There is no noise like the noise that three teenagers living under the same roof can create, especially when they all are in their respective rooms with their respective music blaring at decibel levels that should cause their eardrums to pop. And yet, all three of my now young adult children seem to be able to hear just fine. As each of them moved out of my house, there were definitely noticeable changes that came with their departures. My utility bills decreased. The number of shoes by the kitchen door lessened. Grocery shopping trips took less time and cost less money. The tea jug in the fridge didn't need to be refilled as often. And ... the noise level dropped considerably.
After my last kiddo left the nest, the house belonged to only me and my big dog Julie. And our first night alone was quiet ... really, really quiet. It took a little while, but it wasn't long until I found that the quiet of my house was somewhat soothing in a way and we began to fall into our own little routine of life ... for about a month or so ... and then J.R. the wiener dog came along. One of the first things that struck me in the early weeks after J.R. joined Julie and me was that it was noisier, but noisier in a good way. The jangling of another set of dog tags ... the pounding of paws ripping across the floor in play ... the snoring of two tired hounds at the end of the day. I laughed a lot when I watched J.R. and Julie together ... I laughed and smiled a whole lot at the two of them.
In the three months since J.R.'s death, my house has become quiet again with Julie and me as its only residents. I don't laugh much now, and I often feel as though I won't ever find my smile again. Julie is lonely, and she misses her playmate. Her eyes are sad ... sad in a way they have never been before. My little fat buddy was a big part of this house, of this home, of this life of ours, and things have been off kilter for both me and Julie since he left us. Many people have told me that we need another dog, that bringing another four-legged friend into the house will help to heal us, will bring the laughter back, will restore the fun to both our home and our hearts. I keep saying I'm not ready ... that there will never be another dog who will touch my soul the way J.R. did ... that I don't want to ever experience the kind of pain again that I felt when I lost him.
And then someone emailed me about a dog who needs a home, a dog who was neglected and almost starved to death ... a wiener dog. I told myself for two weeks that I wouldn't go see him, that I couldn't go see him, that I shouldn't go see him. And today, I went to see him. And I spent three hours with him. And I sobbed when he jumped into my arms and licked my face and wagged his tail. And I held him. And I talked to him about Julie and J.R. And he wagged his tail and licked my face. And I cried. And I left him at the shelter and came home. And I've thought about him all day. All day long.
I've often said that J.R. chose me ... that I had little to do with his arrival into my world. When the little guy today jumped into my arms, the lady who had put us in a room together so that I could take him off his leash said, "You know, sometimes the dog chooses you. Those are the ones that make the best friends, the ones that choose you first." I've thought many times today about her words ... the best friends ... the ones who choose you first ... the joy mixed with sorrow that comes with relationships, both human and canine ... of how God chooses to love me every minute of every single day when I don't deserve His love at all.
So tonight, I wonder ... to dog or not to dog? To open my heart and my home again to another furry fellow? To risk the pain of losing him one day? To dog or not to dog?
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Heavenly Sandpaper
One of my favorite places in the house I grew up in was my dad's workshop. It was this filled-to-the-brim room that he built at the end of the carport; one door led in from the carport, and another led out to one of the multitude of porches that cascaded down the back of Mom and Dad's house. Those porches were awesome ... but that's another blog for another time ... back to Daddy's workshop. Daddy was always designing, building or repairing something, and he was truly gifted when it came to working with his hands. Daddy's hands ... just the thought of his weathered and scarred hands brings tears to my eyes, but again, the subject of my dad's precious hands is another blog for another time. Sometimes I wonder how many hours I spent in Daddy's workshop as I grew up, constantly trailing along behind him and begging to help him with whatever new project he was working on.
As was true with most of the time I spent with Daddy, there was usually a lesson involved in every activity we did together and my time in his workshop was especially abundant in lessons. Some of the tasks that Daddy had me perform were fun, like hammering nails or painting furniture. And then there were other tasks that I truly detested, like rubbing sandpaper over and over a piece of wood in an often feeble attempt on my part to smooth out the rough edges and prepare the wood for whatever use Daddy had in mind for it. Sanding the wood seemed pointless to me ... a monotonous and meaningless waste of time, not to mention that it made my fingers sore and blistered. I would sand and sand and sand ... Daddy would look at the wood and run his fingers across the surface, judging whether or not the wood was ready for its ultimate purpose. And much to my dismay, Daddy would, more often than not, tell me to keep sanding.
This morning, my pastor talked about heavenly sandpaper ... about how going through difficult times builds character and integrity in us. He spoke of how God's work in our lives is like heavenly sandpaper... rubbing away the rough edges, taking away the splinters, preparing us to perform the tasks God has set before us to do. As I listened to my pastor's words, tears coursed down my face as I thought of the words spoken to me by a friend last week. In a moment of pure unmitigated self-pity, I was ranting about how hard I try to be a good person, how I have a good heart, how I don't know what more God wants from me, and on and on. Reminding me that none of us are good or worthy of anything, my friend said, "God is going to keep on whacking away at you until He gets rid of all that stubborn pride of yours."
It struck me this morning as I sat weeping in church ... sandpaper ... that whacking away at me is God's heavenly sandpaper. The same lesson in two forms in the same week ... two different people imparting the same truth ... God wants me to hear that message. He has me where I am for a reason. He's sanding my heart and refining my character. He's honing my integrity and teaching me that I truly am nothing without Him.
Father God ... I don't like it here ... it's lonely and it's frightening and it's hard here. It's a place I've never been before, and I don't even begin to understand why You have me here. I do, however, know that You love me still ... You love me perfectly ... You love me always. Use your heavenly sandpaper on me, Lord ... rub away all of me that needs to go ... sand away, Lord, sand away.
As was true with most of the time I spent with Daddy, there was usually a lesson involved in every activity we did together and my time in his workshop was especially abundant in lessons. Some of the tasks that Daddy had me perform were fun, like hammering nails or painting furniture. And then there were other tasks that I truly detested, like rubbing sandpaper over and over a piece of wood in an often feeble attempt on my part to smooth out the rough edges and prepare the wood for whatever use Daddy had in mind for it. Sanding the wood seemed pointless to me ... a monotonous and meaningless waste of time, not to mention that it made my fingers sore and blistered. I would sand and sand and sand ... Daddy would look at the wood and run his fingers across the surface, judging whether or not the wood was ready for its ultimate purpose. And much to my dismay, Daddy would, more often than not, tell me to keep sanding.
This morning, my pastor talked about heavenly sandpaper ... about how going through difficult times builds character and integrity in us. He spoke of how God's work in our lives is like heavenly sandpaper... rubbing away the rough edges, taking away the splinters, preparing us to perform the tasks God has set before us to do. As I listened to my pastor's words, tears coursed down my face as I thought of the words spoken to me by a friend last week. In a moment of pure unmitigated self-pity, I was ranting about how hard I try to be a good person, how I have a good heart, how I don't know what more God wants from me, and on and on. Reminding me that none of us are good or worthy of anything, my friend said, "God is going to keep on whacking away at you until He gets rid of all that stubborn pride of yours."
It struck me this morning as I sat weeping in church ... sandpaper ... that whacking away at me is God's heavenly sandpaper. The same lesson in two forms in the same week ... two different people imparting the same truth ... God wants me to hear that message. He has me where I am for a reason. He's sanding my heart and refining my character. He's honing my integrity and teaching me that I truly am nothing without Him.
Father God ... I don't like it here ... it's lonely and it's frightening and it's hard here. It's a place I've never been before, and I don't even begin to understand why You have me here. I do, however, know that You love me still ... You love me perfectly ... You love me always. Use your heavenly sandpaper on me, Lord ... rub away all of me that needs to go ... sand away, Lord, sand away.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
In the Nick of Time
When my children were small, I worried all the time about them getting hurt. My oldest, Matt, says I was overprotective ... nonsense, I say, sheer nonsense. Just because I followed them around when they were learning to walk so that I could catch them if they stumbled, or made them wear elbow and knee pads and helmets when they rode their tricycles, or wouldn't let them walk to the mailbox down the street alone ... nah ... none of that made me an overprotective mom at all. When my kids laugh and tease me about some of my over-the-top mom behavior from the past, I remind them that they have no idea how many times my so-called crazy protectiveness saved them from life-threatening injury. That's right ... they don't know how many times I rescued them ... just in the nick of time.
This afternoon, I took my Julie to the trail to practice her new leash-walking skills. It was a gray, chilly day, and my mood as we crossed the street and headed for my beloved trail matched the skies above. We weren't very far along on the path when I had to stomp on the slip-lead around Julie's neck to get her to stop dragging me like a rag doll behind her as she lunged and tugged on the leash. A few times of stepping on the lead and reprimanding her, and she calmed down a bit and walked at a more normal pace. Except, of course, for when she took off for the creek, causing me to take a face-first dive into the muddy bank near the coursing water. Fortunately, there was a gentleman on the path who saw Julie dragging me toward the frigid liquid. He jumped into action and managed to step on the slip-lead and stopped her in her tracks ... just in the nick of time.
The nick of time ... hmmm ... the nick of time. I wondered as Julie and I finally made our way home how often God has rescued me just in the nick of time. How often has He protected me from harm or illness or sin or despair just in the nick of time? How often has He rescued me from danger or destruction or death just in the nick of time? How often has He saved me from myself just in the nick of time? How often indeed.
As Julie and I walked into the garage, the heavens opened and let loose a torrent of rain. "Look at that, girl," I said to my tired hound. "We made it home just in the nick of time ... just in the nick of time."
This afternoon, I took my Julie to the trail to practice her new leash-walking skills. It was a gray, chilly day, and my mood as we crossed the street and headed for my beloved trail matched the skies above. We weren't very far along on the path when I had to stomp on the slip-lead around Julie's neck to get her to stop dragging me like a rag doll behind her as she lunged and tugged on the leash. A few times of stepping on the lead and reprimanding her, and she calmed down a bit and walked at a more normal pace. Except, of course, for when she took off for the creek, causing me to take a face-first dive into the muddy bank near the coursing water. Fortunately, there was a gentleman on the path who saw Julie dragging me toward the frigid liquid. He jumped into action and managed to step on the slip-lead and stopped her in her tracks ... just in the nick of time.
The nick of time ... hmmm ... the nick of time. I wondered as Julie and I finally made our way home how often God has rescued me just in the nick of time. How often has He protected me from harm or illness or sin or despair just in the nick of time? How often has He rescued me from danger or destruction or death just in the nick of time? How often has He saved me from myself just in the nick of time? How often indeed.
As Julie and I walked into the garage, the heavens opened and let loose a torrent of rain. "Look at that, girl," I said to my tired hound. "We made it home just in the nick of time ... just in the nick of time."
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Winded
So last night I was walking at the mall, and I realized something. Something big. And yes, it's something more than the realization that in the winter months, I am a mall walker. It's OK, though ... for those of you who don't know me in person, I'm a "gray hair," so I fit right in. But, I digress. I was walking along at a fairly decent pace, and it struck me that I wasn't the least bit winded. Not even a little tiny bit winded. No gasping for air, no heavy breathing, nothing. Just a normal, regular breathing pattern, even though I had been walking for almost an hour.
I'm sure that you are wondering why on earth this is significant or worthy of a blog post, but I promise that there's a lesson coming. A lesson for me, anyway, and hopefully for someone else out there in the blog-reading universe. You see, when I first starting walking over a year ago with my fat little wiener dog, J.R., it was difficult for me to walk even 15 minutes at a very slow pace. And during those 15 minutes, I struggled to breathe with every step. I was beyond out of shape and had not exercised for many, many years. I knew, however, that I had to walk for J.R.'s health, so I kept on walking and as many of you know, was eventually diagnosed with diabetes.
Last night I couldn't help but recall those early days of walking and how very difficult they were for me on a physical level. But I also couldn't help but remember how deeply God touched my heart on a spiritual level as I trudged along with my little dog. Here's the thing ... here's the lesson ... I had to walk through pain, through difficulty in breathing, through some really stormy weather in order to get healthier, to lose a bunch of weight, to come to see my God in a whole new light.
The truth is that sometimes life is just hard. Sometimes it's hard to breathe. Sometimes it's hard to keep walking. Sometimes it takes every ounce of willpower and strength you have to persevere and not give up. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. That's life, though, and that's when you need to walk harder and longer.
My prayer is that when I'm winded ... when I'm too tired to take another step ... when I don't have the strength to walk alone ... I'll let my Lord carry me, hold me and protect me.
I'm sure that you are wondering why on earth this is significant or worthy of a blog post, but I promise that there's a lesson coming. A lesson for me, anyway, and hopefully for someone else out there in the blog-reading universe. You see, when I first starting walking over a year ago with my fat little wiener dog, J.R., it was difficult for me to walk even 15 minutes at a very slow pace. And during those 15 minutes, I struggled to breathe with every step. I was beyond out of shape and had not exercised for many, many years. I knew, however, that I had to walk for J.R.'s health, so I kept on walking and as many of you know, was eventually diagnosed with diabetes.
Last night I couldn't help but recall those early days of walking and how very difficult they were for me on a physical level. But I also couldn't help but remember how deeply God touched my heart on a spiritual level as I trudged along with my little dog. Here's the thing ... here's the lesson ... I had to walk through pain, through difficulty in breathing, through some really stormy weather in order to get healthier, to lose a bunch of weight, to come to see my God in a whole new light.
The truth is that sometimes life is just hard. Sometimes it's hard to breathe. Sometimes it's hard to keep walking. Sometimes it takes every ounce of willpower and strength you have to persevere and not give up. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. That's life, though, and that's when you need to walk harder and longer.
My prayer is that when I'm winded ... when I'm too tired to take another step ... when I don't have the strength to walk alone ... I'll let my Lord carry me, hold me and protect me.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
You've Got Mail
Sometimes I miss the days of letter writing. Not emailing ... real letter writing ... handwritten, heartfelt, take your time letter writing. I still have letters that my grandmother wrote to me as I was growing up. I have notes that my mom sent to me down through the years after I moved away from my hometown. I have letters and cards from friends, some whom I still see and others who have since gone to be with the Lord.
The age of technology brought with it changes in the way we do many things, necessary changes in some cases, helpful changes, changes that facilitate and make our lives easier in many ways. It seems to me, however, that some of the technological advances have caused us to be an instant gratification, hurry up and get it done, faster is better type of people. We email rather than writing by hand ... we use calculators rather than scribbling out long division ... we shop online rather than walking from store to store ... we text message rather than talking to our family and friends.
While I often bemoan and complain about the impersonal nature of emailing or texting, I've become acutely aware over the last few weeks and months that the words contained within various texts and emails I've received have served to impart a major dose of love and support to me. Family and friends alike have sent encouraging, uplifting, caring messages to me ... messages that, quite honestly, have at times been a true lifeline to me, ropes tossed my way when the seas were raging all around me and threatening to swallow me up.
As I type these words and think about the electronic mail that comes to me every day, I can't help but think about the ultimate messaging system ... the system that God created long ago to speak to me. Whether I'm hurt or tired or happy or sad or lonely or peaceful or quiet or searching or restless, God's Word is faithful and timeless and filled with instructions to guide me along the path of life. I am also struck with the convicting thought that I always view my text messages and always open my emails in a timely fashion because I want to know what the person who sent the message has to say. Yet I so often place my Bible on the shelf and read it only when my world seems to be falling apart.
Help me to listen, Lord, to listen to your voice, to hear you when you call ... "Terrie, you've got mail."
The age of technology brought with it changes in the way we do many things, necessary changes in some cases, helpful changes, changes that facilitate and make our lives easier in many ways. It seems to me, however, that some of the technological advances have caused us to be an instant gratification, hurry up and get it done, faster is better type of people. We email rather than writing by hand ... we use calculators rather than scribbling out long division ... we shop online rather than walking from store to store ... we text message rather than talking to our family and friends.
While I often bemoan and complain about the impersonal nature of emailing or texting, I've become acutely aware over the last few weeks and months that the words contained within various texts and emails I've received have served to impart a major dose of love and support to me. Family and friends alike have sent encouraging, uplifting, caring messages to me ... messages that, quite honestly, have at times been a true lifeline to me, ropes tossed my way when the seas were raging all around me and threatening to swallow me up.
As I type these words and think about the electronic mail that comes to me every day, I can't help but think about the ultimate messaging system ... the system that God created long ago to speak to me. Whether I'm hurt or tired or happy or sad or lonely or peaceful or quiet or searching or restless, God's Word is faithful and timeless and filled with instructions to guide me along the path of life. I am also struck with the convicting thought that I always view my text messages and always open my emails in a timely fashion because I want to know what the person who sent the message has to say. Yet I so often place my Bible on the shelf and read it only when my world seems to be falling apart.
Help me to listen, Lord, to listen to your voice, to hear you when you call ... "Terrie, you've got mail."
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Snowmageddon
Growing up in southeastern Tennessee meant that winters were generally relatively mild, and there was very little snow. When there was even the threat of flurries, my hometown of Chattanooga would close down ... schools, churches, businesses ... literally, the whole town closed down. And if there was actual snowfall, say, oh, an inch or two, the town would remain closed for several days.
I remember the first big snow after we moved to Kansas City after a short stint in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. My three children had their faces plastered against the dining room window in amazement since they had never seen snow before. Matt was six; Brad was three; and Meghann was two, and the look on their little faces as the fluffy white stuff fell from the sky was priceless. We went sledding, built a snowman and made snow ice cream. I was a stay-at-home mom at the time, and I loved the snow as much as my kiddos did, in large part because I didn't have to drive on the slick and dangerous streets. Now that I have to commute downtown to work every day, my love for snow has greatly diminished.
Enter today, February 1, 2011. The weather guys have been talking about the storm that is now upon us for days, calling it a monster storm, worst snowstorm in a 24-hour period for almost 50 years, crippling, devastating, Blizzard of Oz, and my personal favorite ... Snowmageddon. For the first time that I can recall in the eight years I've worked at my current job, the owners encouraged us to stay home and work online rather than risk coming into the office. I must say that I think I could adjust quickly to working from home while sitting on my couch in my pajamas with my big dog Julie curled up next to me.
Gazing out my living room window, watching the snow pile up, shivering even though I have on three layers of clothing, I can't help but wonder at the awesome power of God. Even when I don't always feel Him, even when I don't always seek Him, even when I don't always follow Him ... He is there, and He is in control. He knows my deepest thoughts, feels my greatest joy, sees my saddest sorrow ... He is there, and He is in control. Just as He has the power to release the snow from the heavens, He has the power to guide and direct my life. Just as He shelters me from the storm that is raging outside today, He shelters me from the storms that often rage within my heart.
So bring on Snowmageddon today ... use this day of still and quiet whiteness out my window, Lord ... use it to draw me to You, to warm my soul, to restore my mind, to heal me from the inside out.
I remember the first big snow after we moved to Kansas City after a short stint in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. My three children had their faces plastered against the dining room window in amazement since they had never seen snow before. Matt was six; Brad was three; and Meghann was two, and the look on their little faces as the fluffy white stuff fell from the sky was priceless. We went sledding, built a snowman and made snow ice cream. I was a stay-at-home mom at the time, and I loved the snow as much as my kiddos did, in large part because I didn't have to drive on the slick and dangerous streets. Now that I have to commute downtown to work every day, my love for snow has greatly diminished.
Enter today, February 1, 2011. The weather guys have been talking about the storm that is now upon us for days, calling it a monster storm, worst snowstorm in a 24-hour period for almost 50 years, crippling, devastating, Blizzard of Oz, and my personal favorite ... Snowmageddon. For the first time that I can recall in the eight years I've worked at my current job, the owners encouraged us to stay home and work online rather than risk coming into the office. I must say that I think I could adjust quickly to working from home while sitting on my couch in my pajamas with my big dog Julie curled up next to me.
Gazing out my living room window, watching the snow pile up, shivering even though I have on three layers of clothing, I can't help but wonder at the awesome power of God. Even when I don't always feel Him, even when I don't always seek Him, even when I don't always follow Him ... He is there, and He is in control. He knows my deepest thoughts, feels my greatest joy, sees my saddest sorrow ... He is there, and He is in control. Just as He has the power to release the snow from the heavens, He has the power to guide and direct my life. Just as He shelters me from the storm that is raging outside today, He shelters me from the storms that often rage within my heart.
So bring on Snowmageddon today ... use this day of still and quiet whiteness out my window, Lord ... use it to draw me to You, to warm my soul, to restore my mind, to heal me from the inside out.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Take Your Time
When I was In my late 20s, a television show called "thirtysomething" burst onto the screen and quite literally took my generation by storm. And no, that's not a typo or mistake on my part on the spelling or capitalization ... that's the way the show's name appeared. Everywhere, people in their late 20s and early 30s were watching and talking about the show. Neighbors and friends would gather to eat dinner and watch "thirtysomething," pooling their resources to hire a babysitter to watch over their collective brood while they watched their favorite show. Two of the show's main characters, Michael and Elliot, owned an advertising agency together, and I still remember being quite taken with the seeming glamor and glitz of agency life.
Having now worked in the ad world for almost 15 years, I can assure those of you who proclaim, "How cool!" when I say I work for an agency, that the advertising business is not all glitz and glamor by any means. While it is definitely fun and exciting at times to be in an environment packed with creative talent, there are also tight deadlines to meet and long hours invested in trying to either win a new client or hang onto an existing one. If I haven't learned anything else in my time as a senior editor, I've learned that timelines more often than not get shortened, that the urgent reigns supreme at all times, and that one of the greatest strengths of those who are successful in the field is to be able to quickly adjust and adapt to the ever-fluid needs of the clients.
Over the last few weeks, I've found myself in a place I've never been before ... a place of sadness, of withdrawal, of deep and permeating grief. Try as I may, and for a reason that remains baffling to me, I can't seem to leave this place just yet, not just yet. Many well-meaning family members and friends recently have told me in various forms that I should hurry up, get over it, move on, get better, be me again, find my happy, and so on. Quite honestly, I have a deep and frustrating sense of guilt because I can't seem to race through this period of my life, hurry it along, make it simply disappear.
Sometimes the most sage advice, the greatest pearls of wisdom, come from the most unexpected sources. A couple of days ago, I received an email from a young woman in my church ... a young wife and mother, half my age and yet wise far beyond her years. Her words touched my soul in a big way and caused my tears to flow like a river. As I read her compassionate and heartfelt note, I knew deep within me that she gets it ... she understands where I am and she loves me still. There's only one way to end this post, and that is with her words rather than my own. And with the most sincere and grateful thanks to my sweet young friend ... you blessed me this week, friend, you blessed me.
"It's very hard to be vulnerable. Why should we not wear armor around each other? We are vicious, nosy, selfish, and on and on. But that's the sweet cinnamon roll center of it: we aren't meant to be alone. You became vulnerable, intensely so, with your little J.R. Don't let what he did for you be for naught. Remember this: it's OK to take your time. Noah took 100 years to build the ark. Abraham and Sarah didn't conceive until they were almost 100 years old. The Bible advises more about not being hasty than against taking time. It will come ... take your time."
Having now worked in the ad world for almost 15 years, I can assure those of you who proclaim, "How cool!" when I say I work for an agency, that the advertising business is not all glitz and glamor by any means. While it is definitely fun and exciting at times to be in an environment packed with creative talent, there are also tight deadlines to meet and long hours invested in trying to either win a new client or hang onto an existing one. If I haven't learned anything else in my time as a senior editor, I've learned that timelines more often than not get shortened, that the urgent reigns supreme at all times, and that one of the greatest strengths of those who are successful in the field is to be able to quickly adjust and adapt to the ever-fluid needs of the clients.
Over the last few weeks, I've found myself in a place I've never been before ... a place of sadness, of withdrawal, of deep and permeating grief. Try as I may, and for a reason that remains baffling to me, I can't seem to leave this place just yet, not just yet. Many well-meaning family members and friends recently have told me in various forms that I should hurry up, get over it, move on, get better, be me again, find my happy, and so on. Quite honestly, I have a deep and frustrating sense of guilt because I can't seem to race through this period of my life, hurry it along, make it simply disappear.
Sometimes the most sage advice, the greatest pearls of wisdom, come from the most unexpected sources. A couple of days ago, I received an email from a young woman in my church ... a young wife and mother, half my age and yet wise far beyond her years. Her words touched my soul in a big way and caused my tears to flow like a river. As I read her compassionate and heartfelt note, I knew deep within me that she gets it ... she understands where I am and she loves me still. There's only one way to end this post, and that is with her words rather than my own. And with the most sincere and grateful thanks to my sweet young friend ... you blessed me this week, friend, you blessed me.
"It's very hard to be vulnerable. Why should we not wear armor around each other? We are vicious, nosy, selfish, and on and on. But that's the sweet cinnamon roll center of it: we aren't meant to be alone. You became vulnerable, intensely so, with your little J.R. Don't let what he did for you be for naught. Remember this: it's OK to take your time. Noah took 100 years to build the ark. Abraham and Sarah didn't conceive until they were almost 100 years old. The Bible advises more about not being hasty than against taking time. It will come ... take your time."
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Hermitude
I love words. And that's a good thing since my profession is that of senior editor. But seriously, I really love words. I love written words. I love spoken words. I love words that are sung. I love words that are. I love words that were. I love words that will be. I love words that should be. There is power in words, healing in words, hurt in words, love in words, remorse in words, pain in words, joy in words, quiet in words, fear in words, praise in words, elation in words, judgment in words, hope in words, peace in words. I seriously love words.
Occasionally, I stumble upon a word that is new to me, that I've never heard or seen before. And more often than not, those seemingly random unknown words carry some deep meaning or hold an underlying lesson that is meant for me to learn. It always amazes and fascinates me that I seem to discover a new word at just the right time ... that a word comes into my world and completely fits with my life's circumstances or experiences of the moment.
While I am normally a very social and outgoing person, I've recently been experiencing a time of withdrawal ... a time of wanting to simply lock myself away and have little to no interaction with anyone. As I've previously written about in other posts, when I am hurt or frustrated or upset or lonely or sick or frightened or ... or ... or, I have a strong proclivity for climbing into my "cave" and hiding those feelings and emotions from the outside world. Those times I understand ... those times I can define a logical reason for my desire to retreat and be alone. This time, however, is different ... deeper, longer lasting, all-encompassing ... this time is different, and I don't understand it at all. I've always been able to pull myself out of whatever funk I was in, pray my way through the darkness, take someone else's hand and allow them to walk me back to the light of day. But this time ... this time I'm having trouble finding my way out of the cave. I am ashamed that I'm here; I am frustrated that I'm here; I am frightened that I'm here.
And then today ... today I encountered a word ... hermitude. The word was used in an email sent to me by a friend ... "Embrace your hermitude. God has you in this place and time for a reason. He means to grow you through this, enable you through this, teach you through this, humble you through this, break you through this. Embrace it, my friend, embrace your hermitude." Doing what I do best, I immediately searched for the definition of this new word, thinking in my arrogant wordsmith mind that I had a good idea of what it meant. My negative interpretation involving separation and isolation quickly dissipated when I read the following sentence in connection with the definition: "For the one in hermitude, a simplicity of life and thought begins to unfold." Wow ... wow ... wow. Maybe, just maybe, that's why I'm here in this cave right now ... to learn to be simple in life, to be humble in thought.
God, I don't even pretend to understand why I feel the way I do right now. I don't even pretend to fathom the depth of this cave I am in. I do, however, know that You are Lord over all things. I do, however, know that You will never leave me alone. I do, however, know that I love you, Lord ... I trust You, Lord ... in the brilliant light of day or the shadowy dark of the cave ... I trust You.
Occasionally, I stumble upon a word that is new to me, that I've never heard or seen before. And more often than not, those seemingly random unknown words carry some deep meaning or hold an underlying lesson that is meant for me to learn. It always amazes and fascinates me that I seem to discover a new word at just the right time ... that a word comes into my world and completely fits with my life's circumstances or experiences of the moment.
While I am normally a very social and outgoing person, I've recently been experiencing a time of withdrawal ... a time of wanting to simply lock myself away and have little to no interaction with anyone. As I've previously written about in other posts, when I am hurt or frustrated or upset or lonely or sick or frightened or ... or ... or, I have a strong proclivity for climbing into my "cave" and hiding those feelings and emotions from the outside world. Those times I understand ... those times I can define a logical reason for my desire to retreat and be alone. This time, however, is different ... deeper, longer lasting, all-encompassing ... this time is different, and I don't understand it at all. I've always been able to pull myself out of whatever funk I was in, pray my way through the darkness, take someone else's hand and allow them to walk me back to the light of day. But this time ... this time I'm having trouble finding my way out of the cave. I am ashamed that I'm here; I am frustrated that I'm here; I am frightened that I'm here.
And then today ... today I encountered a word ... hermitude. The word was used in an email sent to me by a friend ... "Embrace your hermitude. God has you in this place and time for a reason. He means to grow you through this, enable you through this, teach you through this, humble you through this, break you through this. Embrace it, my friend, embrace your hermitude." Doing what I do best, I immediately searched for the definition of this new word, thinking in my arrogant wordsmith mind that I had a good idea of what it meant. My negative interpretation involving separation and isolation quickly dissipated when I read the following sentence in connection with the definition: "For the one in hermitude, a simplicity of life and thought begins to unfold." Wow ... wow ... wow. Maybe, just maybe, that's why I'm here in this cave right now ... to learn to be simple in life, to be humble in thought.
God, I don't even pretend to understand why I feel the way I do right now. I don't even pretend to fathom the depth of this cave I am in. I do, however, know that You are Lord over all things. I do, however, know that You will never leave me alone. I do, however, know that I love you, Lord ... I trust You, Lord ... in the brilliant light of day or the shadowy dark of the cave ... I trust You.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Follow Me
I've come to a conclusion over the last few days ... actually, I've been arriving at this conclusion for the last year and a half or so. And it probably says a lot about my stubborn will that it's taken that long for me to finally get here. To the point of my conclusion, that is. OK, OK ... here it is ... God teaches me some of His greatest truths through events and circumstances that I never expect. He brings me to places and people and situations for the purpose of teaching me something of profound value, of speaking to me in a way that screams that it is Him, of growing me in a manner that may be painful but that is always worthwhile.
For the last two weeks, I've been working on "homework" with my big dog Julie that was given to us by the professional trainer that my son Brad enlisted to teach Julie and me how to walk together. For those of you who missed the blog about Brad's Christmas gift to me, that was his gift ... his incredibly awesome gift ... hiring the trainer for Jules and me. When I first received the email from the trainer outlining our homework until he came to meet with us, my initial reaction was, "This is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of, and it will never work." I was instructed to feed Julie by hand as we walked through the house, starting and stopping, over and over, while I said the words out loud, "Follow me."
That exercise, as ridiculous as it seemed to me, went very well and Julie seemed to fully enjoy the game as well as having my undivided attention. The trainer's email for our work for the second week instructed me to hook a leash to Julie's collar as we played the food game, allowing it to trail along on the floor as we traipsed through the house. While I would love to tell you that the second week was as much of a success as the first week ... well, Julie chewed all the way through four leashes during that week, so I'll let you draw your own conclusion as to how successful we were. The third week, I was told to hold the leash as we played our now familiar food game, starting and stopping, over and over, while I again instructed Julie to "Follow me."
I remained quite skeptical as to the trainer's reasoning as to how this was supposed to teach Julie how to walk on a leash with me outside in the wide open spaces. It's one thing to hang on to her in my little house, but it's a whole different ball game when she drags me down the street or through the yard when we get outdoors. When he arrived at my house last Friday evening, I greeted him with more than a twinge of doubt as to him making any progress at all with my big boisterous hound. I soon discovered just how misplaced my doubts were when within 20 minutes, he had taught Julie not to bolt out the door when he opened it. Within 45 minutes, he had Julie and I not only walking together to the end of my driveway and back, he had her turning and following me without me having to say a word. As he bid us farewell that evening, the trainer smiled and said, "Now you understand the homework, don't you?"
As I snuggled in my bed for the night, it struck me ... Julie wasn't the only one who had been training for the last three weeks. I had so wanted to walk Julie and my little J.R. together; I even bought a connector leash to tether the two of them together, but Julie would pull and strain against the leash so badly that I finally gave up and walked only with J.R. Tears filled my eyes as I realized that the 15 months I had to walk with J.R. was his time, and he was never happier than when he was alone with me on the trail. And now ... now this is Julie's time to walk with me, to be alone with me on the trail. Time, I thought, as my tears spilled onto my pillow ... God's timing in my life is always perfect, always just, always part of His ultimate plan for me. Starting and stopping, over and over ... while God consistently holds out His mighty hand and says, "Follow me."
"Follow me, Terrie, through the darkest times of life. Follow me, Terrie, when you are on the mountaintop. Follow me, Terrie, even if you can't see the path in front of you. Follow me, Terrie, when the sun shines brightly."
"Follow me."
For the last two weeks, I've been working on "homework" with my big dog Julie that was given to us by the professional trainer that my son Brad enlisted to teach Julie and me how to walk together. For those of you who missed the blog about Brad's Christmas gift to me, that was his gift ... his incredibly awesome gift ... hiring the trainer for Jules and me. When I first received the email from the trainer outlining our homework until he came to meet with us, my initial reaction was, "This is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of, and it will never work." I was instructed to feed Julie by hand as we walked through the house, starting and stopping, over and over, while I said the words out loud, "Follow me."
That exercise, as ridiculous as it seemed to me, went very well and Julie seemed to fully enjoy the game as well as having my undivided attention. The trainer's email for our work for the second week instructed me to hook a leash to Julie's collar as we played the food game, allowing it to trail along on the floor as we traipsed through the house. While I would love to tell you that the second week was as much of a success as the first week ... well, Julie chewed all the way through four leashes during that week, so I'll let you draw your own conclusion as to how successful we were. The third week, I was told to hold the leash as we played our now familiar food game, starting and stopping, over and over, while I again instructed Julie to "Follow me."
I remained quite skeptical as to the trainer's reasoning as to how this was supposed to teach Julie how to walk on a leash with me outside in the wide open spaces. It's one thing to hang on to her in my little house, but it's a whole different ball game when she drags me down the street or through the yard when we get outdoors. When he arrived at my house last Friday evening, I greeted him with more than a twinge of doubt as to him making any progress at all with my big boisterous hound. I soon discovered just how misplaced my doubts were when within 20 minutes, he had taught Julie not to bolt out the door when he opened it. Within 45 minutes, he had Julie and I not only walking together to the end of my driveway and back, he had her turning and following me without me having to say a word. As he bid us farewell that evening, the trainer smiled and said, "Now you understand the homework, don't you?"
As I snuggled in my bed for the night, it struck me ... Julie wasn't the only one who had been training for the last three weeks. I had so wanted to walk Julie and my little J.R. together; I even bought a connector leash to tether the two of them together, but Julie would pull and strain against the leash so badly that I finally gave up and walked only with J.R. Tears filled my eyes as I realized that the 15 months I had to walk with J.R. was his time, and he was never happier than when he was alone with me on the trail. And now ... now this is Julie's time to walk with me, to be alone with me on the trail. Time, I thought, as my tears spilled onto my pillow ... God's timing in my life is always perfect, always just, always part of His ultimate plan for me. Starting and stopping, over and over ... while God consistently holds out His mighty hand and says, "Follow me."
"Follow me, Terrie, through the darkest times of life. Follow me, Terrie, when you are on the mountaintop. Follow me, Terrie, even if you can't see the path in front of you. Follow me, Terrie, when the sun shines brightly."
"Follow me."
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Sweet Baby Girl
Ask any mother with more than one child about each one's birth and I can almost guarantee you that unless she was unconscious, she can recount (often in vivid detail) the similarities and differences between each child's entrance into the world. For example ... my oldest son Matt took his time in announcing his presence, keeping me in labor for over 13 hours. He was the one of my three children who came dangerously close to causing me to need a C-section because his cord was wrapped twice around his neck. Son number two, Brad, entered the scene in quite a different manner. He was born 10 minutes after I arrived at the hospital following only a few slight labor pains. In fact, Brad was almost born ... well ... I went to the bathroom after changing into a hospital gown, and he ... well ... suffice it to say that he was almost born in the toilet. My daughter Meghann made her debut in the most normal way of all three of my children. I was in labor for about six hours, and was able to deliver her by natural childbirth. Perhaps since she was my third child, and she followed Brad by only 18 months, God gave her to me on Mother's Day so that I would never forget her birthday.
Perhaps another universal truth when it comes to mothers and children is that the hopes and prayers and dreams a mother has for her child begin the moment she discovers that a little life is growing within her. You begin to wonder if the baby is a boy or a girl, if they will be healthy, what their personalities will be like, what path they will choose to follow when they grow up. You hope for high school graduations, college diplomas, and careers that are fulfilling. You pray that they will have a strong and deep relationship with God, that they will desperately seek His will and follow His direction, and that they will immerse themselves in His Word. You dream of weddings, their first home, and future grandchildren.
With all three of my children now adults, I've been blessed to see many of those hopes and prayers and dreams that I had for them as babies come to fruition over the last 26 plus years. I've seen each of them endure some hurts and go through some deep pain as well. I've watched them grow and learn life lessons, and I've seen them fall down and get up and try again. And I will soon watch my little girl walk down the aisle and marry her Prince Charming. Yep, her longtime boyfriend Barrett asked Meghann on Christmas Eve to become his wife. They haven't officially set a date yet, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if there is an early summer wedding.
A couple of weeks ago, I went with Meghann to watch her try on wedding gowns. I watched her walk out of the dressing area and step up onto the platform in the store, and I began to weep. As Meghann said, "Mom, don't cry," in my mind I saw a little blonde-haired two-year-old girl after surgery on her ears cuddled against my chest with her night-night blanket. I saw a 5-year-old riding her pink tricycle down the basement stairs. I saw her in elementary school playing on the playground. I saw her participating in junior high basketball games. I saw her with two broken arms when she accompanied me on a speaking engagement and garnered lots of sympathy from the women present at the event. I saw her graduating from high school. I saw her in her classroom working with children with autism. I saw my sweet baby girl as a beautiful young woman shopping for her wedding gown.
Happy engagement, sweet baby girl ... happy, happy engagement. Happy wedding to come ... and happy marriage for the rest of your life. Happiness to you, my sweet baby girl ... all the happiness that life can bring to you ... I love you!
Perhaps another universal truth when it comes to mothers and children is that the hopes and prayers and dreams a mother has for her child begin the moment she discovers that a little life is growing within her. You begin to wonder if the baby is a boy or a girl, if they will be healthy, what their personalities will be like, what path they will choose to follow when they grow up. You hope for high school graduations, college diplomas, and careers that are fulfilling. You pray that they will have a strong and deep relationship with God, that they will desperately seek His will and follow His direction, and that they will immerse themselves in His Word. You dream of weddings, their first home, and future grandchildren.
With all three of my children now adults, I've been blessed to see many of those hopes and prayers and dreams that I had for them as babies come to fruition over the last 26 plus years. I've seen each of them endure some hurts and go through some deep pain as well. I've watched them grow and learn life lessons, and I've seen them fall down and get up and try again. And I will soon watch my little girl walk down the aisle and marry her Prince Charming. Yep, her longtime boyfriend Barrett asked Meghann on Christmas Eve to become his wife. They haven't officially set a date yet, but I wouldn't be at all surprised if there is an early summer wedding.
A couple of weeks ago, I went with Meghann to watch her try on wedding gowns. I watched her walk out of the dressing area and step up onto the platform in the store, and I began to weep. As Meghann said, "Mom, don't cry," in my mind I saw a little blonde-haired two-year-old girl after surgery on her ears cuddled against my chest with her night-night blanket. I saw a 5-year-old riding her pink tricycle down the basement stairs. I saw her in elementary school playing on the playground. I saw her participating in junior high basketball games. I saw her with two broken arms when she accompanied me on a speaking engagement and garnered lots of sympathy from the women present at the event. I saw her graduating from high school. I saw her in her classroom working with children with autism. I saw my sweet baby girl as a beautiful young woman shopping for her wedding gown.
Happy engagement, sweet baby girl ... happy, happy engagement. Happy wedding to come ... and happy marriage for the rest of your life. Happiness to you, my sweet baby girl ... all the happiness that life can bring to you ... I love you!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)