tears.

When I finished mowing, I walked around the yard pulling weeds from the mulch around my shrubbery and lilies, and I looked at the flowers I had planted in my hanging baskets and pots on the deck. I sure wouldn't have so many weeds in the yard if Matt were taking care of the yard, I thought. He always knew how to stop the weeds from taking over the grass ... and now I've got more weeds than grass. I kicked off my yard-mowing shoes in the garage, put on my slippers and took Julie and Ollie outside to play for a while before it got dark and the rain came. Grass vs. weeds, I thought ... grass vs. weeds. Tossing the ball to Julie and smiling as Ollie tried his best to beat her to it, I began to think about the weeds in my life ... about how easy it is to let the weeds overrun the grass of my heart ... about how quickly those weeds can sprout and choke out the grass ... about how much I need to soak in the fertilizer of God's Word, how much I need to accept the weed killer of His correction and conviction, how much I need the rain of His forgiveness and the sunlight of His love.

"So I said, ‘I have been expelled from Your sight. Nevertheless I will look again toward Your holy temple.’ Water encompassed me to the point of death. The great deep engulfed me, weeds were wrapped around my head. I descended to the roots of the mountains. The earth with its bars was around me forever, but You have brought up my life from the pit, O LORD my God." Jonah 2:4-6

God Showed Up

Perhaps one of the things I miss most now that I have diabetes is having the freedom to eat a houseful of comfort food when I'm sick. You know the kind of food I'm talking about ... chips and dip, ice cream smothered in chocolate syrup and caramel, a whole everything-in-the-world-on-it pizza (yes, I used to eat a whole pizza by myself when I was sick), Twizzlers, Milk Duds and Hot Tamales candies, Kraft macaroni and cheese (yes, the whole box) ... well, you get the idea. So yesterday when I was stretched out on my couch moaning to Julie and Ollie about my rolling stomach, I was also moaning about how I missed all those comfort foods. Weird cause it's my stomach that's upset which means that if I could eat all those foods, I would surely be paying homage to the stool in my bathroom for days to come. I was channel surfing while I was moaning and groaning and whining and complaining, thinking perhaps it would take my mind off of the forbidden food list ... hmmmm, it's funny how much I want something when I know it's off limits ... the whole forbidden fruit thing, you know, or forbidden carbs and sweets I suppose. You'll never guess what movie I stumbled upon in my quest for something to watch that would consume my mind and calm my tummy ... yep, Forrest Gump. I know I've written about Forrest several times before, but I also know that I've said that it seems like each time I watch it, God teaches me a new lesson. And that's exactly what He did ... God showed up and taught me a big lesson through the words of Forrest and Lieutenant Dan.

Because he made a promise to his friend Bubba who was killed in combat, Forrest buys a boat and starts a shrimping company. He soon discovers that he's a terrible shrimper, having little to no luck in harvesting the beady-eyed little critters. Forrest's former lieutenant, Dan, the guy Forrest rescues from the same battle where Bubba lost his life, made a promise to Forrest that should he become a shrimp boat captain, he would be his first mate. And just like Forrest honored his promise to Bubba, Lieutenant Dan shows up on the dock one day in his wheelchair (he lost both his legs in the battle Forrest rescued him from, by the way) to honor his promise as well. Now Dan had a mighty big chip on his shoulder, and he'd been carrying enough anger since his injury to fill a warship ... anger at Forrest for saving his life, and anger at God for not letting him die. Lieutenant Dan's arrival to Forrest's newly established shrimping company didn't do anything to change their luck at catching shrimp ... not a single thing. For as angry and filled with doubt as Dan was about many things, including the shrimp business, Forrest had faith ... simple, childlike faith. He went to church every Sunday, sang in the choir and believed that things would somehow always work out in the end.

As I laid on the couch nursing my upset stomach, it was a scene when Forrest and Dan were out on the boat trying to catch shrimp that spoke to me yesterday. Forrest hauls in the net and opens it to reveal one shrimp ... one measly shrimp. Dan asks Forrest, "Where the (bleep) is this God of yours?" And it was what Forrest said as he narrated the story of his life to the person sitting on the bench next to him as they waited for the bus that struck me ... struck me right to the core of my heart. "It's funny Lieutenant Dan said that, 'cause right then, God showed up." I won't recount the rest of what took place in case you haven't seen the movie, but suffice it to say that Forrest and Dan rode out a hurricane on the open sea and Dan made his peace with God.

I recently met with a group of dear ladies who are in charge of planning a retreat that I'll be speaking at in September to discuss plans for the event, their theme and the topics they felt led for me to speak about during the sessions. As we ate together and I listened to them talk about some of the details of the event, I felt a heaviness settle on my heart as I struggled to determine God's direction and leading as to what I should talk about when I spoke. Where are You, God? I thought to myself. Why aren't You speaking to me about this? What am I supposed to say at the retreat? Where are You? And then it happened ... God showed up in a big way. I suddenly felt strongly led to share with the ladies about the desert I had been in over the last year ... all the ladies on the committee have been to events where I've spoken, and I felt an incredible leading to be transparent with them about my journey. I began to tell them about how depression had wrapped its tentacles around my brain, about the shame and isolation that accompanied it, about how it had rocked the very foundation of my faith to take the medications. Though I tried my best not to, I couldn't stop the tears that filled my eyes as I talked. I told the ladies that I'm not the same speaker I was before ... the journey of the last year has changed who I am on many levels and that I am learning ... learning ... learning ... learning that God is humbling me, causing me to bow down before Him and surrender to His will and His way, to acknowledge my arrogance and pride, and understand that I am nothing without Him. I used to think that God had called me to be a speaker because I was good at it ... now I know with every fiber of my being that God has called me to speak for one reason only ... because He is good at it ... speaking has nothing to do with me and everything to do with Him. As I finished talking, the ladies looked at one another and said, "That's what you should speak about ... say what you just said ... that's what we want you to share."

God showed up at our meeting, ladies ... He showed up in a big way ... and something tells me He's going to show up at your event in September, too. My prayer is that He will lead and guide your planning and that He will be present in every detail of the weekend, that He will bring the ladies who need to be there, and that He will make me an ever humble, ever obedient, ever faithful servant for Him.

Bazinga

There are few television shows now that will make me sit on the couch for hours and watch them. I used to be a big TV hound, but not so much anymore ... unless of course there are storms in the forecast and then I'm glued to the set ... of course. In fact, I rarely turn on the television in the evenings; instead I read a lot, write a lot and play with my dogs a lot. But there is one show that I will always watch if I'm home and it's on, and it's probably going to surprise some of you, especially when I tell you who my favorite character on the show is ... or then again, maybe not. I love the show The Big Bang Theory, and I adore Sheldon Cooper. No matter how lousy my day has been or how down I am, Sheldon can always make me at least smile, and more often than not, laugh out loud. Though I can't even come remotely close to understanding Sheldon's genius intelligence, I can, however, completely relate to some of Sheldon's quirky behaviors ... eating certain foods on certain days; having irrational fears; possessing more than a touch of obsessive compulsiveness; being as stubborn as a mule; needing to be cared for when he's sick; wearing only specific types of clothing ... hmmm, that list should probably scare me a little ... or a lot. Sheldon is an odd duck, an enigma of sorts, and maybe that's why I like him so much.

On Wednesday, my doctor made some changes to my medication, and for the last couple of days my stomach has felt like I've been on a heavy-duty roller coaster ride. Yesterday was especially rough in the tummy department, so I left work at noon and came home and went to bed for the afternoon. As I was driving home, I came up behind a pickup truck pulling an old, open-air, beat up trailer with a horse inside. I groaned as the interstate traffic came to a stop due to construction ... seriously, there should be a law against narrowing interstate traffic down to one lane on a day when my stomach hurt so badly. Sitting behind the trailer with the horse inside, my mind shifted into Sheldon mode and I started thinking ... what if that horse decided to poop right now? He was a big horse, and it looked like it was a tight fit for him in the little trailer. In fact, his tail was hanging down over the back gate right in front of my car ... he so could have pooped right over the gate. The mere thought of horse poop splatting on my car sure didn't do much for my already upset stomach, but my mind raced there like a speeding bullet anyway. I was surer than sure that the horse was going to poop ... don't laugh ... I could see it in his ... well, his rear, I suppose, since I couldn't see his eyes. I leaned forward and tried to calculate the distance between my car and the horse's rear, wishing I hadn't pulled quite so close to the trailer. Thankfully, the traffic started moving, the lanes opened and I was able to drive around the truck before a horse poop disaster occurred.

Now here's where my true Sheldon came out yesterday ... as the evening wore on and I felt worse and worse, I couldn't get my mind off of the horse in the trailer. Those of you who've been reading along with me for a while know that I work for an advertising agency and that one of our clients is an animal health company. You know that I spend a good part of my time at work reading about horse and cow poop ... more specifically, I read a lot about the parasites that are in that poop. So by the time I went to bed last night, I had come to the conclusion that if that horse yesterday had decided to poop on my car, that poop would by all means have contained parasites which would have somehow managed to survive their fall onto the hood of my car, made their way through the windshield and eventually infected me. Makes my irrational fear of cracks in the basement, flying on an airplane and stormy weather seem almost sane and rational, huh? When I woke up this morning, I must admit that I shook my head at myself ... seriously ... a horse pooping on my car and me getting infected with parasites? Seriously, seriously, seriously. Maybe my next post needs to be about my newly hatched plan for surviving the zombie apocalypse that's most assuredly coming one day ... bazinga, Sheldon fans ... bazinga.