Checking Out

My friend and fellow blogger Sunny has often told me that the posts she appreciates most from my blog are the ones that are raw, real and gut wrenchingly honest. Well, I'm putting a disclaimer at the beginning of this entry for those of you who may want to opt out of reading today's post ... it may be the rawest, most real, most gut wrenchingly honest one I've ever penned. It's been a hard one to write, one that has taken me a couple of days to gather all the thoughts that have been swirling around in my brain into a presentable and readable form, but it's also one that has been on my heart and mind for a while. Something that happened in Kansas City on Tuesday caused me to acknowledge that it's time to write these words.

I've written before about how I don't watch a lot of television anymore ... but I do watch the local news every morning while I'm getting ready for work, and more specifically, I watch the weather to see what's in store for the day outside. I have a favorite station for that information, as I'm sure many of you do, and that favorite is based in large part on the personalities of the newscasters and the weather people. My favorite station here in KC has long been Fox 4, and my favorite weather guy of all time has been Don Harman. I loved his whimsical manner of reporting, his quirky sense of humor, his involvement in various charity work ... on the air, he seemed like the happiest guy in the world, married with a 2 1/2 year old little girl and a great career. What I'm sure that most of his viewers never knew, including myself, was that Don had long struggled with depression, and on Tuesday afternoon, he took his own life at the young age of 41.

Needless to say, there has been a ton of commentary over the last couple of days concerning Don's passing ... some encouraging and compassionate about him and toward his family, some negative and insensitive from people who do not understand depression and its potentially fatal outcome in a person's life. Which leads me to the real core of what I want to say in this post ... depression is a nasty beast, and those who have never known someone or are not yourself fighting the fiery dragon should take a step back before hurling those stones of judgment. I say this because I've been the person who didn't understand ... I've been the person who said, "Just get happy," or "What does he have to be depressed about?" or "You need to pray harder and sin less," or ... "How could anyone ever commit suicide and think they could even have a remote chance of going to heaven?" Hard to admit, but very true ... I have been the one who sat in judgment over people who struggled with depression and I spoke those very words. But I'm not that person any longer, friends ... I'm the one on the other side ... now I can fully empathize with those who fight depression each day.

I understand days that require every ounce of strength and fortitude I possess to get out of bed and get dressed. I understand what it means to have no appetite at all and to have to force myself to eat. I understand how draining it is to try and put on a happy face when I'm with others. I understand the overwhelming sadness that comes when I see that people are uncomfortable being around me. I understand what it feels like to stare at my face in the mirror every morning and wonder if I can go through another day. I understand the frustration of trying medication after medication hoping that one will eventually work. I understand the disjointedness that accompanies not fitting in or belonging anywhere anymore. I understand losing all interest in the things I formerly enjoyed. I understand loneliness and isolation. I understand making the choice not to see the doctors anymore because the visits are pointless. I understand the penetrating fear that engulfs me when I wonder if the chemicals in my brain will ever be balanced again. I understand the all-consuming grief that floods my soul when people no longer call or visit or email or invite. I understand the piercing guilt that sweeps through me when someone tells me my faith isn't strong enough to make me well, or that I should be more thankful and I would be well, or that I'm not trying hard enough to get well ... trust me, I understand the whole guilt side of depression very, very well. And I understand being in the darkest of all places ... a place where a person can feel that no one cares, a place where a person can recognize and accept that whether they live or die makes no difference, a place where a person desires to no longer burden those around them, a place where a person says, "I give up." Now I understand the depth of the pain and despair that Don Harman felt on Tuesday when he made his final decision to check out of life ... now I understand because now I understand what depression feels like, what it tastes like, what it smells like. Now I understand because now I understand firsthand what depression is and what it can do to a person.

On this morning's newscast, the anchors who worked so closely with Don were open and transparent in both their grief and in the cause of Don's death. I sat on my couch eating breakfast with tears streaming down my cheeks watching the television as the anchors couldn't hold back their own tears as they spoke about their beloved friend. They ended the segment with some tear-filled words that have rolled around in my mind all day ... "If you are struggling with depression, don't give up trying to get help. And if someone you love is fighting it, don't ever give up trying to help them. Don't give up." Again I say, depression is a nasty beast ... a nasty beast indeed.

My thoughts and prayers tonight are with Don's family and friends ... I can't imagine the depth of their pain and grief. I know this is a long post, but I feel that I would be remiss if I didn't end with a list of the warning signs that indicate a person may be at risk for suicide.
 

• Appearing depressed or sad most of the time.
• Talking about death or dying.
• Withdrawing from family and friends.
• Feeling hopeless.
• Feeling helpless.
• Feeling strong anger or rage.
• Feeling trapped -- like there is no way out of a situation.
• Experiencing dramatic mood changes.
• Abusing drugs or alcohol.
• Exhibiting a change in personality.
• Acting impulsively or recklessly.
• Losing interest in most activities.
• Experiencing a change in sleeping habits.
• Experiencing a change in eating habits.
• Performing poorly at work or in school.
• Giving away prized possessions.
• Writing a will. 
• Feeling excessive guilt or shame. 

"If you are struggling with depression, don't give up trying to get help. And if someone you love is fighting it, don't ever give up trying to help them. Don't give up."

Testing 1, 2, 3 ... Testing

One thing I learned early on when I started speaking at women's events was that not all microphones are created equal, and it didn't take me long at all to decide that I definitely like the cordless ones best. Well, I like them best when they work the way they are supposed to work, which unfortunately, they don't always do. And I must also say that one of my greatest fears when I speak has always been that I would forget to flip the switch into the off position on the cordless microphone when I go to the restroom ... don't laugh ... apparently that's a pretty common fear among public speakers. But back to microphones that don't always function the way they are built to function ... I've had them completely die in the middle of a session; I've gotten "buzzed" by one with electrical problems; I even had one of the old-fashioned corded ones that spontaneously broke into a million pieces while it was perched on a microphone stand. So now, when I travel to an event to speak, I always request that we do a microphone check before I step onto the stage. And every time we run through the check, I always say, "Testing 1, 2, 3 ... testing" until the sound people get all the levels correct and any issues worked out.

Last weekend while I was shopping in the after-Thanksgiving madness, I made a stop at a Hallmark store ... you know, Hallmark cards and really mushy TV commercials that make you cry ... that Hallmark store. I stopped there because a few days earlier, I had decided that I wanted to get a recordable storybook for my future granddaughter to have on her first Christmas next year since I won't be with her (Matt and Becca will be moving away when he completes his Ph.D. in May). And I had already decided that I would buy A Charlie Brown Christmas to record for her since Matt loves anything Charlie Brown ... in fact, the first gift he bought his future daughter was a stuffed Snoopy ... go ahead and say a collective "Oh, how sweet!" As I was looking at the Christmas books (which were on sale for half price), I decided to also purchase 'Twas the Night Before Christmas to record for little B.J. ... my mom used to read that story to my children when they were young ... I can still see her sitting on the couch with my three little ones around her as she read to them. Now get this ... I'm standing in line to pay for the books when my phone rings and I see that it's Matt. I answer and he says, "Hey, Mom, Bec and I were talking and we thought if you were going to get the baby a Christmas gift, you might want to get the recordable Charlie Brown Christmas since we may not be together next Christmas." Yep, you guessed it ... I stood in line at the Hallmark store bawling my eyes out.

So tonight was my fourth attempt to record the books for B.J. ... I can't get through them without tearing up, and the harder I try to pull myself together and read the story, the more the tears flow. Thankfully, Hallmark designed the books so that weepers like me get more than one chance to record the story. It struck me tonight as I gave up after my latest attempt to read the Charlie Brown book that there are some deep truths to be gleaned from the process of trying to record the stories for little B.J. I realized that my son recognizes that the chances are great that I will miss his daughter's first Christmas and that it is important to him that she will be able to hear her Granny read to her. I realized how important family is, how short life truly is, and how much I wish that I would have had the foresight to have recorded my mom reading 'Twas the Night Before Christmas to my kiddos. I realized that in many ways, my life is like a recordable book ... God gives me so many chances to get the story right ... no matter how many times I mess up, He erases my mistakes and allows me to try again and again and again.

My prayer tonight is that God would do a microphone check on me ... that He would test me, examine me, make me who He desires me to be. And while you do, Lord ... while you do, thank You for letting me start over ... to read the story again ... and again ... and again.

"Examine me, O Lord, and try me; test my mind and my heart." Psalm 26:2

Habitual Creatures

When I first started thinking about writing this post, I decided to do what I do best ... research my subject as best I could. So I did a lot of reading about habits and how long it takes to form them and found that there's a generally accepted range of time, 21 to 66 days, much longer than I thought. And then I did a lot of reading about how long it takes to break a well-established habit and found that most folks agree that it takes around 30 days to undo an action that has become part of a person's daily routine, much less time than I thought. And the reason the whole habit thing has been on my mind is because I just spent 10 days at home with my two dogs ... my two dogs who are most definitely creatures of habit. I spent most of my time off hanging around the house with the exception of Black Friday shopping with Brad and Shelby and meeting a friend for lunch one day, and perhaps it's because I was home so much that the habits of my hounds caught my attention in a big way. I'm not going to recount all of the things they do every single day, but I am going to mention some of them for two reasons ... to support my theory concerning habitual behavior and because the dogs are just stinking cute when they do these things each day.

A while back, I started what my kids would say is a bad thing with my dogs. Each time they go out in the yard to go potty, I give them a Cheeto ... or two ... or five. And each time I touch the bag of Cheetos, both Ollie and Julie come flying to the back door to go outside. They don't come running for the bag, they come running to the back door because the sound of the Cheetos bag means "outside" to the two of them. And yes, it's adorable to watch them both when they bolt outside, and it's even more adorable to see them sit in unison when they come back inside as they wait for their Cheetos. One more food-related behavior ... each night before I go to bed, I take my nighttime medications, two pills that I keep in their original prescription bottles on the kitchen counter rather than in a pill organizer. When Julie and Ollie hear me open the bottle and start to shake a pill out, they come racing into the kitchen. Even if they are both sound asleep in my bed, they come running when they hear the pills because they know that after I take my pills, I always eat a piece of cheese before I go to bed ... and I always give each of them a piece of cheese, too. And when we turn in for the night, Julie has her spot and Ollie has his. Julie stretches out and sleeps on the side of the bed next to me, and Ollie burrows under the covers until he is down by my feet where he then flips over on his back ... and they sleep in the same spots in the same way every single night. My hounds are most definitely habitual creatures.

In watching my dogs over the last week, I couldn't help but think about my own habits and routines. There are many things that I do at the same time in the same way every single day. Take breakfast, for example. I always eat between 7:00 and 7:30, and I have three eggs over easy with cream cheese and a glass of almond milk ... every single day for the last two years, I have eaten the same breakfast at the same time. I even cook the eggs in the same skillet every morning. I never used to be such a creature of habit and routine, but I certainly have become one over the last couple of years. I have a routine that I follow each morning as I get ready to leave for work, and I have a routine that I follow when I come home each evening. The more I think about it, the more I realize that aside from things that may pop up at work, all of my days are pretty much the same ... doing the same thing the same way over and over again.

I couldn't get the whole habit thing off of my mind today, and as I was driving home tonight, God placed a thought deep within me. Habits can be good, or they can be bad. Routines can be a source of stability in life, or they can cause life to become dull and joyless. Just like He has so many times over the last year, God reminded me once again as I drove that it's about perspective ... it's about keeping myself focused on Him rather than the habits or routines of my daily existence. And as I greeted Julie and Ollie when I got home and we began our nightly routine, I whispered a prayer ... Make me habitual when it comes to You, Father ... make me a creature of habit when it comes to loving You, to serving You, to talking with You, to being in Your Word ... make those things be the things I do every single day ... make me a creature of habit, Lord.

We Come Far

Just as there are books that have left a lasting impression on me, there are movies that have as well. I will forever remember going to see Gone With the Wind at the old Tivoli Theater in Chattanooga with Mom and Dad or Steel Magnolias with a group of gal friends in Florida the weekend before we moved to Kansas City. There are several movies that have touched me or that hold a special place in my heart, but there is one that I would probably rank as my all-time favorite ... Dances With Wolves. I remember the first time I saw it in the theater with my ex-husband and our next-door neighbors, and though I own the DVD, I will still stop and watch it every time I stumble upon it on television. Which was the case yesterday ... a cold, windy, rainy gray day, a day when my mood was as gloomy as the skies outside my windows ... yesterday, I spent three hours snuggled on my couch with my dogs watching Dances With Wolves.

The film begins with a scene in which the main character, Lieutenant John J. Dunbar, is wounded in the American Civil War. Not wanting to have his leg amputated, Lieutenant Dunbar takes a superior officer's horse and rides back and forth adjacent to enemy lines "to produce his own death." While the Confederate soldiers are focused on trying to shoot the lieutenant, the Union army attacks and wins the battle. Dunbar survives and is given a commendation and his choice of posts at which to serve. He chooses the western frontier, saying that he wishes to see it before it disappears. He finds the fort abandoned and in disrepair but decides to stay and man the post himself, keeping a diary of his daily life on the prairie. He meets and is accepted into the Sioux tribe, is given the name Dances With Wolves, and marries a woman who had been brought into the tribe as a child when her family was killed. When Dunbar returns to the fort to retrieve his diary before the tribe moves to its winter camp, he is captured and treated as a traitor. While transporting him back for trial, his Sioux family attacks and kills the soldiers to save him from certain hanging. The movie concludes with Dunbar and his wife Stands With a Fist leaving the tribe in order to try and protect them from retribution for the soldiers' deaths.

The opening scene in which Lieutenant Dunbar rides across the field with his arms stretched open is powerful to say the least. His whispered words of "Forgive me, Father," as he attempts to bring about his own death always bring tears to my eyes. I can completely identify with the words he writes to identify his lonely existence at the fort ... "I remain alone, however, and should troops not arrive soon, I fear that all may be lost." But it is the words that are spoken in the final scenes of the movie that continue to impact me the most. Dunbar is saying goodbye to Kicking Bird, the tribe's medicine man whom he admires and respects, and who has become his close friend. As they exchange pipes each has carved, Kicking Bird says, "We come far, you and me." And Dunbar replies, "I will not forget you." Then as Dunbar and Stands With a Fist ride out of the Sioux camp that has been their home, the young warrior, Wind in His Hair, who initially most strongly opposed Dunbar, sits on his horse at the top of a hill and shouts, "Dances With Wolves! ... Dances With Wolves! ... I am Wind In His Hair! ... Do you see that I am your friend? ... Can you see that you will always be my friend?"

While some would say that the film is violent and not very well done, I would say the movie is about love and friendship and commitment and discovering one's true identity and purpose in life, and that it offers a great glance into a way of life from days gone by. It reminds me each time I watch it that there are bonds between people that transcend the boundaries of time or social standing or race or distance. It reminds me of people in my life who have come far with me, of people I will not forget. But most of all, it reminds me of my one true Friend ... my Friend who says to me each morning ... "We come far, you and Me." I will not forget You, Lord ... I will not forget You.

 

Utter Madness

For as far back as I can remember, I've never cared much for shopping. As I've grown older, my dislike of the process has evolved into near loathing accompanied with a significant amount of dread when I know that I must shop. It doesn't matter what I'm shopping for ... food, clothes, gifts ... I almost break out in a cold sweat when I know a shopping excursion is on the horizon. If I could, I would never leave my couch to purchase anything, I would do every bit of my shopping online. But ... I love my son, Brad ... I love him a lot, in fact, and there is one day of the year that my Bradley looks forward to all year. You see, for my son Brad, Thanksgiving means two things ... eating lots and lots of food, and preparing his plan of attack for Black Friday shopping. I'm not sure when it began, but Brad has a thing about shopping on Black Friday ... a real serious thing about it. And because I love him and because he says it's tradition for me to accompany him for at least some of the grand event, I steel myself each year for the crowds and the long lines ... yes, I, the woman who detests shopping, shops on Black Friday because I love my son.

So yesterday morning, I ventured out to purchase a newspaper to give to Brad the minute he arrived at my house in the early evening. For as technologically savvy as my son is, our entire family knows that Brad must have an old-fashioned hard copy newspaper on Thanksgiving ... a newspaper that is filled to overflowing with Black Friday shopping advertisements. Brad's reputation for spreading all the ads on the floor in front of him as he painstakingly makes a list of all the items he wishes to purchase and carefully maps out his travel route to the stores is even known among our extended family in Tennessee. One year when we were there visiting family, Matt and Brad camped out in front of Best Buy for the better part of a rather chilly night so that they would be some of the first customers in the door when the store opened at 4:00 a.m. I'm telling you ... Brad has a thing about shopping on Black Friday.

While many people have voiced disapproval that many retailers were beginning the traditional Black Friday sales on Thanksgiving this year, Brad was almost giddy last night when his girlfriend arrived at my house to join us on our shopping adventure. She had never experienced Black Friday shopping, and she had certainly never experienced it with Brad. As he checked and rechecked his list and discussed where we were going and when, Shelby patted him on the back and shook her head in wonder that the young man who has worn the same ugly orange sneakers since junior high was so excited to go shopping.

Though I have gone Black Friday shopping time and time again with Brad over the last 20 something years, I've never experienced it to the fullest until last night. Before he could drive himself, Brad and Matt would be the ones who would stand in line and rush in when the doors of the stores opened in the wee hours of the morning. I would then, like any smart mother would, join them at a much more reasonable time after the initial chaos was over. Translated ... I would give the boys money, tell them what I wanted them to buy for me, sleep in, meet them for breakfast and then shop for what I absolutely had to after the predawn crowds had thinned out a bit.

But this year, since the stores were opening earlier on Thanksgiving evening and since my vacuum cleaner died a couple of days ago, I decided to go with Brad and Shelby and, as Brad so eloquently stated, "see what I've been missing out on all these years." We began at Walmart at 9:30 ... well, we began by parking across the street from Walmart at 9:30 because the parking lot was completely full. We hiked to the store where we then split up and staked out our spots near the items we most wanted to purchase ... Brad and Shelby in front of the $1.28 bath towels and me in front of the $36.00 Bissell vacuum. And friends, in all my 52 years of life, I've never experienced anything quite like the utter madness that ensued when the clock reached 10:00 p.m. and a voice on the loudspeaker announced that the sale was on. I'll spare you the details of the behavior of the people around me whose sole mission in life seemed to be to own a $36.00 Bissell vacuum, but I will tell you that when I met up with Brad and Shelby a few minutes later, the two of them were breathless as they told me about an older woman who was ready to throw punches if she didn't get her $1.28 towels. And I will also tell you that my son Matt and very pregnant daughter-in-law were at the Walmart in their hometown a couple of hours west of here at the same time when Becca sent me a text message saying, "This is crazy and I'm scared!"

I finally got home at 3:00 a.m. after standing in line with Shelby for an hour and twenty minutes to check out at Old Navy while Brad hit Best Buy and Target. They got back to my house at 3:30 after they made a quick stop at Kohl's and then they drove another 40 minutes to go home. As I climbed into bed, it was almost 4:00 a.m., and I said to Julie and Ollie, "That was utter madness, dogs ... sheer and utter madness." But the final thought that was on my mind as I drifted off to sleep was this ... I made memories tonight with Brad, memories that he will always have. I got to chat with Shelby and discover that she's a deep thinker and a great gal who encourages and challenges Brad to follow his dreams. Memories ... tonight was about making memories for my son far more than it was about shopping.

So here's to you, Bradley, and your Black Friday shopping skills ... here's to you and your precious heart ... here's to you and your sweet smile ... here's to you and your strong hugs ... here's to you, my middle kiddo ... thanks for reminding me right in the middle of utter madness how very much I love you.

Thanks Giving

This morning, I ate breakfast ... and I thanked God for eggs, cream cheese, almond milk and sugar-free chocolate syrup. This morning, I took Ollie for a walk ... and I thanked God that the loose dog we ran into didn't bite us. This morning, Ollie and I saw three ducks in the creek ... and I thanked God that I could see the sharp green coloring on their heads. This morning, I swept out my garage ... and I thanked God that I have a place to park my car. This morning, I cleaned my house ... and I thanked God for the roof over my head (and my doggies' heads, too). This morning, I cooked turkey breast and butternut squash ... and I thanked God for an oven that works. This morning, I took a shower ... and I thanked God for hot water, soap and shampoo. This morning, I lit candles ... and I thanked God that I could smell them. This morning, I wrote some letters ... and I thanked God that I can put my thoughts on paper. This morning, I thought about my family in Tennessee as they would be gathering at Country Place to eat together ... and I thanked God for my extended family. This morning, I thought about my children scattered about with various friends and family ... and I thanked God that they are well-loved. This morning, I thought about the friends I've had down through the years ... and I thanked God for the way they have blessed me.

This morning, I thanked God for the gift of His Son ... this morning, I thanked God for His forgiveness ... this morning, I thanked God for His love ... this morning, I thanked God for being God.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends ... Happy Thanksgiving.

Ain't Bigger Than a Minute

It's funny to me how things my mom used to say will randomly pop into my head ... sometimes it's something I'm doing or somewhere I'm going or something I see or something I smell that will trigger me to recall what she used to say. With all the food-related activities that accompany Thanksgiving, all day I've been thinking about what Mom used to say when a person was thin ... "Lord, help! She ain't bigger than a minute!" And since Mom was deaf in one ear, she often spoke those words loudly enough for everyone around her to hear. I distinctly remember one such instance when we were shopping ... actually, I remember many times when Mom loudly announced her opinion in a public place. And while I was often embarrassed back then, I would give everything I own to be able to take Mom shopping again no matter what her commentary might be ... everything I own, friends.

My son Matt called last night to ask what I wanted for Christmas, and as we talked, he asked me what size jeans I wear. When I told him what size I now wear, he asked what size I wore two years ago. Now two years ago, I would have never told my sweet son what size jeans I wore ... never ever. And I would have also had a stern talk with him about not asking me what size my clothes were. But last night ... last night, I told him that before I was diagnosed with diabetes, I wore a size 22 in jeans and had to leave the button at the waist undone because they were too tight. The last pair of jeans I bought a few weeks ago were a size 6 ... if my math is correct, that means I've gone down eight sizes in jeans. I don't think I've ever worn a size 6 until now, even when I was young and much slimmer than I was as an adult. Matt's response was, "Wow, Mom ... wow. I bet you would have never imagined that you'd be wearing a 6 in jeans, huh? I'm proud of you, Mom ... really proud of you."

All day today, I've been thinking about my conversation with Matt last night, and I couldn't help but think about what my mom would have said about the change in my appearance over the last couple of years. I couldn't help but remember a time when she came to visit and I picked her up at the airport and she announced to everyone within earshot that she could tell I had lost a little weight. I couldn't help but think that were I picking her up at the airport today, she would have proudly announced to everyone around her ... "Lord, help! My girl ain't bigger than minute!" But here's the thing ... I also couldn't help but think about how many times I look in the mirror and still see the size 22 me rather than the size 6 me. And I couldn't help but think about how many times I look in the mirror of my heart and still see the me I was all those years ago before I met Christ.

The more I thought about Matt and Mom and Thanksgiving and food and what size I used to wear and who I used to be and how much my life has changed over the last couple of years, a verse from God's Word lodged itself in my mind. A verse that reminds me to look in the mirror with His eyes, His heart, His love.

"Therefore if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creature; the old things passed away; behold, new things have come." 2 Corinthians 5:17
 

The L Word

My son Matt is a brilliant young man. I know that some of you will say that I have a skewed opinion because I'm his mother, but he really is brilliant. He is 27 years old and will receive his Ph.D. in marriage and family therapy next May. He completed his undergraduate degree in 3 1/2 years, and the university allowed him to begin taking classes toward his Ph.D. during his last semester of graduate school. His grade point average has been a solid 4.0 throughout both his graduate and post-graduate education. He really is a brilliant young man.

Matt has always been smart, but I didn't realize when he was young just how smart he really was. He always had a fascination with words (I can't imagine who might have encouraged that trait in him), and from time to time, he would get focused on a certain word and use that word every time he had the opportunity. Sometimes the way he would use the words would be hilarious, like when he got hung up on the word "linkage." He would attach the word to other words in quite comical ways that often made no sense to anyone else, but he loved the way the word sounded in conjunction with another. Let's have some cake-linkage for dinner, Mom. I'm going for a linkage-walk. I need a hair-linkage-cut. I don't feel very linkage-good. I know ... he's brilliant, but a little crazy, too.

When I think about Matt's youthful word infatuation, I can't help but think about the power of words ... words can hurt or heal or torment or praise or judge or make us laugh or cry or change the direction of our lives. Words can linger in our minds or hearts forever, and once a word is spoken, it can never be recalled. Words can make us feel loved, or they can make us feel that we are completely alone in life. Words are more powerful than many of us realize, and I know that I should think and pray so much more about what I say before I speak.

When I went with my friend to the inner city church that I wrote about in the post Forgiven Much, we were asked as we entered the church to choose from three different brightly colored stickers and to place one on our shirts. In his sermon, the pastor talked about the various labels that we place on one another, and about the pain or joy those labels can bring into our lives. He spoke about labels of love and labels of hate, about labels of success and labels of failure, about labels of truth and labels of lies. And as he spoke, my eyes filled with tears as I gazed at those around me who nodded in agreement or spoke words of affirmation as the minister's words struck chords within their hearts. You see, those people ... those people know what it means to be labeled. Those people know what it means to bear L words ... to walk through every moment of their lives with a label pinned to their clothing, to be judged, to be criticized, to be scorned.

Words ... L words ... I'm so thankful that when God looks at me, He sees me with only one label ... covered ... covered in the blood of Jesus Christ.  

Hands and Feet

A few years ago, I was asked to photograph a "prom" for a group of seniors at a retirement home ... and what an incredible experience that was. Watching those older folks dance and laugh and eat and have fun was a true blessing to me, and taking both posed prom photos and spontaneous shots was an absolute blast. I took over 2,000 photos that evening, and it was that night that I got the idea for a book filled with photos ... photos of people's hands and feet. I know that sounds a bit odd, but if you think about it, our hands and feet tell the stories of where we've been and what we've done in life. So over the last years, I've compiled quite a collection of photos of hands and feet ... pudgy little baby feet, worn and calloused older hands, mud-covered teenaged feet, tender gentle hands of a new mom. And maybe someday ... maybe someday, I'll put those photos into a book ... maybe someday.

It's cold here in Kansas, and cold weather now means a couple of things to me ... my feet hurt more than they usually do, and my hands get so dry that they crack and bleed. So yesterday as I walked with Ollie in the cold air (don't worry, he was bundled up in his sweater and down jacket), I was pretty focused on my hands and feet. And as I felt the pain in my aching feet and the roughness of the gloves on my dry hands, I began to think about how we as Christians are called to be the hands and feet of Jesus to those around us. With each labored step I took, I realized how much I have missed it over the years, how very much I have failed to understand what it means to allow Him to use my hands to minister to others or to guide my feet in the paths that He desires for me to walk.

By the time Ollie and I reached the place on the trail where we turn to head home, I realized that God had once again chosen to use our time on the path to speak to me and impart yet another lesson to me. It is always humbling to me when His voice to me is so clear, when His love for me is so intense, when His presence around me is so real. Being the hands and feet of Jesus, I thought, the hands and feet of Jesus. What does that mean ... what does that really mean? It means stepping outside of my comfort zone ... it means loving the unlovable ... it means going the extra mile to help another ... it means there should be no judgmental attitude within me ... it means hugging someone who is lonely ... it means caring for someone who is sick ... it means reading to someone who can't read ... it means including someone who has no one ... it means comforting someone who has been abandoned ... it means feeding someone who is hungry ... it means so much more than going to church on Sundays, caring only about those whom I deem worthy or acceptable, convincing myself that I shouldn't worry about the pain or hurt in the eyes of the person sitting right next to me who is struggling to get through one more day. Being the hands and feet of Jesus means so much more than I ever understood before.

When I got home and peeled off all the layers of clothing I had put on to walk outside in the cold, a thought crashed into my mind and caused tears to spring to my eyes. The hands and feet of Jesus, friends, were pierced with spikes ... pierced with spikes as He was placed upon the cross ... pierced with spikes because of His love for me. The hands and feet of Jesus ... so much more than I ever understood before.

"Surely He took up our pain and bore our suffering, yet we considered Him punished by God, stricken by Him, and afflicted. But He was pierced for our transgressions, He was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was on Him, and by His wounds we are healed. Isaiah 53:4-5

 

On the Move

My mom used to say, "Someday when you have children of your own, you'll understand." Funny ... Mom was right. I didn't understand fear until my children were sick or injured. I didn't understand happiness until my children said, "I love you, Mom." I didn't understand worry until my children were teenagers. I didn't understand sadness until my children were angry with me. I didn't understand joy until I saw my children smile. I didn't understand love until my children wrapped their arms around me. I didn't understand life until my children were born ... I didn't understand life at all until God blessed me with Matt, Brad and Meghann. Funny ... Mom was right.

Yesterday, I went to a baby shower for B.J. ... that's what we've been calling my future granddaughter ... Baby Johnson ... B.J. for short. There were the traditional shower events ... games, food and gifts. There were lots of gifts ... Matt and Becca are well-loved and have been blessed in receiving almost everything they need for their soon-to-arrive little girl. Perhaps the best gift of all was a baby bathtub in the shape of a large yellow duck that makes quacking sounds when you squeeze its orange bill. Matt and Becca's little dachshund Andy's favorite toys are rubber duckies, so I can only imagine what the tiny hound will think when he sees the giant duck.

Becca is blessed with wonderful parents (and Matt with wonderful in-laws), and as I sat there watching all the festivities yesterday, I breathed a prayer of thanks that little B.J. will have such awesome grandparents. They will love and spoil her and shower her with all the things a little girl deserves to have. They will pray for her every single day, and they will be shining examples of a strong and abiding faith in God. They are good people with good hearts, and I know that B.J. will be deeply loved and cherished by them. And as much as I've ever known anything in my life, I know that little girl deserves and needs wonderful grandparents who will be there for her through thick and thin.

I was completely overwhelmed when Becca placed my hand on her belly as little B.J. moved and turned ... I felt her moving ... my hand felt the miracle of life that is growing inside my precious daughter-in-law. As I drove home after the shower, tears streamed down my face ... my baby boy is having a baby of his own, and I felt her move ... I felt her move. She deserves so much love ... parents and aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents who can give her that love ... the love that she so deserves.

So here's to you, little B.J. ... keep growing and moving and getting ready to meet all those who already love you ... all those who will lead you and teach you and guide you and love you forever ... all those who will be there for you, little girl ... here's to you, little B.J. ... here's to you.