Lost and Found

Happy Anniversary to my FBC Family

2012-01-09T17:11:00.007-05:00

This quote was in our worship order yesterday:

Common belief identifies members of God’s family. And common affection unites them. Paul gives this relationship rule the church: “Be devoted to one another in brotherly love.” The apostle plays the wordsmith here, bookending the verse with fraternal-twin terms. He begins with philostorgos (philos means friendly; storgos means family love) and concludes with Philadelphia (phileo means tender affection; adelphia means brethren). An awkward but accurate translation of the verse might be “Have a friend/family devotion to each other in a friend/family sort of way.” If Paul doesn’t get us with the first adjective, he catches us with the second. In both he reminds us: the church is God’s family.

You didn’t pick me. I didn’t pick you. You may not like me. I may not like you. But since God picked and likes us both, we are family.”

--Max Lucado, Cure for the Common Life.

I already had this kind of thing on my mind before this showed up on my radar. I’ve been thinking about my family a lot lately. Mostly because today is the one year anniversary of the day my Dad took his leave of this world for heaven.

There are many days when there is nothing I want more than to join my Dad. No, I’m not suicidal. I just get tired of keeping up all the requirements necessary to survive and wish somebody else would do them for me for a while and let me coast for a day or two. It’s exhausting to be human, especially one who’s trying to live right on the straight and narrow. Right now Dad’s not worrying about stepping on the scale at the doctor’s office, or the cable bill, or what on earth to cook for dinner that will help me feel better about stepping on the doctor’s scale. I long for days like that when I won’t have to waste a single brain cell on any of those things.

While I no longer have my Dad, or anybody else to do the hard stuff for me, I do still have my family.

And while I still have a mother, a father-in-law, two sisters, one sister-in-law, three brothers-in-law, and several nieces and nephews here on this earth, you, First Baptist Church, are my family too.

I think sometimes my blood relatives don’t get that, that the church is my family.

Sometimes, FBC, I don’t think you understand fully either that YOU are family to me.

When we came to FBC we left everything behind to follow God’s leadership and come here to serve Him and you. We left friends, family, careers, and anything else you can think of. We were hesitant at first. We put the search committee off for six months because we just weren’t sure. But then, once we realized that if we wanted to do the will of God, we had no other choice. If we were going to leave the choice up to God, then this was it. We were all in. And we still are.

That was 15 years ago this week.

The children that were newborns at the time are in high school now. The kids that were in high school then have children of their own now.

On one of our first Sundays here, Scott sang with an accompaniment track. It was uncharted territory for you at the time. It was obvious because even though it was a split track and the demo voice should have been turned down, Scott ended up singing Somebody’s Prayin’ right along with Ricky Scaggs all the way through the song. Two new sound boards later, I think we’ve finally made it over that learning curve. This past Christmas we did a program that involved people from 16 different churches. All the music was on accompaniment tracks and we have DVD video recordings of it!

Not too many Sundays after that Ricky Scaggs sing along, Scott led the choir out of the choir loft and out front on the stage to sing I Will Sing Praises. There was hand-clapping to the beat of the music from the choir, and applause afterwards from the congregation. That made some of you uncomfortable. For some, it was a turning point that led you to go somewhere else to church.

The Beacons Quartet got together and southern gospel music made an emergence at FBC.

We added a projector and a screen to the sanctuary and media presentations in the services. Some of you still aren’t comfortable with that. That’s OK; for those of you who can’t put down the hymnal, we will still give you page numbers.

Every single summer we’ve been on an adventure together. We went on the Good News Stampede, up to Mt. Extreme, down to an Ocean Odyssey, we became Truth Trackers and Amazon Outfitters, investigated a Great Kingdom Caper, took a Rickshaw Rally and a Ramblin’ Road Trip, lived on the Arctic Edge, cheered at Game Day Central, made our way to Outrigger Island, went down under to Boomerang Express, and out west to the Saddle Ridge Ranch. Some of the VBS songs still ring in my head every now and then (“We are Truth Trackers, in search of answers...” Now I’m going to be humming that all day). We weren’t here for 2011 VBS because it was the same week as our 25th wedding anniversary. We are grateful and thankful that you allowed us that respite from VBS. That week changed our lives in more ways than you’ll ever know.

In 2000, we rang in the new millennium together. Remember when you heard the word “Y2K” every single day?

In 2002, you prayed us through an uncertain time and a craniotomy. Later that year, some of our choir members sang for Hollywood in the movie Radio. What a memorable Christmas season that was.

In 2005, you prayed us through another craniotomy. While Scott was home recuperating with a shaved and stapled head, you asked the pastor to leave. You asked a new one to lead you in 2006.

In 2009, um, well. It was one of the toughest years for me personally. A game changer.

In 2010 you asked us to leave. Then you changed your mind and told us not to leave.

In 2011 you buried your minister of education.

In 2012…who knows???

When we first came to FBC, trepid as we were, we thought we’d be lucky to stay 5 years. I have no explanation, except for GOD, as to how that has turned into 15. Looking back, it seems that it only got more difficult with every year, not easier. So, I can only assume that this next year will be no exception.

The one thing I know for sure is that God is faithful. How else could we have made it this long, this far? Maybe “this long” is not what or who you wanted. Maybe we wanted our “this far” to take us somewhere else. Whatever the case, we have made it this far and we are thankful. In these 15 years together, there have been successes and failures. We’ve been blessed by your faithfulness. We beg forgiveness and mercy for our shortcomings, and we offer it to you.

Because God chose you for us, we love you.

Because God picked us for you, we love you.

Because we love God, we love you.

We love you, First Baptist. Here me say it loud and clear. We love you and want what God wants for you.

From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands. God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us. ‘For in him we live and move and have our being.’ As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’ Acts 17: 26-28

The Year I Lost It: The Budley

2011-10-07T17:02:00.012-04:00

This is Part 5 of 5

Part 1 - The Job
Part 2 - The Boss
Part 3 - The Father
Part 4 - The Earring
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There was a lot going on in the spring of 2011. The calendar filled up quickly with all kinds of things that kept us busy. Honestly, we needed the activity to distract us from the emotional side of life for a while.

In the midst of all that busyness, we learned that Scott needed eye surgery. It didn’t appear to be serious, but because his problem developed sort of rapidly and rather largely, and because it was on the same side of his head where he’d had some more issues before, we had a little trepidation.

We had to delay the surgery for at least a month because of all the other commitments already on the calendar. By the time we got around to it, it was the end of May.

In anticipation of the eye surgery, I kept remembering scenes from his two previous surgeries. Two craniotomies. What a weird couple of years that was.

I thought about how much he looked like a baseball after the first surgery (2002).

I thought about how he looked like an alien after the second (2005).

I wondered how he would see things after this surgery.

Just being in a healthcare facility with all the scrub uniforms and beeping machines and, um, interesting smells you don’t get anywhere else is definitely a catalyst to make you consider things that you don’t usually give much time to when your calendar is full and your brain is otherwise distracted.

The eye surgery went fine. Once we were on the back side of it some of the anxiety eased, but we both we still left with that feeling that you get when a medical episode, no matter how minor, leaves you contemplating your own mortality.

Scott had a new eye with 20/10 vision, but we both felt the need to take another look at our lives. Our purpose. God’s call. All those things.

Our 25^th wedding anniversary was less than a month away. We had been talking about taking a trip to celebrate. We originally had big plans but the cost of the eye surgery forced us to scale back a little. But, given everything that had happened in the last several months, we were GOING to get away for our anniversary. It didn’t really matter where. We just needed the rest.

So, about a month later we set out for a week on the Atlantic coast of south Florida. We didn’t do anything spectacular. No amusement park. No major airports. We just went somewhere else and lived for a week. We did the kind of things we normally do around here, just in a different environment. We went out to eat. We shopped. We went to the movies. We drove around looking at houses we will never be able to afford playing the What-If game.

The Florida coast is a wonderful place. Ahhh…..

It’s interesting how just doing what you normally do, but doing it in somebody’s else world will put things in a new light. It took us only about 24 hours after being there to come to an agreement about something.

That something was this: This is killing us. Living where we’re living, doing what we’re doing the way we’re doing it is killing us.

We kept saying that over and over to each other. It was one of those things neither one of us could really explain. We just knew that something had to change or we were literally going to die. We knew it and we felt it, but we couldn’t explain it. The change that needed to happen wasn’t just a physical thing. It was emotional and mental and spiritual as well. We didn’t know exactly what specifically needed to change, other than EVERYTHING. We just knew we couldn’t go on the way we had been.

We get back home with the new revelation and have no clue where to start. But we still know something’s got to give.

We signed up for Weight Watchers. We decided that maybe if we physically felt better, the less tangible elements would become clearer.

Scott signed up for a year-long leadership program with ministers from around the state, hoping to learn and be changed and challenged to grow.

I started thinking about leading Bible studies again and thinking about getting serious again with some other pursuits. I’m basically a thinker first, so it takes me a little longer to get into action (note to self: this is really a funny story for another day).

We had begun an attempt at change for the betterment of ourselves and those around us.

And then it happened.

Bud Summers, our Minister of Education, dies of a heart attack. Suddenly. We all knew he had health problems, but we were not expecting him to leave this world so soon. He was 56.

I have never been more sobered by my own prophetic words.

“This is killing us.”

Bud was one of us. He and Scott served on staff together along with Randy. Between the three of them, Bud was always the middle ground between the two other extremes.

This changes everything.

It changes the people we love, especially Bud’s wife and children.

It changes the lives of all the church members affected by the loss.

It changes the future of our church. The dynamics of the staff have been forever altered. The void now created in the staff will change how everything else is done.

It changes us.

We came back from our vacation convinced that something needed to change. We felt the urgency to do something immediately. We had no idea that it would start with something beyond our control.

Our hearts are broken, but I guess it takes that to change sometimes.

The transformation is far from being over. Look out. This is just the beginning.

The Spirit of the Lord will come powerfully upon you, and you will prophesy with them; and you will be changed into a different person. Once these signs are fulfilled, do whatever your hand finds to do, for God is with you. 1 Samuel 10:6-7

This is Part 5 of 5

Part 1 - The Job
Part 2 - The Boss
Part 3 - The Father
Part 4 - The Earring

The Year I Lost It - The Earring, with a side of biscuits

2011-10-07T15:20:00.012-04:00

This is Part 4 of 5

Part 1 - The Job
Part 2 - The Boss
Part 3 - The Father
Part 5 - The Budley
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
January 2011 was the month that made me want to eat biscuits. Eating biscuits (or as they’re known around my house – lard sandwiches) is what I do when I’m at the end of everything I know to do and have no clue what to do next or how to handle anything. After getting through the whole Scott-losing-his-job-and getting-it-back-event and the Christmas program that sustained us, my dad died, my boss retired, I had jury duty, and then I got sick with a nasty sinus infection. It took a lot of biscuits to make it to February.

February started with my annual gynecological exam, bone density test, and mammogram. I lost one of my favorite earrings that day in the women’s center. It was one of a pair of tiny silver and red hearts that a friend gave me when we were in college. Her dad was an English professor and had taken a sabbatical in Poland. She took her own sabbatical that semester and went with him. She came back with these precious little earrings for me. I have treasured them all these years.

Of course, I didn’t realize I was one earring short until I got home, an hour away. It was only then that I realized that the little tug I felt on my ear back in the dressing room when I disrobed was not just due to a narrow neck opening in my shirt, it was my earring leaving my ear lobe.

I went back to the women’s center a week later, but not specifically to look for the earring.

I went back because I had to re-do the mammogram.

At my initial appointment, after I’d gotten outfitted in a little pink paper bolero shrug and unknowingly deposited my earring on the floor somewhere, the sweet technician called me in. She got me all pressed down and squeezed in and told me to hold my breath (why do they tell you to hold your breath? It’s not like you can breathe all squished up in that thing anyway). The machine locked up. With me in it. She apologized and finally figured out the code to get it to release me. Whew.

She worked with it a little and then we tried again. Press, squeeze, don’t breathe.

The machine locked up again. Again with me in it.

I had contortioned into a breathless pose two times now but still had no pictures to show for it. At that point we all agreed the best thing to do was reschedule the appointment and call a service technician.

I went through a drive-thru on my way home to order a biscuit. Or twelve.

I went back to the women’s center a week later. No problems with the machine that time, and no sign of the missing earring either.

I celebrated the success with a biscuit. I followed with a chaser biscuit to console my disappointment about the earring loss. Those lard sandwiches are good for just about anything.

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. 2 Corinthians 4:7-9

This is Part 4 of 5

Part 1 - The Job
Part 2 - The Boss
Part 3 - The Father
Part 5 - The Budley

The Year I Lost It - The Father

2011-09-28T16:35:00.010-04:00

This is Part 3 of 5

Part 1 - The Job
Part 2 - The Boss
Part 4 - The Earring
Part 5 - The Budley
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was just one week and a few days away from Peter’s (my boss) retirement party. I was wrapped up in guest lists and invitations and caterers and venues and collecting decades of memorabilia and old photos. Life interrupted all that party planning. I was busy gearing up for Peter’s departure from our office when my dad departed this world.

We all knew my father’s days were numbered, but I really didn’t realize that a chuckle over the funny papers would be our last laugh together.

The last time my dad and I were alone together, he was sitting in chair with his narrow little reading glasses low on his nose. He held the newspaper up and was reading the comics out loud to me. We both laughed out loud about one that had something to do with lawyers. The frame was something about one of them suing the pants off the other, the retort then was something about needing to check his briefs.

His pastor, Dr. Young, came to visit about that time. I sat in on their visit together, again not realizing it would also be the last time they would see each other either. My dad was a bit talkative, Dr. Young was very attentive. When Dr. Young got ready to leave, my dad told him that he loved him. I was smiling again, but for a different reason. I knew my dad meant what he was saying. How many men do you know that would tell their pastors that?

Hardly even 24 hours later Dad was gone.

I am so thankful that my dad loved to read a daily newspaper and that he like to share what he read. I’m so grateful that he didn’t just stop at the news articles but also took the reading of the funny papers just as seriously. I will always cherish that last laugh.

I will also cherish the fact that one of the last people he said “I love you” to was his pastor. That meant as much to me as when he actually said it to me. My dad understood the ministry. A lot of people not in the ministry think they understand it, but they don’t. Not really. But my dad did. He knew.

I was left with the funny papers and an “I love you” and a retirement party to get on with. I lost my father; I was losing my mentor and boss. The loss was happening around me, but I felt like I was the one that was lost.

So I go through the motions. I show up for the party. I buy newspapers. I read the comics.

But whatever was to my profit I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ—the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead. Philippians 3:7-11

This is Part 3 of 5

Part 1 - The Job
Part 2 - The Boss
Part 4 - The Earring
Part 5 - The Budley

The Year I Lost It - The Boss

2011-09-28T16:28:00.011-04:00

This is Part 2 of 5

Part 1 - The Job
Part 3 - The Father
Part 4 - The Earring
Part 5 - The Budley
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Peter came to work with me in 2004. It was just to two of us in the office for the next six and a half years. He was the boss. I was the clean up crew and everything else.

When Peter recounted his first few days as director here, he told me he was skeptical about me. He had no idea about my skills. He had no idea whether I was competent or not. With me being the only person in the office, I was all he had to work with. He was stuck with me. Thankfully, I think I was able to meet his challenge.

To be fair, I had my reservations about him at first too. Turns out, he wasn’t the easiest person to work for, but once I learned the dance, I enjoyed it. As the weeks and months went by, our mutual respect for each other grew in spite of the days where days he drove me nuts or I frustrated his patience. We found a great appreciation for each other.

We figured out how to work together. We worked. And it worked.

Peter taught me more about economic development than I ever wanted to know. He helped me gain an appreciation for things that I never knew existed. His standards were high and his professionalism was constant. Being influenced by those character traits made me want to be a better person, even on those days that he drove me crazy being so driven.

In January of this year, I was busy planning Peter’s retirement party. This was his retirement not just from our office, but from work altogether. He was in the business a long time before he ever came to our office. He has a lifetime of friends and associates all over the state and country. It was going to be a bigger party than I had planned in a very long time.

He tried to retire the year before, but then changed his mind after the new resumes came in. When he announced his retirement this time, we teased him about staying still another year, but we all knew this was it.

As his final day approached, the harder it was to make myself go to the office. I was very happy for Peter, but not so happy for myself. Peter accomplished a lot in the few years he was here. He built a strong foundation. For me, there was way more at stake than just who the new boss would be. The whole vision and program of our professional mission would likely change.

Peter was the one who reminded me to leave some things behind. He was the one who motivated us to move forward. Now, he was moving away.

The loss was palpable. How were we going to move forward without the one who had been pushing us in that direction?

I have no idea. But I do know that Peter constantly reminded us all that we could be better than we are.

And I’m going to try.

Realize that wisdom is the same for you. If you find it, you will have a future, and your hope will never fade. Proverbs 24:14

This is Part 2 of 5

Part 1 - The Job
Part 3 - The Father
Part 4 - The Earring
Part 5 - The Budley

The Year I Lost It - The Job

2011-09-28T16:21:00.008-04:00

This is PART 1 of 5

Part 2 - The Boss
Part 3 - The Father
Part 4 - The Earring
Part 5 - The Budley
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It’s the one year anniversary of my husband receiving a pink slip. At the time, for us, the loss of his job meant moving. We spent the month or so after that day last year cleaning, packing, making plans, and dealing with the loss. The pink slip was the result of a budget issue. Mostly, anyway. When you work at a church, it’s always more than just the budget because it’s “family”. Not by blood, but in spirit. The letter of explanation regarding his job elimination that was addressed to the entire church membership was signed by members of four different committees, all of which were involved in the decision. I know they agonized and deliberated over it. I’m certain it was not an easy thing to do. I’m also sure they consulted everyone about the decision except the one person whose life it affected the most.

Scott was not oblivious to the budget situation and was very much aware that something needed to be done. He was willing to offer some personal sacrifices to help the situation and make their decision easier had he been included in the process. I know the decision was not his to make, but he does have more insight about his specific responsibilities than anyone else. While Scott was spared any burden from being an actual decision maker, he might have been able to help them make their task a little less daunting. But, alas, the decision was made for us, not with us. We accepted it and saw it as an answer to prayer; not exactly what we were praying for, but an answer nonetheless. We also saw it not just and AN answer, but THE answer.

We had been trying to make a change like this for quite some time. This simply was going to force us to do it and we were grateful the push. We came close to making that change on our own several times before, but in the end there was always something that swiped it from our hands leaving us to wonder again about our discernment and purpose. Even in all the uncertainty, the one thing we did know was that God had placed us where He wanted us. To move us from that place would also be up to Him; not us, not them.

Yes, God gives us a choice. For us, the desire to be in the center of God’s will meant there was no other choice for us but here. The choice God gave us was solely about following Him; not about where He was going, or staying.

This time was no different. Within the month, more meetings and discussions were held that involved the entire church membership (not just the committees) and the result was that Scott’s job was reinstated.

Before that final full-membership decision, I begged one of the committee chairpersons to let their yes be yes and their no be no and to please just let us go. I begged God to just let us go. I just wanted out. I did not want us to be a reason or excuse for such strife.

Then, all the other options were off the table. Staying here is what God had in mind for us.

We accepted that with mixed emotions. We had already begun to work through the loss and once you do that, some of the stuff you deal with is gone forever and you just can’t get it back. Like relationships. It changes them. Some for the better, some not. Some, just different. It is sort of like learning the truth about Santa Claus. Once you know the real story, you can still go through the motions and even enjoy it, but you just don’t love Santa like you used to and you will never be as excited or hopeful about that unknown as you once were. It’s just not the same.

The names at the bottom of that original letter that dismissed Scott were more than just signatures or committee members to us. They were people we live and work with and depend on and are faithful to and are called to serve. In their original decision to eliminate Scott’s job, as difficult as it may or may not have been, they felt like they were making the right decision and we honored that. Then, the greater majority overruled them and told them they were wrong. And we had to honor that.

How do you do that?

How do you leave it up to God only to find that He leaves you stuck in the middle?

Well, I don’t really know but I think it has something to do with forfeiting your option when people are choosing sides. You deliberately elect to take the loss on both sides. Maybe that’s part of what makes the road narrow.

Today, a year later, some people have shown great grace and gratitude for us still being here. They have shown an appreciation for the fact that Scott has hung in there in spite of it all. I’m thankful and grateful for them, also in spite of it all.

There are also some people who still, even a year later, think Scott’s job should no longer be Scott’s job. There are many days I’m inclined to agree with them because sometimes it’s so hard to live without some of what’s been lost. I know it’s hard for them too.

And, it’s that time of year again. I’m not sure the budget situation is any better now. I also don’t think, if we were faced with that situation again, that we would think or feel are react the same as we did last year.

Circumstances like that have a way of affecting you and changing your perspective. Loss does that. You learn to do more with less.

I don’t understand it, but I accept it.

He must become greater; I must become less. John 3:30

This is PART 1 of 5

Part 2 - The Boss
Part 3 - The Father
Part 4 - The Earring
Part 5 - The Budley

How wide and long and high and deep?

2011-09-09T09:47:00.006-04:00

From the archives.

This was originally written on September 11, 2001

God is brokenhearted today.

He is brokenhearted because you and I may have at some time in our lives ignored our call to share Christ and to show His love with one of the peopled killed today. We may have been face to face with them, whether we knew their names or not, and perhaps were afraid to speak up. Now, a different kind of fear is spreading.

Maybe we had just put Christ out of our minds at the time. Just what were we thinking? They may have been watching us from a distance at some interstate rest stop or an amusement park or a shopping mall or some other outlet where our paths may have briefly crossed. Had we taken a vacation from our responsibility to Christ as well?

God is brokenhearted over unique pieces of His creation embracing evil. Oh, the blessings He had in store for them. Sadly, their choices just blew them all away. As much as it may have physically hurt to have a Boeing jet crash into your office and land on your desk, as much as it may have hurt to have the temperature register hot enough to melt steel, God’s hurt is even greater; greater now because some of His precious creations are lost. Not in a pile of rubble and debris, but lost eternally.

God is brokenhearted that any of His creation has to needlessly suffer. He, most of all, knows what it means to suffer. But it is suffering that causes us to trust God for who He is, not what He does. And who He is, is bigger.

God is bigger.

As far as the fall was for those who jumped from the buildings, as far beneath the rubble as some were buried, God’s love will go farther.

As long as it takes to search, as long as it take to recover and rebuild, as long as remembrances of these days will be voiced, God’s love will last longer.

As deep as those pictures are ingrained in our minds, as deep as the hurt is, God’s love will always be deeper.

As far across the earth as the repercussions have been felt, as far as those rescue works and relief effort have increased the boundaries of our generosity, God’s love will stretch even wider.

Our God is bigger than any tragedy.

God is in control.

For this reason I kneel before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth derives its name. I pray that out of his glorious riches he may strengthen you with power through his Spirit in your inner being, so that Christ may dwell in your hearts through faith. And I pray that you, being rooted and established in love, may have power, together with all the Lord’s holy people, to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge—that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God. Ephesians 3:14-19

Hello, my name is...

2011-07-13T16:07:00.005-04:00

C'mon, admit it. I know you've done it.

It's not a bad thing, really. Depending on your motives.

In fact, the Best Buy Geek Squad probably recommends that you do it occasionally just to be sure there is nothing suspicious out there with your moniker on it.

So, go ahead. Google your own name.

What'd you come up with? Anything interesting?

Recently I Googled images for my name.

A lot of pictures of this lady came up. Her fame came with a different last name, but before she married a president, her last name was Davis. No introductions needed. Here's Nancy Davis Reagan:

The second most popular entry on my Google search results page was for this woman:Maybe she looks familiar to you, maybe not. She made the news circuit back in January 2011 when she was shot and killed in Mexico by drug dealers. Nancy and her husband, Sam, were missionaries in Mexico. They were gunned down at an illegal roadblock set up by drug dealers. The dealers were after the Davis' pick up truck. A bullet came through the rear window of the truck cab, struck Nancy in the head and killed her. Sam survived.

Not far behind her on my search results page was this woman. Again, meet Nancy Davis.Apparently she is a well known philanthropist. Unless your bank account is large and your financial contribution record phenomenal, you likely haven't heard of her. Most of the pictures had celebrities surrounding her. She always seems to be dressed in a formal gown and attends lots of elite social events.

I also found another Nancy Davis.
Isn't she lovely? The link for this picture was on one of those genealogy research sites. I don't think she's related to me in any way, but she looks so much like my dad that it's almost creepy.

Sidebar here...I did a little online research on my family history. I found that my great, great, great, great, grandmother's name was also Nancy Davis. She lived in the same county I live in --which is weird because none of my living family even lives in the same state that I do (I'm the one who moved away). Also, she lived to be 104. Wow.

Back to my google image search page. There were several versions of this too:
Funny thing. Not one single solitary picture of me came up in my Google search.

Oh, Google, where is the real Nancy Davis and what have you done with her??

So often when life gets tough and it gets hard to find the happy, I look around and wonder who's life am I living anyway? I mean, I thought I was doing all the right things and working very hard to avoid all the drama, all the struggles, all the setbacks, all the do-overs. Where did this life I have come from? How did I end up here? With this??

Honestly, what I really think is...who in the world is living the life I'm supposed to have?!

Where's my Presidential china?

Who is wearing my orange designer ball gown?

Why isn't there a framed picture of Paris Hilton on my mantle?

Where is the book written about my heroic martyr's death?

Oh, wait a minute. I'm not dead yet.

Well, then. I have no idea.

I can only hope that 100 years years from now when my own grave marker is overgrown and covered with dirt and mold that somebody finds my picture on a genealogy website and thinks I look like their dad.

I suppose looking like the Father is not such a bad thing.

I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat is planted in the soil and dies, it remains alone. But Those who love their life in this world will lose it. Those who care nothing for their life in this world will keep it for eternity. Anyone who wants to be my disciple must follow me, because my servants must be where I am. And the Father will honor anyone who serves me. John 12:24-26

The handwriting on the envelope

2011-06-13T13:30:00.014-04:00

We received three high school graduation invitations this year. All of them were from young men. Three different high schools. Three different cities. These three boys don’t know each other. In all three cases, it’s their parents that are our connections with them, but they are all associated with us in different ways.

I noticed something about all three of the invitations as soon as I pulled them out of the mailbox: the handwritten address on the envelope. It’s just so rare to get a piece of mail that has been addressed by hand any more. Technology has made fancy schmancy labeling and printing more accessible to us all and we tend to view it as a time-saving technique as well as good excuse to use a curly script font that mocks actual cursive writing. Email and social networks have also eliminated our need for handwritten invitations, or letters, or any other correspondence for that matter.

I know that high school graduation invitations are not really sent with the intention of having the recipient actually show up at the ceremony. I realize that those programs are usually in gyms or auditoriums that have limited space. All the parents, siblings, grandparents, and step relatives usually take up all the allotted number of tickets per student.

And that’s OK. We love you and are very proud of you and we will be happy to go if you really want us there, but we don’t necessarily have to personally see you and 400 of your closest friends walk one by one across the stage.

Truthfully, unless there is a really awesome, well known speaker giving the commencement address, the ceremony itself it lost on those of us who are not directly involved. If we do go, we sit there remembering our own high school graduations and then we start thinking about the course our lives have taken since then and that leads us to thinking about all the things we need to be sure and tell you before you pack your car for college but, since you’re not our child, it's not really our place to tell you. Then we get overwhelmed by it all and need medication to get over it, so perhaps it’s better if we just stay home anyway.

I also get that a graduation invitation means a gift is in order. I’m totally OK with that. In fact, I kind of like getting a reminder about things like that. As long as the invitation stays on my kitchen counter or tacked to the refrigerator, I know I still need to respond. Without it, I’m likely to forget to acknowledge it at all.

Still, I love to get the invitations. It makes me feel special. It reminds me that we belong in a group of people that wants us to share their joys. I love that.

I especially love it when the invitations have been addressed by hand. That extra effort means something to me. I appreciate the person with the pen in hand actually sharing something of themselves that is so personal: handwriting. Handwriting is very individual and telling enough that the whole science of handwriting analysis was developed. While it may not be an exact science, I do think there’s something to it.

For instance, I knew immediately that two of the graduation invitations we received had been addressed not by the young men, but by their mothers. I could just tell by the handwriting. It was like that old Sesame Street song… “one of these things is not like the other....” Moms 2, Sons 1. Or in my mind, SON WON.

I don’t really know why, but the one that the young man wrote himself made a definite impact on me unlike the other two. I felt like it wasn’t just a proud mom saying look what my son has accomplished (which, of course, there’s nothing wrong with). It was a young man himself saying, “this is important not just to my parents, but to me, and I want to share it with you.” Or maybe he was saying something like, "I have no idea why you care, but am glad you do."

Of course, I don’t know how much his mother had to prompt him to address those envelopes, but nonetheless, his extra effort spoke to me. It was just a personal touch that made me feel like he was actually thinking of us when he wrote our names. At a time when he had every right to be thinking he should be the center of attention, he actually took the time to think about us. A rare thing in today's world.

That was sometime in the last month. I hung onto all three of the invitations for a few days before I responded. I don’t see any of these boys on a regular basis. I bought cards for each of them (spending a good deal of time trying to find just the right card for each individual), added some money, and sent them off.

Last week I got another envelope in the mail. The address was handwritten in familiar penmanship. I opened it to find a thank you note. It’s the only one I’ve received so far (thank you notes are rare these days too, but that's another story). As I already knew, the handwritten message inside was from the same young man that addressed his own invitations. He thanked us for the money, but more than that he mentioned how great his God was. I felt like he was really thanking God for everything that was happening in his life and he was letting me be privy to this personal praise to God.

A handwritten thank you note from a young man I hardly know reminded me that every good and perfect gift comes from above. And for me, this kid and his handwriting is one of those good and perfect gifts to this world.

This kid with his mother’s smile, his father’s stature, and God’s heart gave me hope for the Class of 2011. And for the rest of us.

Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows. James 1:17

Somebody call 911

2011-03-15T11:16:00.005-04:00

As if the videos and pictures from the Japan earthquake and tsunami weren’t already stretching the limits of what once was unfathomable in my mind, now the very real surreal has shown up in my own back yard. I’m left wondering about the world we’re living in.

Actually, it was my own front yard.

Coming home from church Sunday afternoon, we turned on to our street to find a whole row of parked law enforcement vehicles greeting us. There were at least 3 city police cars and one county sheriff’s deputy car. One had the warning lights flashing.

As we pulled into our driveway and parked, yet another sheriff’s deputy drove up. He pulled into the rear of the line of cars, which was now right in front of our house. We got out of our car about the same time he did and we headed toward the street to ask about what in the world was going on.

He stepped into our yard of offered the explanation that “one of our neighbors” had shot themselves in the leg and then thrown the gun into the empty, wooded lot that is immediately adjacent to ours.

Yes. Of course. That was exactly what I thought it was.

What? Your neighbors don’t do that kind of thing?

What kind of world do I live in??

He said the law enforcement officers were scouring the lot looking for the gun, hoping to find it before someone else did.

Then he made some witty comment about the city cops being slow and he, a county officer, needed to go help them out.

I am grateful and especially thankful to know that they were looking for just a gun and not some crazed criminal wielding it. I am even more thankful that so many officers were indeed involved in the search.

I’m glad that at least one of the officers felt the need to offer us some kind of explanation for what was happening at our property line. I know he was probably repeating the alleged victim’s testimony, but I don’t believe that’s what really happened.

Who in the world, after shooting themselves, throws the gun away?

Who would tell a police officer that story and expect them to believe it?

What kind of world do I live in?

Later that day, again driving home, I heard sirens and saw a big billow of black smoke beyond the trees not too far away. Less than a mile from our house a field was on fire. FIRE. It was an empty field, but lined by houses and roadways. As I drove by I could see the red flames that were taller than I. There were several big fire trucks, lights flashing. Almost everyone driving by, myself included, slowed down to gawk at the scene. Some even pulled off the road to watch. I probably would have too if I had not been on a time schedule.

While the fire was close enough to home for me to be able to see and smell the smoke from my front porch, it didn’t actually appear to be a threat to me. But it could have been.

By the end of the day I had been inundated with images of threats all around me, near and far, but ultimately I was safe and unharmed.

But not unaffected.

I felt as if my imaginary safety boundaries were shrinking.

What kind of world do I live in and where are those safety boundaries anyway?

I felt it hard to turn away from the images of Japan on my computer screen and TV. The cars and buildings and lives being swept away by the wave are thousands of miles away, but they made me cry right here in my own house.

Standing right here in my own house, I couldn’t stop looking out of my bathroom window at the woods next door. As the wind blew the leaves around, I thought I kept seeing tiny flashes of the sun reflecting on something shiny underneath the leaves. A gun? Maybe. Maybe not.

Standing in my yard, those same leaves blowing across my feet, I felt my face getting hot even though I wasn’t really close enough to those flames to feel the heat.

I have been a victim before, directly and indirectly. I’ve been assaulted, had a gun pointed at my head and been threatened with death. I’ve seen my husband’s office ransacked and the empty space where the computer equipment used to be; the hallways littered with broken glass and splintered wood. My phone has rung in the middle of the night in response to an alarm, after which I sat outside on a bench waiting for the police to return from chasing a robber toting off the stolen goods.

I survived all of that, but not imperviously. The feelings and memories have marked my perspective. I have been influenced by it all.

Yesterday I survived a tsunami, a shooting, and fire. And I am not the same.

What kind of world do I live in?

Maybe the most important words in that sentence are not “what kind of world,” but rather, “I live.”

I live.

I live where there are no real safety boundaries anyway. I live in a place and time that was chosen by a higher power than I. I live, with every breath I take, surviving the trauma and tragedy of this world; being spared some of it; having to taste some of it.

I live affected by it all and it makes me different.

I am left to live so that I can make a difference.

I need to get busy.

I have been crucified with Christ and I no longer live, but Christ lives in me. The life I now live in the body, I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself for me. I do not set aside the grace of God, for if righteousness could be gained through the law, Christ died for nothing! Galatians 2:20-21

The Wave

2011-01-11T15:07:00.000-05:00

My sisters and I all grew up in the same house. Two of us even shared a corner bedroom. Still, sometimes when the 3 of us get together and talk about something from our childhoods, I almost never remember it the same way the other 2 remember it. I don’t know if they will remember these things the way that I do.

In the house we grew up in, which is the same house our parents lived in for over 40 years, there were two hall closets. The smaller of the two was, I think, by design supposed to be a linen closet because its breadth was narrow and it had shelving from ceiling to floor. As far as I can remember, we never kept sheets or towels in it. The shelves were filled with books. There were two sets of Britannica encyclopedias that took up most of the shelf space. There was also a pencil sharpener that Dad had mounted front and center on the middle shelf, which was most often the reason any of us even opened that closet door.

Near the bottom shelf were a stack of our mother’s yearbooks. Some of those were from her own high school days, others were from the schools where she worked as a bookkeeper. Right next to those was a couple of other tattered, old books with dingy brown covers. The binding on them was worn and frayed. The pages were glossy, but not in color. Each page had two black and white photographs on them. The entire book was nothing but photographs. The only typed print was a couple of caption lines under each photo. There were no descriptive paragraphs, just pictures of war. They were very graphic pictures of Europe during World War I and II. I don’t think I ever opened that closet door specifically looking for those books, but they often sucked me once I was there. The photographic images of extreme devastation and death always left me speechless as a child.

From that perspective, it’s not hard to understand why my dad never talked about it. We have pictures of him in his sailor’s uniform as a young man, but for a very long time that was about the only evidence we knew that showed he had that served in the Navy. He was in his eighties before I ever heard him actually tell the story of being in the English Channel on D-day.

Even though he was a man of few words about his participation on World War II, his patriotism showed throughout his entire life. Today’s evidence of that is the full size flagpole bearing the stars and stripes waving in his front yard. Only today, that flag is at half mast.

The bottom shelf of our hall closet housed books of our mother’s school memories and our dad’s war memories. Those war books were indeed our dad’s yearbooks, because he never finished high school as a boy.

He never said much about that either. But like the pictures of the handsome sailor, there was a little evidence about his education and schooling. In the dining room of that same house was a china cabinet. It was just an ordinary, everyday china cabinet. The top half had about 3 shelves enclosed with glass-paned doors. The bottom half of the cabinet consisted of 3 or 4 drawers. The top drawer was shallow. I think maybe it was designed to put napkins and tablecloths in (come to think of it, I have no recollection of where we kept any kind of linens in our house) but this top drawer was filled with papers. In among all the insurance papers and official looking documents from the Duval County School Board, from where Mom and Dad both eventually retired, there was a folder of papers that always intrigued me. It looked like some kind of standardized test and I remember that there were math equations on it. It was the test our dad took to get the certification he needed to be classified as a high school graduate. I don’t ever remember him taking any kind of class, nor do I remember him actually taking the test. He never really talked about it. He just did what he had to do in whatever way he could get it done.

I did a lot of my own school homework at the dining room table that was positioned right next to that china cabinet. On one occasion, I was in the fourth or fifth grade and we were learning about the 50 states and their capitals. Each student in the class was assigned a state and given the task of making a drawing about the state. In addition to a map of the specific state we were supposed to draw pictures of the state bird, state flower, state seal, and anything else the state was known for. My assignment was Maryland. I tried again and again to draw an outline of the state of Maryland and failed every time. Have you ever tried to draw the Chesapeake Bay? It was my demise. I wadded up several sheets of drawing paper and eventually ended up in tears because I just couldn’t do it.

Dad, always one to rig up something unconventional to make a broken thing work again, stepped in. From his garage where he kept everything but cars, he got a 10 gallon bucket, a small lamp minus the shade, and a large piece of glass. He put it all together to make the most innovative light box ever. He took a map of Maryland from an atlas and put it on the glass top, he then put my drawing paper over that, and turned on the lamp. All I had to do was trace the outline. My assignment and sanity had been rescued. He never finished school himself, but he did everything he could to make sure his three girls finished not only high school but college too.

Once we three girls started college and began leaving home for long periods of time, and eventually getting married and moving away, we developed a little ritual with each of our departures. It’s probably something a lot of people do when family from out of town leaves to go back to their own homes after a visit. We pack up the car, make one last bathroom visit, fill up our cups in the kitchen, and then we all walk outside. Standing in the driveway we hug and kiss. We pile in the car, crank it up, roll down the windows and back out of the driveway onto the street. Mom and Dad stand in the driveway and wave. They continue to stand there and wave until we have driven out of their sight.

This driveway scene has occurred every single time we’ve ever been to visit our parents, no matter where they are. The last time I left Mom at the assisted living facility she lives in now, she insisted on walking me outside and stood there with her walker in the driveway until we had driven out of her sight.

For several years now, I’ve had the very same thought and feeling every time we drove away with Mom and Dad in our rearview mirror standing in the driveway waving.

Grief. I have grieved every single time. I grieve because I think to myself, “Will this be the last time I see them?” With parents in their seventies and eighties and not living nearby, that is what you think when you leave them. So in some way, I have already grieved this passing.

It hasn’t been until now that I have thought about what they must have been thinking as they stood there in the driveway waving goodbye.

For one, longing. Longing for time to stop. Wishing things could just stay the way they were. Wishing we could all just stay together.

The other thing, they must have felt some relief. Relief in not only us taking the chaos of our own lives back to our own homes with us, but also realizing that we have outgrown the little corner bedroom of that house and sensing relief in knowing that we have homes of our own to go to that fit us better now.

I know that, because now it’s us standing the driveway waving goodbye.

We long for time to stop and wish things could stay the way they were and that we could all be together all the time. But today, Daddy, we know your spirit has outgrown this world and the only place that can house you now is a mansion built for you in glory by the King of Kings himself.

Welcome home, Daddy.

Then David got up from the ground. After he had washed, put on lotions and changed his clothes, he went into the house of the Lord and worshiped. Then he went to his own house, and at his request they served him food, and he ate. 2 Samuel 12:20

There are no words

2010-12-06T15:39:00.008-05:00

Monday, September 13, 2010 Scott was called into a meeting where the stewardship committee chairman, the chairman and another representative from the personnel committee, the deacon chairman, and the pastor all sat around the conference table. Scott was not aware that this meeting was taking place until they called and asked him to come in.

At that meeting they informed Scott that due to budget constraints, his full time position as minister of music was being eliminated. He was given a sheet of paper that outlined 3 severance package details. The first of which stated that he could leave that very day and the church would provide him with one week’s pay for every year of service, which on that day would have been 13 years.

Let me say that again. He could have walked out that day. Monday, September 13, 2010.

They also gave him the option to stay until December 31, still collecting the one week’s pay for every year of service as severance. By then it would he would have reached 14 years of service.

The third detail in the severance options provided that if he secured another full time minister of music position before December 31 then he would only receive 2 week’s severance pay.

I was out of town that day. By the time I got a break in what I was doing and was able to call and check in, it was a little later in the morning. I had no idea any of this has taken place. Scott told me the news over the phone. He said that after the meeting he walked out of the office and down the hall to the choir room where he had been and still was sitting in darkness and silence. What do you say to your husband at a time like this?

There are no words.

Scott and I were very much aware of the budget difficulties. We knew something had to be done. We also knew the difficulties go way beyond just the budget woes. He and I both have been praying for 4 or 5 years, at least, for something to happen in our church; something big enough to stir the long-still waters. Losing his job was not exactly what we had been praying for, but almost instantaneously we saw it as perhaps clearing the way for that BIG thing, whatever it was, to come through. If this is how God was going to get through, then by all means, let us go. We started packing boxes immediately. I started giving things away that I didn’t want to have to move. Neither Scott nor I were totally devastated or depressed about the situation. We were just hopeful that something really grand was on the horizon for both us and for this church. How do you tell people you’re really at peace about losing your livelihood?

There are no words.

Being so ready and willing to accept what he’d been dealt and seeing it as the hand of God working in all of our lives, the most likely choice was for Scott to walk out that day, Monday, September 13, 2010. We were eager to get on with it.

However.

Back in the spring, months before any of this, Scott picked out a musical to do for Christmas. His vision was to invite as many different church choirs and individuals to join us as we could. His vision went beyond our little choir to the entire community. By the time September 13 arrived, we had already had 2 rehearsals for this musical. We were already overwhelmed by the number of people that showed up for those rehearsals, from all aspects of our community.

Scott was committed. He was committed to this event long before he ever bought the first piece of music for it. The first rehearsal back in August solidified it for him. The second one only made his commitment stronger and deeper. It was the only thing that kept him from walking away on September 13. The ONLY thing. And I will say it one more time: He could have left that day. But he wanted to see this thing through, regardless of his job. He found himself in the middle of something that was so much bigger than he and his own vision and he couldn’t let go even if he tried. How do you tell the employer that just laid you off, “well, thanks, but I think I’ll stick around for a while anyway”?

There are no words.

Since then Scott’s whole job situation has been revamped, thanks to some other church members who had visions of their own. Scott’s job has been reinstated, but with a 10% pay cut. There are two other ministers whose jobs and salaries have also been affected too, but I can’t speak for them or their stories. And really, all of that is a separate story in and of itself which maybe one day I’ll tackle. Or not. But today my focus here is the musical.

With all that has happened since this whole thing started, we have prayed diligently for this musical event. I continued to pray, as I have for the last 5 years, for something incredible to happen in this church and acknowledged that this event was a wonderful opportunity for that to happen. Specifically, I prayed that the building would be full of people to hear the message, no empty seats, and that all the other space would be taken up by the Holy Spirit, that there would be absolutely no room whatsoever left for satan to find his way in. Scott prayed for chairs. He specifically asked for the need to put out folding chairs because of the overflow crowd. He said it out loud several times over the last couple of months.

While I don’t think anyone really knows for sure, our sanctuary seats approximately 450+. Our average Sunday morning attendance is about 140.

The presentation of this musical was this past Friday night, December 3. It was set to begin at 7 p.m.

Here’s the scene at about 6:40 p.m.

Chairs, y’all. There are chairs. Some didn’t even have chairs and had to stand throughout the whole thing.

Even before the music started, something besides people began to fill up the sanctuary. As the program began it was almost as if what was going on inside the building was bigger than what the walls themselves could contain. The Holy Spirit did indeed fill the room. It’s just so hard to explain the presence…

Afterwards, the comment I heard over and over again from those who were there… “There are no words.”

Ironic, I think, that the title of the musical was “The Voices of Christmas.” There are no words for the Voices of Christmas. The thing that happened and the praises that were raised were in a language only God could understand.

Afterwards, the crowd went home, the furniture was moved back in place, the trash picked up, and the sanctuary set in order for Sunday morning. We went to get something to eat then headed home. I would have thought Scott would have been on top of the world after all this. Instead, he seemed more quiet and distant and unreadable. He had no words.

The next day I woke and got out of bed long before Scott. I went to the other end of the house to work on a project on the computer. A couple of hours later I came back towards our bedroom and saw Scott sitting on the vanity stool in our bathroom. He was just sitting there in the quiet looking at the floor. The closer I got to him, the more I realized his eyes were filled with tears.

I think in that moment we both realized the enormity of what God had done. That Scott was not capable of or responsible for whatever it was that happened with the Voices of Christmas. That in spite of his inadequacies, God used him anyway. That his faith in leaving the unknown up to God in not giving it up on September 13 resulted in a greater blessing for 500+ other people.

It was just too much; there are no words.

I suddenly understood what Isaiah meant when he said “Woe to me! I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty.”

We saw the King, the Lord Almighty, fill our sanctuary Friday night and it ruined my husband. Ruined him because he will never be the same. And there are no sweeter words than that.

“Holy, holy, holy is the LORD Almighty; the whole earth is full of his glory.” Isaiah 6:3

I can't resist the Pillsbury Doughboy, especially when he says please

2010-10-28T12:23:00.005-04:00

Earlier this week Scott and I had to go to Wal-Mart. We had to pick up a prescription at the pharmacy. I also wanted to buy some Halloween cards to mail to my sisters and parents.

Scott had been out of the prescription nose spray for several days and the doctor had finally called it in earlier that day.

If I didn’t get cards in the mail by the next day, they would not arrive before Halloween.

Needless to say, the trip to Wal-Mart was overdue. We vowed before we went in that we were only going to buy those two things – nose spray and cards. This was NOT going to be one of those spend-$100-in-less-than-1-hour trips. We were just going to run it, get the stuff, and run out before we were sucked in. Thankfully, the pharmacy and the card aisle are just a few yards apart and right by the exit. We didn’t have to walk far. Or run, as was our case.

As we walked between the cards and the vitamin aisle on the way to check out, for some strange reason Scott just happened to think about the cherry turnovers that, in our town, you can only buy at Wal-Mart. Or course, they are in the refrigerated grocery section in the complete opposite corner of the store.

Knowing that our cupboard is completely bare but not wanting to take the time to do the full re-stocking shopping, I agreed to at least one treat. I’m anticipating a glorious trip to Publix this weekend because we’re out of cereal and soup and grits and deli meat and cheese and everything else, but we do need to eat something in the meantime. Cherry turnovers it is.

We put our blinders on and headed to the cold corner. Even though their shelf placement had changed, we found the cherry turnovers and turned to leave.

Almost free. But then something else caught our eyes.

I’m not a big cherry turnover fan. I’m really not a big sweets fan, but I do like a good sugar cookie every now and then. The Pillsbury Doughboy was calling my name. In the spirit of Halloween, of course. I reasoned (justified…rationalized…!) that we weren’t buying any candy for the occasion, so 24 Spooky Cat pre-cut ready to bake cookies would be OK.

So, with nose spray, Halloween cards, cherry turnovers, and ready to bake sugar cookies, we finally got out of there. Whew.

That was a couple of days ago. It wasn’t until last night that I pulled the cookies out of the fridge to actually put them on a pan and bake them. Of course, my first reflex when I opened the box was to want to put one of the raw cookies in my mouth.

But then, I must tell you, I never felt more loved than when I read this on the box:

“Please do not eat raw cookie dough.”

They said it like they actually cared about me. And they put it right there on the front of the box instead of in small print under all the unpronounceable ingredients.

They could have said it like this:

"WARNING: Eating raw cookie dough could be hazardous to your health."
This would have sounded like they were trying to scare me, and they would have. I would have heard James Earl Jones’ voice in my head saying, “Danger, danger…”

Or they could have even just “Do not eat raw cookie dough,” without the “please.”
This one would have been voiced by Ben Stein in my head. Emotionless and not really caring one way or the other about the effects of raw dough on a human.

But, “Please do not eat the raw cookie dough” is written as if the Pillsbury Doughboy himself were saying it, followed by that giggly little chuckle that comes out when you poke him in the stomach.

Of course, Mr. Doughboy. Since you asked to nicely, I’ll not eat that raw dough.

Funny that I even noticed those words.

Interesting that they actually influenced what I was thinking and my subsequent actions.

How we say things is just as important as what we say.

If I speak with human eloquence and angelic ecstasy but don't love, I'm nothing but the creaking of a rusty gate. 1 Corinthians 13:1

Rescued

2010-09-18T09:00:00.009-04:00

A couple of weeks ago we came home and found this guy hanging out on our back door. We left him alone and let him be. Anyone, or anything for that matter, saying prayers over my house seemed like a good idea.
Yesterday afternoon, when I walked in the house, this is the scene I saw at the same back door:

It scared me at first because I thought it was some kind of reptile. I am not friends with the reptiles. At all (Thanks, Eve). We frequently have little skinks running around, but Marbles the Cat usually takes care of them before they get too big. I thought this was one of those icky things and it was enormous. Since I was home alone, a small panic attack ensued.

After a little closer inspection, I saw that it was more rodent than reptile. A little baby squirrel. I was relieved somewhat that it didn't have scales, but the relief didn't last long because I had no idea what to do with a little furry thing either.

I opened the glass door to take a closer look, thinking the noise and movement would scare the poor thing enough to make it run away. He didn't move. He just clung to the screen door.

Still on the other side of the screen door, I tried to get a closer look. There were flies buzzing all around him. There was no movement in him. That led me to believe he was dearly departed. I had no idea how in the world a dead squirrel could be hanging on to my screen door. Looking closer still, I saw his little chest move up and down. He was breathing.

Well, what do I do now?

After shedding some tears over the demise of this little thing, I donned some rubber gloves, gathered up a towel and a shoe box and went outside.

I exited the house from the front door and walked around to the back yard. Along the way, I saw one of his siblings on the ground. Motionless. Gone. I'll spare you the gory details about that one but let's just say I didn't have to get very close to that one to tell if he was alive or dead because, um, there were some parts of him missing.

A few steps further and there was another one. She was gone too. She still had all her parts, but the ants had taken control.

Finally to my little friend clinging to the screen door.

I took that picture before I got too close. I didn't realize he had a yellow jacket on his head until then. Poor thing. His right arm and leg had been sliced open and his head had also taken a beating, but he was still hanging on.

So far, Marbles remains mum. No confession yet.

I wrapped him in the towel. I sat down holding him in the towel. I thought he would expire soon, so I just waited. I was thinking about putting him along with both his siblings in the same hole in the ground.
Then I started thinking about everything but the squirrels just to get my mind off of it. I sat there waiting for Squirt (yes, I gave him a name) to leave this world, I talked to God about families around me; one has a newborn infant in the hospital trying to fight his way into this world; one has a barely older than teenage daughter that just made it through a double lung transplant and is fighting to stay in the world; one is a mother my age that just started chemo, again. I think she's living like she's preparing for eternity.

Life is precious. Life is hard. We need some help. We need someone to wrap us in a towel and just hold us; to hold us until we find a way to make in this world or until we find the way to make it out.

Squirt? Well, his breathing never slowed. At first when I held him in that towel he didn't move. The longer I held him the more comfortable he became. Slowly he came back to life.

When Scott got home he called the vet for advice. Squirt was alive but too weak to be just left outside. You'll be happy to know that we loaded Squirt up in the shoe box that I thought would be his casket and delivered him to an emergency vet clinic that rescues wildlife. They were very happy to have him there. And so were we.

Oh, and this other guy was out there again, too. Just above the door where little Squirt was hanging on.

Pray. Rescue the perishing. You'll be rescued yourself.

If you fall to pieces in a crisis, there wasn't much to you in the first place. Rescue the perishing; don't hesitate to step in and help. If you say, "Hey, that's none of my business," will that get you off the hook? Someone is watching you closely, you know - Someone not impressed with weak excuses. Proverbs 24:10-12

Where's the Aflac Duck when you need him?

2010-08-31T15:00:00.008-04:00

Does anybody remember that commercial where a little chubby-cheeked boy says, “Blueberries are our friends”? I’m thinking it was a Welch’s grape juice commercial from the 90’s, although I’m not sure why a grape juice commercial would be promoting blueberries, so I’m not really sure. (If you have any confirmation or YouTube link, hook a girl up, K?) Still. Every now and then, I find opportunities to quote that phrase about the antioxidant fruit.

It’s kind of like the little old lady at Wendy’s wondering, “where’s the beef?”. You would be amazed at how often I find “where’s the beef?” to be an appropriate question in an ordinary day conversation even after a whole generation has grown up never knowing that commercial even existed.

But don’t get me started on this new generation’s fast food commercials. I mean, really. The Burger King??

I was a big fan of the Barry Manilow commercial jingles. “You deserve a break today, so get up and get away, to McDonalds.” And, “Like a good neighbor, State Farm is there…” I’m not sure I know any current commercial jingles. Do commercials even have jingles anymore?

Lately, every time Flo from Progressive Insurance comes on the TV screen, Scott instantly changes the channel. He simply cannot look at her with all her eyeliner and perkiness nor can he tolerate her chirpy voice. I kind of like her because she can be happy about something as boringly miserable as insurance. Oh, to be that naïve and blissful about something you have to pay dearly for but pray you’ll never need.

I have my own personal issues with Jamie Lee Curtis and Activia yogurt. I haven’t seen one of those commercials lately so maybe they realized it was a bad idea, but for a while there Jamie Lee was trying to convince us to take the Activia Challenge for 14 days. But here’s the kicker, she asks us to video tape ourselves during the course of the 14 day challenge and then submit them to her.

First of all, if you didn’t know, Activia yogurt contains bifidus regularis, aka probiotic bacterium Bifidobacterium animalis. In Jamie Lee’s words, it helps regulate your digestion. In my words, it helps you “go” more regularly instead of every couple of days.

My question is, what exactly is it that Jamie Lee wants me to film?

I mean, if I eat a cup of Activia yogurt every day, chances are I’m going to eat it the same way every single day. I’ll peel off the foil lid and dip in with a spoon. I’ll likely do in the privacy of my own home and not out in public because who wants to be seen eating digestion regulating yogurt? It would only fuel my nemesis’ impression that I am full of it. So, if I were filming that portion, even my surroundings would be the same. Every day for 14 days.

The one thing that would change would be, well, my digestion. Does she really want me to film the evidence of that?

It would certainly be easy to do. So easy in fact that I think a caveman could do it.

Too bad they fired him and hired some weird, plastic googly eyes with dollar bills for a mustache. Ok, that’s enough. I gotta go.

No, not that kind of “go.”

Which, by the way, I would not film even it I did.

You can live without an eye, for instance, but not without a stomach. When it's a part of your own body you are concerned with, it makes no difference whether the part is visible or clothed, higher or lower. You give it dignity and honor just as it is, without comparisons. If anything, you have more concern for the lower parts than the higher. If you had to choose, wouldn't you prefer good digestion to full-bodied hair? 1 Corinthians 12:20-24 The Message.

The Emperor's Expectorant

2010-08-17T21:06:00.003-04:00

Some people are visionaries. They are able to see things the way they hope and dream for them to become. They are the ones that are goal setters and star reachers. “To dream the impossible dream….”

Some people are idealists. They see things from an absolute perfection perspective. They are the ones that know all the rules and proper procedures and are usually pretty good instructors in such methods. “If you do it this exactly like this, then this will be the positive result….”

While both types are quite admirable, I am not either one. I may have attempted to be them a time or two, but I have a hard time seeing anything other than stark reality. “The Emperor is not wearing any clothes…”

Yes, I have hopes and dreams and a few ideals, but the reality I see far outshines anything else. Funny thing, though. With hindsight sometimes it becomes obvious that the realist in me had a clearer picture of the future that my future-minded friends. Often, if you take a good look at the way things really, truly are, it is not difficult to see where they are going.

In looking ahead and trying to face the future, there has been one word that always gets thrown at me. It’s happened all of my life. I’ve written about it before because, well, it just keeps coming up. (Here’s what I wrote about the last time I got the reminder.)

The word: EXPECTATION

The realist in me has eliminated the need for a lot of expectations. Again, I do have hopes and dreams. I just don’t tie my entire future to them and I can still find peace and satisfaction even if they never come to fruition. When and if they ever become a reality, then I’m all the more blessed and thankful. Mostly I’ve learned not to have great expectations for other people. Especially those close to me. It makes me love them all the more when they actually do something that I hoped they would do, but didn’t bank my happiness on it.

What I’m dealing with right now is, however, other people’s expectations; those other people being the visionaries and idealists living in my world. They have such great expectations of me.

I want to tell those people a few things….

First of all, thank you. Thank you for your vote of confidence. Thank you for thinking that I can be better than I am. Thank you for thinking that I am capable and talented enough to achieve all that you envision. Thank you for setting your standards high.

Secondly, I’m sorry. I have failed you. I am sorry that I have let you down. I have tried, but I have not been able to live up to your expectations. Your absolute need to see me accomplish what you’ve prioritized is only filling your life with strife and disappointment. The anger that you have over what you see as my failure is killing you, not me.

You set those priorities, not me.

Yes, I have failed. But my failure is in trying to please you and not my Creator.

Yes, I am at fault. I’ve stepped over the fault line several times and have accumulated a great big pile of rubble all on my own, even without your expectations. I have more guilt that I can carry.

But my faults are not your fault. They have nothing to do with you.

As much as I might want to be, I am not responsible for your expectations. Only you can control that.

I hope that you will keep reaching for the stars and showing others the proper procedures because you will be an inspiration to someone else along the way.

But please, release me. Let me go.

You will be the one that ends up with the true freedom.

Of course, I have no expectations about what you’ll do.

I’ll just wait to be surprised and blessed by even more than I could have hoped for.

Amazing Grace will always be my song of praise.
For it was grace, that brought me liberty,
I do not know, just why He came to love me so.
He looked beyond my faults and saw my need.

I shall forever lift mine eyes to Calvary,
To view the cross, where Jesus died for me
How marvelous, His grace that caught my falling soul
He Looked beyond my faults and saw my
need.
-Dottie Rambo

They even did more than we had hoped, for their first action was to give themselves to the Lord and to us, just as God wanted them to do. 2 Corinthians 8:5

The Neighborhood Watch

2010-06-17T17:03:00.003-04:00

Again. I’ve written a thousand paragraphs that never get posted on this blog. There are a thousand reasons why they never get posted. Mostly I write things and then think, oh my goodness, I can’t let anybody else read that! I’m prone to embarrass myself when I open my mouth and then commit my words to paper, but usually it feels so good to get it out. Basically, this is just my version of inexpensive therapy.

However.

The past couple of days I’ve been thinking about one unpublished post that’s been saved on my flash drive for a while. Not sure why it has been on my mind. Actually, it’s not what I wrote that has been on my mind; it’s the event that inspired me to write it down in the first place.

Here’s the original post I wrote:

This past Sunday afternoon we had a special choir rehearsal at church. Once it was over, I had another hour and half before Scott would be done with his other rehearsals.

Ahhh, a little bit of ME time.

I went home, poured myself a glass of iced Coke Zero, grabbed my book, and made my way to the rocking chair on the front porch. The weather was sunny and breezy, but not hot. It was quiet and peaceful. If I hadn’t wanted to finish my book so much, I would have just closed my eyes and enjoyed a long overdue Sunday afternoon nap. It was just a perfect outdoor kind of day.

I had not turned too many pages in the book I was reading when I began to hear someone talking. And then I heard a rake scraping across the ground in slow strokes. The continuous talking and raking was a little distracting, so I looked around to find the source.

It was coming from across the street and two houses down. That house on the corner lot has been empty a good bit of the last few years. Several years ago, its long time residents moved to an assisted living facility. Since then it has been occupied off and on by several different people who I believe must be renters. To my knowledge, no one is living in the house now that I am aware of.

A woman was outside raking up the oak leaves (the ones from the trees that shed their leaves in the spring when the new growth comes in. It’s awful. We rake year-round in our neighborhood!). She obviously had a blue tooth device in her ear because she was also chatting away with someone else that I could not see or hear. She kept the rhythm of her rake going as she talked. I couldn’t hear everything she was saying, just a few words every now and then. After a few minutes, I did hear her say she had another call coming in, one she had been expecting, and she needed to take it.

She ended that first conversation and picked up the second one. She stopped her raking and leaned on the rake as if it were some kind of staff. The volume of her voice went up several decibels and I could hear her clearly. She said, “I just want to pray for you right now.”

And she did. Out loud. Over the phone.

As she prayed her voice got louder. The hand that wasn’t holding the rake lifted high over her head.

I gathered from her prayers that the man she was praying with/for had a wife in the hospital and the prognosis did not look good.

She prayed for a miracle.

She prayed for God to make a way where there seemed to be no way.

She prayed for her brother to have the strength to let his wife go if it came to that.

She quoted several scriptures claiming the promises in them.

She prayed on and on. She prayed loud and hard and long. She was oblivious to anything else around her as she talked to God. Cars drove by. Kids on bicycles rode by. She had no idea I was sitting on my porch within earshot and eyesight of her taking in the whole thing.

After a while, I was raising my hand too. I couldn’t help myself. She was praising God so strongly that not only did the Spirit come down and cover her, it spread all the way over to my front porch and covered everything in between like hot lava.

After 20 minutes or so I could tell she was winding down and about to end the prayer and the call. I stepped inside my front door to put down my drink and book. By the time I turned around and went back outside, she was gone.

I wanted to go other there and speak to her and tell her thank you. Where we live we hear a lot of gunshots and sirens on a regular basis; not a lot of prayer in the streets. I wanted to tell her how unusual but refreshingly wonderful it was to hear someone acknowledging God boldly and without apprehension in my neighborhood, on the street where I live.

It was something that had nothing to do with me, but just because of my close proximity I got a residual blessing. I wasn’t expecting it. The original intention of the prayer was not for me, but the blessing was mine for sure.

Praise Him out loud. You never know where the blessings will fall.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So that was the original post. I’m not sure why I never clicked the publish button. I guess I kind of felt like it was unfinished. Like there was more to the story or something. I suppose it could be that I never got to speak to her and that I still wanted to meet her and tell her thank you.

I went back to my flash drive earlier today to retrieve that post and realized it was written on April 15. Today is June 17. It’s been 2 months. I have not seen her, nor anyone else, at that house since that day. No one.

Does anyone else think that’s a little odd?

Maybe that whole thing was intended for me after all. It is a rare occasion that I am home alone. If I am, I’m usually busy inside trying to get something done, like cook dinner or finish up the laundry, before my husband gets home. Not this day. God knew I would be home alone that afternoon, sitting on my front porch purposely taking a sidebar from a busy Sunday. He also knew I had an unrecognized need for a sighting of His Spirit in our world. In my world. On the street where I live.

He came. Just for me.

All this is for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God. 2 Corinthians 4:15

Sunglasses and a Savior

2010-06-09T10:58:00.005-04:00

I think I’m a little late with the spring fever. I’m always the last one to fall into the latest trends.

(I heard somewhere that oversized sunglasses are in? Is that true? I'm just not sure I can go there yet.)

I think it is spring fever because I seem to have lost my motivation for anything. ANYTHING.

So, I’m making a list. Maybe if I document at least the passing thoughts through my brain, then maybe I can then check some of it off and feel like I’ve accomplished something.

My list is of things that have been on my mind that are truly post-worthy, but I haven’t been able to finish one single post. I’ve started several hundred of them. “Started” is the key word. Apparently “finish” has dropped out of my vocabulary lately. Along with the words “diet” and “exercise”. Oh, and “work.”

My list is a reminder to me that if I ever do get back to my regular posting and don’t have anything to talk about, well, here’s a place to start.

But who am I kidding? By the time I get back around to anything I’ve started and not finished, the beginning of a hundred other things will have taken their place.

And so it goes.

My list of totally unrelated things to which I should have dedicated entire individual blog posts:

1. So, I have a new car. It was truly an ordeal. It took about a month to actually get it to my driveway. I haven’t quite found the balance between the joy of a brand new car and the sickness of car payments. Does anybody ever feel like they got a good deal on a car? Really? I mean, people who sell cars do it all day every day. I buy a car once every five or six years, if that. How can I win with those odds? Anyway, we simply HAD to buy a new car because I couldn’t keep buying new sunglasses every week. It seems on two separate occasions with two different pairs of sunglasses, I left them in cars we test drove. So, two lucky new car owners got a free pair with their new car purchase. Now that’s a deal.

2. One day when I’ve lost all my inhibitions I’m going to write a book about all things your minister will never tell you. There are lots of sub-topics under this one, but lately I’ve been thinking about weddings. ONE: never, ever schedule a church wedding in December. Yes, the holiday decorations make lovely pictures, but the sanctuary is already booked every Saturday in December for all the extra choir rehearsals and programs. If you want the minister to focus solely on your special day, do it during a season when nothing else is going on. June is good. TWO: You pay the band for making music at the reception, why not pay the guy who sings the sweet love song during the ceremony? Unless, of course, the guy singing the sweet love song is the groom, then paying him would be weird. THREE: Pick up after yourselves. Or at least ask your mom and dad do it for you after you’ve gone on your way to honeymoon paradise. For the rest of us, coming to church on Sunday after a Saturday night wedding and finding dress hangers, empty panty hose packages, pins, flower petals, and cans of hairspray sitting in your Sunday School class seat or in your choir chair is a little unnerving sometimes because it leads the mind to think of people changing clothes (and thus, in their underwear) right here in the very place I’m trying to, well, not think of people in their underwear.

3. What on earth have I have I got to complain about? I have a friend my age that’s been fighting cancer for several years and the battle is getting harder every day now. I have another friend my age that fought a seizure demon and had several years of victory, only to have it seize her again. I have a friend I went to college with whose wife has been on a respirator. These are people in their 40’s. I have younger cousin whose Air Force soldier husband was just sent to Iraq for six months. I can’t even keep track of how many times he’s already been over there. She’s home with her 2 girls.

Did anybody see the Life Today program a few weeks ago where Beth Moore was talking about being in a doctor’s office waiting room anticipating an appointment where she would get some test results? One of her daughters was with her and passed the time by reading all the medical brochures in the waiting room. You know, the ones that inform you of all the different kinds of cancer and diseases. Her words were, “He knows it’s scary to be us.”

Indeed, He does.

Stress over things like losing my sunglasses to making car payments.

Frustrations of being married to a minister.

People all around me who have a special need for comfort and care and healing.

God knows it’s scary to face all those things. And He doesn’t want us to face them alone.

All praise to the God and Father of our Master, Jesus the Messiah! Father of all mercy! God of all healing counsel! He comes alongside us when we go through hard times, and before you know it, he brings us alongside someone else who is going through hard times so that we can be there for that person just as God was there for us. We have plenty of hard times that come from following the Messiah, but no more so than the good times of his healing comfort—we get a full measure of that, too. 2 Corinthians 1:3-5 The Message

I'm not a total wreck thanks to Mom

2010-05-05T13:00:00.007-04:00

Scott and I have recently been dealing with some vehicle issues. About 3 weeks ago, a weird set of circumstances one particular day had us all out of sorts and the culmination of the day was a car wreck. No one was hurt. The other car was fine. Our 15-year old paid-in-full and still nice car, however, was considered a total loss by the insurance company. So, we’ve had the car shopping demon hanging over our heads for several days now as we wait for a check from the insurance company.

I wasn’t in the car when it happened. Scott was by himself. I have been in my share of bump-ups, however.

Several years ago Scott and I were headed south on I-95 one New Year’s Day. Traffic was bumper to bumper with all the college bowl game traffic. It was stop and go traffic. Some stopped, we didn’t. No one was hurt, but the car had to be towed. It was an I-told-you-so opportunity about following too close, but I never said it. Scott felt guilty enough without it.

Longer ago than that, Scott was driving me back to work after a midday appointment we had together. Another car ran a red light and smashed into the driver’s side of our car. Scott was bruised but OK. At the scene, I tried to be a nice person and offer the offending driver use of Scott’s cell phone. When the cops showed up, she denied running the red light. I wasn’t hurt, but I was angry. Our car was totaled.

With the money from my first job out of college I bought a red Ford Mustang. I was driving through a parking lot at a slow speed when a younger-than-I student backed out of a parking space with the gas pedal all the way to the floor. She smashed the passenger side of my cute little car. I wasn’t hurt, but it did make me sick.

My most memorable wreck happened when I was a preschooler. My Aunt Alma was driving. Technically she is a cousin, not an Aunt, but she was the grandmotherly type and for all practical purposes my nanny until I finished the 3rd grade. Calling her “Aunt” just felt more right because she seemed closer than a cousin.

I was riding in the front seat on the passenger side of her sedan. Aunt Alma’s adult daughter Rosalou was sitting in the back seat holding her own newborn infant in her arms. This was before the days of child safety seats and seat belt laws.

It was a sunny day in Florida, but it was cold. I was wearing my favorite red coat. I had my head turned, looking out the passenger window. I was barely tall enough to see out of it.

A drunk driver coming from the opposite direction swerved over into our lane and crashed into us head on. I remember hearing tires screech and some other loud noise. I can still feel my head bouncing back and forth several times off of the window I’d been peering out of. Then I remember a crowd of people and a lot of yelling.

The wreck happened near an intersection of a four land road. On one of the corners of that intersection was a gas station. It was long enough ago that it was still a full service gas station; one where they actually worked on cars. Somebody from that station handed me a greasy red rag filled with ice and told me to hold it on my right eye and not let go. The gasoline smell of the greasy red rag almost took my breath away. Still today, every time I smell gasoline I think of that greasy red ice filled rag.

I remember Aunt Alma standing around telling everyone she was OK, but that her glasses had flown off her face with the impact. Could somebody please help her find her glasses? Rosalou seemed to be OK too and her baby, who had had somehow ended up on the floorboard by her feet, seemed unphased.

I don’t remember how I got to the hospital. If I road in an ambulance, I don’t remember it. I do remember that once we got there, there was not a single familiar face anywhere to be seen. Alma had gone to tend to Rosalou and the baby, who was also brought to the hospital for evaluation. My mom and dad were at work; my sisters were both at school. I was surrounded by a bunch of nice but unknown scurrying strangers. They made me lie down on a cold table and then they put my head in a green foam form so that it would be immobile for the x-rays or scans or whatever it was they were going to do to me.

Once they determined I was OK except for the busted up eyebrow and a swollen, black eye, they put me up on a high table or counter out near the reception area. It seemed like the top shelf of a very high cabinet. It might not have actually been that high, but to my 4 year old legs dangling over the edge, the floor seemed like a long way down. Way too far to jump. I sat there for what seemed like a long time not saying anything to anyone; just waiting.

From my perch I could see automatic glass doors which must have been the public entrance to the ER. The bright sunshine was beaming from outside through those doors. They kept swishing open and I could feel the cold air sweeping in. People were going in and out of those doors but because the sun was so bright outside and the lighting was dim inside I saw only dark silhouettes. I couldn’t really see any faces or physical details.

Like the top shelf I was sitting on, I’m sure my 4 year old brain exaggerated the length of that lonely wait too. It felt like forty forevers that I sat there by myself, speechless, in my favorite red coat, with my legs dangling over, still smelling the gasoline scent, waiting on someone to help me down and tell me what to do next.

I eventually saw a familiar shape coming through the bright light of the swishing automatic doors. I didn’t have to see her face. I recognized my mother simply by the shadowed shape of her hair and hips as she ran towards me.

I don’t remember anything else about that day. Mom showed up, scooped me up off that high counter and that was all. It was over. Everything was OK. Nothing that had happened in the previous few hours mattered any more.

That happened 40 years ago. I remember those details more vividly than I remember what I ate for lunch yesterday.

I remember feeling pretty in my favorite red coat.
I remember seeing and squinting at the brightness of the sun.
I remember hearing Alma’s voice as she kept asking for her glasses.
I remember smelling the gasoline rag.

What’s interesting is what I don’t remember. I have absolutely no recollection of pain. None. I know I must have ended up with one heck of a headache, but the only physical feeling I remember is finally having my mother’s arms around me.

There have been other kinds of wrecks in my life, not having anything to do with cars or roadways. A good many of those were my own fault. Even when it was my own fault, my mother never said so. Even if we were living miles apart, I somehow still knew her arms were around me.

Mom has had a rough time lately. The shatters and smashes she’s fallen into are merely the results of living on this earth 80 years. She is brave. She is strong. She is full of grace.

Mom, I don’t know if my hugs will ever mean to you what yours mean to me. I can’t be with you on Mother’s Day, but I want you to know my arms are stretched as far as they can be reaching for you.

I love you.

He will feed his flock like a shepherd. He will carry the lambs in his arms, holding them close to his heart. He will gently lead the mother sheep with their young. Isaiah 40:11

May I take your order?

2010-04-22T14:56:00.004-04:00

There’s an old joke that often comes back to me when I find myself in this kind of situation...

This old guy goes to the fast food drive-thru for lunch. The young voice in the speaker asks to take his order. He replies, “I have a $5 bill. Just give me whatever the heck you want me to have.”

He hears back over the speaker, “I’m sorry sir, you will have to tell us what you want. We can’t make that decision for you.”

Again he says, “I have a $5 bill. Just give me whatever the heck you want me to have.”

The response he hears, “I’m sorry sir, we can’t do that.”

So he finally says, “Well, why not? You did yesterday!”

It’s funny because it’s true.

I spend a lot of time in drive-thru queues. Mostly for drinks, not so much for food. Between my Diet Coke habit and Scott’s coffee needs, it’s almost a daily thing.

Besides the fact that I always need to take a sip of my drink before I drive away (heaven forbid they give me regular Coke instead of diet; or sweet tea if I asked for unsweet!), there are some other things that drive me crazy in the drive-thru queue:

I’ve made list.

Long trucks with LOUD hemi engines. There was one behind me in the line today and both I and the speaker box voice had to literally scream at each other over the engine racket. Of course, when the big, loud truck got up to the speaker to place his order, he cut the engine off so he speak without yelling and hear everything the speaker box voice said. Well good for him. What about for the good of the rest of us? Never mind that I am now deaf and have a raspy throat from all the yelling. If you have to turn that thunderous engine off just so you can hear anyway, why not just park the thing and go inside? The rest of us would greatly appreciate it.
Vehicles pulling anything on a trailer hitch. There is barely room for all the oversized SUVs and the big hemi engine trucks anyway. When you add a hitched boat or lawn mower on a trailer, it invariably pushes a car in the back of the line out into the street and blocks traffic. I’ve been the one being honked at out in the street and it isn’t pretty. Again, just the park thing and go inside. You’ll need to take up three or four parking spaces to do that, and most likely a handicapped one at that, but so be it.
People who place their orders at the speaker box and are told the total amount of their bill, but yet refuse to even think about getting their wallet out until they actually get up to the window where someone is already holding their bag of yummies out of the window. If your drive-thrus are as busy as the ones I visit, then there’s always a car of two in front of you providing ample time to get your money in hand after you place your order and before you actually arrive at the pick-up window. And, hey, what a novel idea that if your money’s in hand and ready to hand over first, then both your hands are free to fill with food. I realize this takes coordination and a bit of organizational skill, but you can do it. I know you can!
Why do they call it a drive-THRU anyway? You don’t drive THROUGH anything. Maybe we should all start calling it a drive-AROUND. Maybe a drive-BY would be more accurate. Of course, drive-BY has all kinds of other violent connotations, but given the nature of this beast (and no, I’m not talking about myself), a drive-by might be in order.

It’s after two o’clock now which means happy hour at Sonic. Which means half price drinks. Gotta go. It’s drive-by time.

I thought you ought to know about it. Buy it back if you want it—you can make it official in the presence of those sitting here and before the town elders. You have first redeemer rights. If you don't want it, tell me so I'll know where I stand. You're first in line to do this and I'm next after you. Ruth 4:4

Life in Pollen-nesia

2010-04-06T17:26:00.005-04:00

I finally drove my car to and through the car wash yesterday. Scott was in the passenger seat and he was yelling at everyone else on the road to watch out for me because I literally could not see through the pollen-covered windshield to navigate the roadway. Good thing the car wash wasn’t that far from my house and there wasn’t much traffic on a Monday afternoon.

Scott’s been my chauffer the last few days so my car has been sitting in the driveway collecting layer after layer of the yellow dust. There seem to be a lot more blooms out all at the same time this year. There was also no cold snap in the middle of it to stunt some of blossoming, which has helped cut some of the pollen production in that past couple of years.

Scott nicknamed our neighborhood Pollen-nesia because everything is coated in the tropical yellow color. I am just now getting over two weeks of feeling puny because my bronchial airways were coated in it as well (Maybe we should call it Pollen-sneezia).

All this yellow dust has been at its thickest right here on the tail end of Holy Week. Holy Week is one of the busiest weeks of the year for us. At least at Christmas we spread out all the activities over a 3 or 4 week period. Holy Week, we try to do it all in the same 3 days Jesus used to save the entire world and we try to do it while we’re coughing and sneezing and wheezing through the pollen. I don’t think we’ll ever measure up, but we certainly do give it our best effort.

We have a Maundy Thursday service at church.

Then we have a Good Friday Service at church.

Then there’s Easter Sunday morning when everybody shows up and expects to see and been seen by God in a big way. Many come to get a year's worth of God all in one worship service. Expectations are high.

Scott also agreed to sing at the local Episcopal church for their Paschal Vigil service on Saturday night. He sang two songs and also chanted, like a monk, some kind of proclamation about Adam and the Israelites and the Passover and Jesus coming again. Basically, the entire Bible.

That’s four days in a row of church services. In Pollen-nesia.

I say it every year, “Jesus didn’t go to church this much.”

And did he suffer with all these allergens?

With all that church and the preparation that goes into all those services, the church staff do not get an official Easter holiday until the Monday after. That’s just the ministry life. I work for local government so I don’t officially get any days off for Easter and/or spring break. I accrue 3 hours of time off for every week that I work, which means I have to work 13 full weeks to get one week off. I am in no way complaining. I do get most national holidays, two days for Thanksgiving, and two days for Christmas off. Because of the city and state that I live in, I even get Confederate Memorial Day off. I think that’s odd and I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it, but if they’re going to give me a day off with pay, I’m going to take it.

So. The Monday after Easter was scheduled to be a holiday for Scott. When I left the office on Good Friday, I told my boss I would see him on Tuesday; I was taking a vacation day on Monday so Scott and I could have a day off together.

We were looking forward to 12:00 Sunday afternoon when we would be “done.” Free. We wanted to get out of Pollen-nesia for a night. Get some rest. Breathe some different air. Maybe I could get to see my parents. Maybe we would get to eat at Sonny’s BBQ. Maybe I’d get to shop at Macy’s.

Alas, the ministry life called again and a funeral was scheduled for the middle of the afternoon Monday, which nixed our travel plans. Scott was set to sing at the funeral, and of course, he knew that’s exactly where he needed and wanted to be at that time.

Make that five days in a row of church services. Still in Pollen-nesia.

Let me say it again. Jesus didn’t go to church that much. And the only time I can think of anyone sneezing in the Bible was the boy that Elisha gave mouth to mouth resuscitation to. I don’t think that had anything to do with blooming flowers.

This was the second time in a month that I’ve made preparations to take a day off from work and then something happened that kept me from doing whatever it was I had planned to do on that day off. Actually, both times we were planning an out of town trip. So, what do I do when I tell the boss I’m taking a day off but then end up otherwise unoccupied? Do I go on in to work anyway and say “Surprise! I love it so much I couldn’t stay away!”

Well, no, of course not. If I find myself with some unexpected time on my hands, I have this vision in my head of a day at home doing nothing but what I want to do, like finish that book I’ve been nursing for a couple of weeks now or update the playlist on my ipod. Sitting on the porch in the rocking chair sounds nice. An afternoon nap sounds good too.

However. I cannot seem to stay at home and have a vacation day all at the same time. Especially in Pollen-nesia.

I find it very difficult to relax when there are a million other things that need to be done and every other day I never seem to have the time to do them because I’m at work all day. From the minute I get out of bed I begin to see things that need to be done around the house. Since the boss is not expecting me at work, I can no longer use “I don’t have time to do that right now” as an excuse. I have to get busy.

I was standing at the ironing board pressing the white shirt Scott was going to wear to the funeral later that day. I was also going to iron all the other non-essential things (like a tablecloth) that had been piling upon the ironing board waiting for me and my spare time. From my vantage point at the ironing board, I can see out of the bedroom window. I’m not usually at home when the mid-morning sun comes through the bedroom window and highlights all the dust on the blinds. This day, however, I was there and saw all that dust and suddenly began to feel like I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t get that Swiffer swiffering fast enough on those blinds.

Then there was the front porch. I moved all my plants from their winter shelter to the summer positions on the edge of the porch. Some still need repotting, but that will have to wait until my next non-vacation day off. I wiped down the outside furniture and swept the porch to clear it of the thick layer of yellow pollen dust. I finished that up and went back inside. A little while later I went back outside and was compelled to go get the broom and sweep again becasue the yellow dust was back again. It just won’t go away.

Dust on my blinds. Dust on my car. Dust on my porch. I can Swiffer it and wipe it and wash it away, but it always seems to come back. It just about gets the best of me when I begin to think about how all this dust has ruined my unexpected "free" day.

In my second attempt at sweeping the front porch and eventually abandoing the futile efforts, I realize that the dust was there first. The pollen was falling long before we ever made a driveway and parked a car in it. Even before that, my ancestors actually were dust. Dust of the earth is what God scooped up and breathed life into to become the very first human being. It was in a garden too, so I'm pretty sure there must have been some pollen mixed in that handfull of dust.

No need to fight any longer to rid my home and life of it. It is my heritage. Next time I get an unexpected day off at home, my cousin Dusty and I will be sitting on the front porch reading a good book. The broom and Swiffer will be collecting dust in the closet.

The Lord God formed the man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being. Genesis 2:7

A lot details about a day in the life of....some sweet tea

2010-03-30T17:02:00.005-04:00

Saturday, a week ago I got up earlier than I usually do for a Saturday. I had several things I wanted to accomplish before I hit the road. I did a few things around the house and then had a couple of stops to make before I was finally headed south on I-95 a little after 9 AM.

I was on the way to see my parents. They live three hours south of here in Georgia. This was the third trip I made down there this month. I must say based on my observations of traffic on those combined 18 hours of traveling I-95 that I think they must have closed Canada. The number of license plates from Quebec was far and above any other single state other than the one I was traveling in. Weird, eh?

Almost three weeks ago, my mom fell in the parking lot of Huddle House, a favorite dining place of my mom and dad. The ambulance took her to the hospital from there. She suffered a couple of fractures, lots of bruises, and a great amount of confusion because her head, face, and nose took the brunt of her fall. After a little over two weeks in the hospital, it became clear that she needed more daily help than any of us could give her. Just two days before this recent Saturday trip there, my mother was moved into her new assisted living home. My planned overnight stay at my parents’ house was to delay, just one more day, my dad having to stay at home by himself at night.

About two hours down the road I began to get the sickly feeling that surely I must have forgotten something. I called Scott at home back in South Carolina and asked him if he had put my suitcase in the car for me.

Um. No. Oops. I was going to have to make a WalMart run later.

When I arrived suitcaseless at my dad’s house, he and my sister were sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich. I sat down with them and poured myself a glass of iced tea. One thing we can always count on at my parents’ house is two pitchers of tea in the fridge. That’s so when one pitcher is empty, there is still a cold one ready while more tea is made to refill the empty one. We are one ceaseless iced tea drinking family.

After we visited my mom in her new home and the WalMart excursion with my sister, my dad and I went to the Huddle House to eat dinner. It was the first time he’d been back there since Mom fell. He showed me where she fell and told me all about it. The waitress asked about Mom. Several other HH customers asked about Mom too. Dad was very brave. And he must have finally been hungry because he ate shrimp, fried squash, and hash browns. We both drank a lot of iced tea. It was the most I’d seen him eat in a long time.

Back at Dad’s house, I gathered up the new toothbrush and travel size toiletries purchased at WalMart and got myself ready for bed. My dad keeps the heat in his house on HIGH. All the time. Even a cold-natured person like me gets WARM in his house. I did what we all do when we spend the night there. I closed the door the bedroom I was sleeping in. I closed the air vent in the ceiling. I opened up both windows. I tried to sleep. All night long I kept feeling like my throat and nasal passages were drying up and were scratchy and irritated. At first I thought it was just all the dry, hot air. Later I realized it was all the pollen outside coming in through the open windows.

Sunday morning Dad and I listened to his church service on the radio, which is always a treat because one, I don’t get that kind of preaching and singing at home, and two, I get to sit in the recliner instead of an uncomfortable pew. Afterwards, Dad and I went to the Sunday brunch buffet at the Holiday Inn. Just the two of us again.

Dad put a piece of fried chicken, a serving of club steak, and a slice of roast beef on his plate along with everything else. Yes, his appetite is back after all the chemo, radiation, and shingles troubles. The waitress put a pitcher of tea on the table for the two of us. I think Dad had 2 glasses. I drank the rest of the pitcher myself. I ate navy beans and cornbread. Yum, yum, and yum. I’ve never seen navy beans on a public buffet before. It’s just one of those things you usually get at home. Nobody goes “out” to eat navy beans. We had a lot of navy beans at home growing up. Actually, a lot of things about this meal reminded me of when I was younger.

I was one of those people who moved back home after I graduated from college. I lived there 4 years, just my mom and dad and me (6 years if you count my last 2 years in high school). And no, I wasn’t the freeloader kind, not totally anyway. I had a job and made a car payment. I paid for my car insurance, all my health a beauty needs, and a few groceries every now and then. I just needed a place to put my stuff and someplace to refill my iced tea glass. Anyway, during those years, my dad and I did a lot of stuff together that involved food and/or meals. Mostly it was going to get stuff he would cook. Sometimes we would go and get some kind of take out. Anyway, just sitting across from him at the Holiday Inn made me think about all that and smile.

When Dad and I finished up at the Holiday Inn buffet, we came back to the house and I packed up my stuff in a WalMart plastic bag. We went to visit Mom again at her assisted living home, then I got back on the road to home.

I was again surrounded by Quebecians on the 3 hour ride up I-95. My mucus membranes began to compensate for the scratchy throat and nasal passages and soon they were coated with that icky, slimy substance. Congestion, ugh. I finally arrived at home.

Monday morning I went to work but only lasted until about noon, then went home and slept the afternoon away on the couch in between all the sniffling, blowing, and coughing. All day long I craved an iced tea with crushed iced. It was all I wanted. It was the only thing that could bring me comfort, not only for my raw throat, but also for my sentimental soul that had been recently been taken back to the time when my cold, sweet, iced tea dependency was formed in Mom & Dad’s refrigerator.

When Scott got home and was looking for dinner, I convinced him to go to Zaxby’s with me because they have crushed ice and good sweet tea. I ordered the chicken fingers with the hot, hot, buffalo sauce because I thought at least that would be something I might be able to actually taste through my congestion-dulled taste buds. I also got a really big sweet tea with crushed ice. I refilled it once or twice while we were there and then refilled it again before we walked out the door. Ahhhhh.

Oh, I just wanted to get back home, put on my pajamas, sip my sweet tea, suck on the crushed ice, and nurse my congestion. We arrived at home, I gathered up my purse and jumbo cup of tea from the car and headed for the front door. There are two steps up to the porch. Somehow, I missed both of them. Both of my feet went out from under me and I fell flat on the porch. I lost both my shoes and ripped one of my socks so that all five toes where protruding out. Then, almost as if in slow motion, I saw my jumbo cup of crushed ice and sweet tea leave my hand and bounce on the concrete, busting out the bottom of the cup and spilling all that precious comfort all over the porch.

I just sat there and cried. I had a little bit of a skinned knee, but that was all. I wasn’t hurt. Nothing broken. Nothing bleeding. But my tea, my sweet, sweet tea. My sweet tea and crushed ice spilled all over the porch. My comfort was seeping through the cracks in the concrete and over the edge of the porch, leaving nothing but a sticky mess behind.

No, I couldn’t go back to the few minutes before I fell and do it over, differently. I couldn’t scoop up the spilled tea and put back in another cup. I can’t go back to the time when one of the two pitchers of tea in Mom & Dad’s fridge was a gallon jug because all 3 of us were living in the house and drinking it heavily. I can’t go back to the days my dad and I went out to get BBQ or fried chicken for the three of us for dinner. I can’t go back to the day before my mom fell in the parking lot of Huddle House and changed all of our lives forever.

Truth is, my comfort is not back there. My comfort is in what lies ahead. I’m looking forward to the day we’ll never thirst again.

All of us must die eventually. Our lives are like water spilled out on the ground, which cannot be gathered up again. But God does not just sweep life away; instead, he devises ways to bring us back when we have been separated from him. 2 Samuel 14:14 The Message

ONE TWO THREE etc. etc. etc.

2010-03-01T15:07:00.005-05:00

At the end of last year, I declared that this new year would be the year of getting back on the beat and finding a steady rhythm in life again after being out of sync for so long.

‘How’s that workin’ out for you?’, you might ask.

Well, in my last post I came clean and admitted my love of the musical, and since then I’ve had all kinds of show tunes running through my head. Even one about rhythm.

Remember that scene in “The King and I” where Mrs. Anna is trying to teach the King of Siam how to dance? More specifically, polka? (and BTW fun facts to know and tell your friends but not really related to this post – I saw Yul Brenner perform this in person. Not on Broadway, but later in a traveling company).

She first tries to get him to feel the beat and counts it out for him:

one – two – three – AND

one – two – three – AND

He tries it together with her.

He counts: ONE – two – three – ONE – two – three – ONE – two – three.

Which doesn’t seem to go with her one – two – three – AND count.

He then declares, “Something wrong.”

“I know. I forget AND.”

Then they dance happily ever after with the “clear understanding that this kind of thing can happen…”

Well. I experienced the one-two-threes myself this past weekend.

My father-in-law, aka Pop, is visiting with us now. His home is three hours away. When he comes to visit us, he usually stays for a little longer than he used to when my mother-in-law was alive and with him. She would always tell him she was ready to go home. Without her, he’s not as eager to leave. I can certainly understand that and he’s always welcome in my home.

When he’s here, the rhythm of our daily lives changes a little bit. Our food habits are one example. We avoid Taco Bell, at which Scott and I usually dine about twice a week. Pop just doesn’t like the “spicy” food. So, we eat more sandwiches. That’s OK too. It’s just different.

The TV is another thing. Pop likes Fox News and Bill O’Reilly and Sean Hannity and Nascar. I can take small doses of all of those, but then I have to go and do something else. I can’t watch an entire hour or three of any of that. I certainly don’t mind him watching it. It’s just different than what the TV schedule is when it’s just Scott and I around the house. I’m usually tuned in to the Food Network. I should probably learn to do with a little less TV anyway.

One of the things Pop wanted to do during this visit was to attend a concert that was taking place nearby. The group he wanted to hear was the Primitive Quartet. So, we went this past Friday night. The music they make is a little bit out of my comfort zone; not a concert I would have attended without Pop’s interest and company. I guess you would classify their music as bluegrass southern gospel. I’m not really sure why they call themselves a quartet because there are six men in the group, but oh well. This post is about not being able to count anyway.

The music was a little twangy for my taste, but their presentation was intriguing. There were no soundtracks. Five of the six men played a string instrument while they sang. The acoustic sound was just their voices and their instruments. No electronic sounds at all. Sometimes they would swap the instruments out with each other, showing proficiency with multiple instruments. A violin, an upright bass, two guitars, and a mandolin.

Unlike the Fox News channel, I was able to sit through an hour of the Primitive Quartet without wanting to flip the remote to Chef Duff and the gang.

Most of the audience was like Pop, and rightly so; really into that kind of music. They sang along and clapped and responded to the lyrics with lots of “hallelujahs” and “praise the Lords.”

A lot of bluegrass music has a waltz-type beat. You know, like:

OOOM–pa–pa. OOOM–pa–pa. OOOM–pa–pa.

Or in real words:

ONE–two–three. ONE–two–three.

It’s a very simple and distinctive cadence that you can both hear and feel, even for the rhythm-challenged individual.

The audience began to clap along with a particular song that moved with this OOOM-pa-pa rhythm. Except, they weren’t clapping in sync with that distinctive waltz-like pulse.

I felt the beat of the music as:

OOOM – pa – pa – OOOM – pa – pa

ONE – two – three – ONE – two – three

rest – CLAP – CLAP – rest – CLAP – CLAP

The clapping, however, ignored the emphasis on the ONE and/or the OOOM and went like this:

CLAP – rest – CLAP – CLAP – rest – CLAP – CLAP

Try waltzing to that. It’s like they were two beats behind.

In the words of the King of Siam, “Something wrong.”

I got the giggles. Mostly it tickled me that no one clapping could tell they were ignoring the over-emphasized down beat or that they were out of sync with the obvious rhythm of the music. One person started it, and as with that concert mob-mentality, everyone else got caught up in it and joined it – and didn’t stop until the song was over.

And then the next song the Primitive Quartet sang that had 3 beats to each measure, the audience did exactly the same thing.

It made the concert a lot more enjoyable for me, and not because I was laughing at people who were clueless about the beat. Absolutely not. I was laughing because I could finally hear the rhythm in my life again and I realized that it is not the same one that everyone else hears. As a matter of fact, I might be the only one that hears it.

And now I have “clear understanding that this kind of thing can happen. Shall we dance? Shall we dance? Shall we dance?”

The Lord appeared to us in the past, saying: "I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness. I will build you up again and you will be rebuilt, O Virgin Israel. Again you will take up your tambourines and go out to dance with the joyful. Jeremiah 31: 3-4

Facebook brings back Andrew Jackson

2010-02-22T17:37:00.009-05:00

I am a fan of the musical. I always have been. Old Rogers and Hammerstein movies always have a way of sucking me in. I’ve been to Broadway and seen a couple of shows. I’ve experienced traveling production companies and local theater productions too. And, don’t mess with my Andrew Lloyd Webber soundtracks.

There’s just something about needing to burst into song when you reach a critical juncture in your life that appeals to me. Having a four-part chorus line to back you up is also a bonus. There have been many times in life when I met a crisis head-on wishing beyond all else that I had just the right lyrics to some power ballad, a voice like Maria Friedman, and a couple of back-up singers. Somehow that would have made whatever it was I was facing not quite so calamitous.

My husband is a professionally trained musician. He has never been a big fan of the musical. Not the Broadway kind, anyway. To him, it just isn’t serious music. When we first met, my love of the musical was the geez-louise factor about me that he merely tolerated to humor me. Since then, he’s learned to laugh at them. Admittedly, some of the lyrics are a bit ridiculous. (for example : “Sure as the tide wash the golden sand, Benjamin is an innocent man; Sure as bananas need the sun, We are the criminal guilty ones”; and yes we saw "Menopause: The Musical" together - thanks, S & J!)

When the whole Disney High School Musical phenomena happened, I became terribly conflicted. A new musical, yay! But high school? Um. Uh. Geez –louise.

I wanted to jump on the High School Musical wave with everybody else. I refrained. I was a little intimidated.

I never was very good at the whole high school thing. It took me three years to finally begin to figure it out, and by then the band was already playing Pomp and Circumstance. I think mostly I spent my high school years waiting. I’m not sure what I was waiting for, but I knew I hadn’t found it yet. I was so busy waiting for whatever the next thing was, that I think I missed a lot of what was going on around me. I guess if I had to sum up my years at Andrew Jackson Senior High in one phrase it would be: Almost, but not yet.

I remember one incident with my guidance counselor, Melba Collier. She was a wacky sort of woman whose reputation preceded her. She was tiny in stature and wore tailored, no-frills clothes. Her smile flashed a hefty investment in dental work. To be honest, I formed my opinion of her based on what all those who went before me had said about her, and it wasn't pretty.

One day in my senior year Ms. Collier sent a notice to Mrs. Camp’s trig class for me to report to her office. I walked out of that third floor classroom and headed down to the first floor guidance office. When I walked into her office, Ms. Collier came from around her desk, closed the door, and then sat down in chair beside me. She put her arm around me and began to cry. I had no idea why she was crying. Not a clue. I sat there speechless and let her cry. I remember thinking that suddenly I had confirmation of what everyone had been saying about her all along – she was truly wacky (cue the music, insert Broadway power ballad and a few back-up singers right here).

I finally realized that she did not call me into her office for me to comfort her. She was crying FOR ME. Turns out some new scores were out, there were 10 slots and with the new scores I was #11. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened that year. There had been a series of runner-up kinds of outcomes for me that year. Ms. Collier was trying to show, in the best way she knew how, some empathy for me. God bless her. Maybe she wasn’t so wacky after all.

I guess the wacky one was me because as Ms. Collier cried and went on to explain the sorry-you-didn’t-make-it thing, I remained a little clueless. I saw no reason to shed tears. I couldn’t figure out why she was so upset, or why she thought I was so upset. Because I wasn’t.

I wasn’t bothered because I was too busy still waiting. For something else. I wasn’t sure what it was, but I was pretty certain it didn’t have anything to do with those last 10 slots. I was still waiting for the not yet to become the now and forever.

Almost, but not yet.

So, fast forward a few decades and Facebook brings back high school. Suddenly, I’m reconnected with people I literally haven’t seen since graduation. Finding all the new-old friends again has also brought back that almost, but not yet feeling. In many ways, I’m still waiting for something. Still not sure what it is.

Am I waiting to finally get it right? I mean, not just high school but the whole life in general thing. Maybe.

If I could go back and do high school over again, you bet I would do it different. I held out and held back a lot in high school. In some areas, that was good and I’m a better person for it. I held out on the opportunities for drugs, alcohol, and sex. I just said no. I lost a friend or two over it, but the truth is I probably needed to lose them anyway. The holding back is what I’d do differently. I held back too much of what I should have been giving away. My love. My knowledge. My help. My concern.

If I could have a conversation today with my then 18-year old self it might include some statements like this:

The chorus line can be just as much fun as a lead role, and with a lot less pressure.

Every once in a while, a little extra eye liner and some Capezio dance shoes can change your outlook. Don’t take yourself too seriously. Sing. Dance. Out loud. In public.

It’s OK to tell someone you love them. As a matter of fact, it is very important to do so. Sing it if you have to.

Share what you know. Don’t keep it to yourself. It just might help somebody else. Sing it if you have to.

There are around you people speaking destiny into your life even though you don’t realize it. Listen to them.
There are people around speaking destiny into your life even though you don’t realize it. Do NOT listen to them.
The challenge is figuring out the difference for yourself without blaming either one for the outcome of your destiny.
Now I guess I’m waiting on someone to cue the orchestra for an encore. Maybe I’ll never get it right, but hopefully, if I ever get any kind of do-over maybe I’ll at least be a little better at it the next time.

And by the way, I love you!

“Then he said: 'The God of our fathers has chosen you to know his will and to see the Righteous One and to hear words from his mouth. You will be his witness to all men of what you have seen and heard. And now what are you waiting for? Get up, be baptized and wash your sins away, calling on his name.' Acts 22:14-16

Stop, drop, and roll

2010-01-26T16:17:00.001-05:00

We live in a small house. It’s about 1,200 sq. ft. of 3 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms, a small kitchen, and a great room/den/living room/dining room kind of space. The house will be paid for in a couple of years. I never thought we would live here long enough to pay off a mortgage, but then that’s another story.

In our house are two ceiling fans, one big 36” portable fan on a stand, and several other small fans. My husband’s internal thermostat hovers right around boiling point most of the time. The fans are for his benefit.

There are three smoke detectors/fire alarms in the house. One of them is at the entrance of the master bedroom. The second one is over the laundry closet in the hall. The third one is about 4 feet from the oven in the kitchen. That third one is for my benefit. It spares me from having to cook a lot. How, you may ask? Well, if the oven is on even at a low temperature, that alarm goes off screeching DANGER DANGER every time I open the oven door. If I’m cooking something at a high temperature, the oven door doesn’t even have to be open; that alarm just goes off anyway. It’s very annoying.

Mostly, I just avoid using the oven. If I absolutely must bake something, I have to ignore that obnoxious siren warning me of impending doom, pretending that I don’t hear it. It is not easy to ignore being that it’s loud enough for all my neighbors to hear.

On top of that, there’s no measure for what it has done for my self-confidence in the kitchen. I know I’m not a very good cook, but to be taunted by a piece of technology every time I turn on the oven? Well, needless to say, that’s why I started turning the oven off and turning on the Food Network where I can live vicariously through Paula and Duff; and going out to eat; and eating a lot of cereal for dinner.

We have lived in this house 13 years and it has always been that way. I don’t know why it took me so long, but lately I discovered somewhat of a fix for that maddening, blaring alarm that screams at me HEY THE OVEN IS ON even though I am standing right in front of it. And no, the fix was not to just take the batteries out. That was the first thing we ever tried all those years ago. Stupid thing still went off because it is wired into the electrical supply. Batteries are just a back-up. Neither Scott nor I wanted to take on the electricity, so we just dealt with it.

I got one of Scott’s little portable personal fans, put it on a step stool directly under the alarm, turned the fan on high and aimed the cool breeze right at that pesky little alarm. Worked like a charm. I baked some kind of Pillsbury canned bread without the first sound of a disaster warning.

It also gave me a new confidence in the kitchen. Hmmm, maybe I’ll try this cooking thing again.

The past weekend Scott and I made a trip to the big city. The last stop before we headed home was Publix (our small town is a bit grocery store challenged, which is also a story for another day; we simply must visit Publix when we get out of town). Publix had London broil steaks on sale. We bought one. To cook. More specifically, to BROIL.

When I got home from work yesterday, I set up my step stool-fan apparatus. I put two potatoes in the oven to bake. I figured that would pre-heat the oven and get it ready for the London broil that had been marinating all day. I also put some Publix green beans in a pot on the stove.

An hour or so later, Scott got home, the potatoes were done, and it was time to cook the London broil. Still not a peep from the alarm. Every London broil recipe I read said to broil the meat 5 minutes on each side, then let it rest for a few minutes. 10 minutes. That’s all I needed to get through cooking the rest of this meal in total peace and quiet.

I moved the oven rack up to the top position, turned the dial to broil, and put the steak in. Quiet.

One minute went by. Quiet.

Two minutes. Quiet.

Three minutes. Quiet.

Four minutes. Quiet.

Then it started. DANGER DANGER. That incessant, pulsing alarm.

I told Scott to grab the fan, stand on the stool, and hold the fan right up against the alarm. He did that for a little while to no avail. He stepped off the stool and then set about turning on all the fans in the house and opening all the windows and doors.

I took the steak out, turned it over, put it back in for the last 5 minute broil. The alarm was still blaring IMPENDING DOOM. DEATH IS IMMINENT. REPENT NOW. THE END IS NEAR. I just went about my kitchen business. Scott spent the next three minutes trying to get the air to move away from the alarm waving his arms and such. ALL of the alarms were going off by then; not just the one closest to the oven.

Scott walked out to the front porch holding the storm door open. I think he was also trying to intercept any neighbors that might have come running over thinking we needed to be rescued from our demise. I’m sure he would say, “Nothing to see here. No cause for concern. Just my wife cooking dinner.”

After about minute 4 on the second side, I looked in the oven. Sure enough. There it was. Flames. My London broil was on fire.

I called for Scott and pulled the pan out of the oven. We got the fire out (it was small), turned off all the stove and oven elements, and let the steak rest while we continued to move fans around. Finally, the noise of the alarms was silenced. I ended up having to microwave the meat a little because it was still too pink for Scott (who LIKES his meat pink). Dinner turned out OK, but I don’t know if it was worth all the ringing that is still going on in my ears.

It never occurred to me that there might actually be a fire. I was too busy trying to find a way to silence that nasty alarm.

How many times have I tried to silence the warning without actually looking for a cause?

How often have I ignored the warning of danger believing there was no real threat?

How many times have I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang a senseless “la la la la” in my head just to drown out the warning noise?

Oh, Lord, open my ears to Your warnings. Open my eyes to Your work. Open my heart to Your love.

"Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts…” Hebrew 3:15

Where's Mikey when you need him?

2010-01-19T19:20:00.006-05:00

There are a handful of blogs that I read frequently. Unlike this blog, those writers are in the habit of posting almost daily, so reading a fresh post frequently from them is not that difficult. A lot of bloggers who write daily posts take the first week of January to review all their posts from the previous year. They do a year in review and highlight their top ten or something like that. So, I've read a lot of "Best of 2009" blog posts lately.

Funny thing about those "Best of" posts. Not funny ha ha, but rather funny hmmmm. More of them than not included some kind of statement about 2009 being a difficult year. Yes, there was the sagging economoy and all that, but even beyond that it seemed that a lot of people who write there lives' events down in a daily blog found their moods and topics with a lot less funny in them this past year.

Well, me too. I lost my funny somewhere back in 2009. I have been determined to find it again in 2010.

And God is faithful. Even in the little things.

Scott and I went out of town for a couple of days. When we returned, a new sign greeted us:

Here's a close-up for a better idea.

Andrew Zimmern should seriously consider filming an episode of his Bizarre Foods show here.

I never met a tick until I moved here. Every time Scott went to pick up trash on the roadway our church sponsored in the Keep America Beautiful program, he would come home with ticks attached. That always made me moan and groan even though he was the one with the ticks attached.

I never knew you could fry 'em up like funnel cakes. Hmmm.

Oh well, I guess I'd rather eat them than have them eat me.

They shouted, "This is the voice of a god, not of a man." Immediately, because Herod did not give praise to God, an angel of the Lord struck him down, and he was eaten by worms and died. But the word of God continued to increase and spread. Acts 12: 22-24

It's December 28 and I'm ready for Christmas

2009-12-28T15:38:00.005-05:00

Yesterday on the drive to church (Sunday, December 27) I saw a Christmas tree already tossed out on the sidewalk for the refuse workers to pick up. The pick-up schedule for yard waste is bright and early Monday morning. I suppose the tree owners had had enough of that tree and just couldn’t take it for one more day, let alone another week until the next pick-up.

It made me sigh a little to see that naked tree lying on the sidewalk. I just wasn’t ready for Christmas to be over yet.

Actually, I never achieved the “fully prepared” level before Christmas. We stayed busy doing all the things we do for the Christmas season. You know. Eating meals with groups of people we don’t normally eat meals with because special occasions dictate we need to have party.

Musical programs. Oh, the musical programs. There’s a separate one for every age group. I love them, but they do fill up the calendar, especially with all those extra rehearsals.

There’s decorating (Is it just me or was there an inordinate amount of glitter in all the decorations and cards this year? ) Oh, yes, the cards, and the packing and the shipping and all the other postal necessities.

Shopping, which I didn’t do much of this year.

Wrapping. Not much of that either.

And travelling. I honestly can’t remember the last time I woke up on Christmas morning (having to stay in town on Christmas Eve for the communion service at church) and didn’t have to travel several hours to get to any family. Christmas day means we get in the car and go somewhere else.

It’s all fun and I love the Christmas season.

Much of the preparations are so meaningful. I went caroling a couple of times and each time my heart was moved by how the people we sang to expressed their appreciation for our visits. The program the children presented at church was a clear offering of the gospel and was blessed by God like never before. I was so overwhelmed by it I hardly had any words afterwards. I received several Christmas cards with pictures of families I don’t ever get to see in person. I love those because for a few minutes I feel connected to all my long distance friends.

But does it have to be over so soon? We spend at least a good, solid month getting ready for Christmas. I think we should spend another month just enjoying it.

Or maybe we have it backwards. Maybe we should spend less time in preparation and more time just soaking it all in. After all that’s what the shepherds and the wise men did on the first Christmas. They didn’t spend a lot of time getting ready. They received an invitation and went straight to the Savior. They didn’t plan a party or send a card. They just went to see the Savior.

We were reminded of this yesterday in Sunday School:

After they had heard the king, they went on their way, and the star they had seen in the east went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was. When they saw the star, they were overjoyed. On coming to the house, they saw the child with his mother Mary, and they bowed down and worshiped him. Matthew 2:9-11

They worshiped him.

I just want to do that little bit longer. I don’t want to be “getting ready” to do that. I just want to worship Him.

He’s coming again and when He does, I don’t want to be caught up in any excessive preparations. I want to save my energy and efforts for the praise and worship that will take place when He does come. All it takes to get ready is a prayer:

I know I’m a sinner and that I need a Savior. I believe You, Jesus, are the one and only born into this world to die for my sins and for that reason, I want You to be Lord of my life.

That’s all. No decorated trees that will be discarded to the sidewalk . No glitter. No extra rehearsals.

Get ready now. Then, O, Come, let us adore Him. Today.

Even if it is 3 days after, or 362 days until Christmas again.

When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. Luke 2:17-18

Intentional Intentions

2009-12-10T17:56:00.007-05:00

I've been intending to write this post since the weekend after Thanksgiving. That's at least how long I've been thinking about it. (I'm still trying to find my rhythm again, but working on it).

I intend to to a lot of things that I never get around to doing.

And you know what they say... the road to you-know-where is paved with lots of good intentions.

Then there are things that I do that have nothing to do with original intentions.

Like this, for example.
This is one of my precious Fiesta tumblers. The intention of its creation was to hold a fruity, breakfast beverage. I put pens and pencils in it.

There are other pieces in my Fiesta collection that also don't get used for the purpose they were intended. Like my pitchers. I couldn't find any pictures of my own pitchers (OK, I didn't really look very hard), but a quick Google image search tells me there are others who also misuse their pitchers.
Fiesta pitchers make very lovely vases. I think I've used my Fiesta pitchers as vases more often than I've used them for liquids. The only thing I really ever use a pitcher for is iced tea, and if you're going to make tea you need to make at least a gallon and Fiesta pitchers are just too small for that. So, in my house they hold flowers.

I looked around my computer desk and found a couple of other unintended things.

I've already admitted that I have a issue with pens (you can read about it here). That's another story. Today it's about the cups. And the pitchers. And all the other things not serving their original purpose because I've filled them up with something else. I fill them up and call it creativity and resourcefulness.

Like I said, I've been thinking about these intentions since the weekend after Thanksgiving. That's when we decorated our church sanctuary for Christmas. The people in charge of decorating the sanctuary for Christmas really take it seriously and it always turns out lovely.

The building structure is very traditional Baptist architecture built in the middle of the historical district of an Old South rural town. That's a blessing and a curse. It's a rectangular sanctuary with tall ceilings and large stained glass windows. There are wooden pews with dark red velvety cushions. The pews are in three sections with the center section being the widest. No center aisle. Up front on the altar/stage/I-never-know-what-to-call it section there is white, heavy, wooden pulpit furniture. There's a huge proscenium arch, behind which is a cove that houses a cranky, old pipe organ and some more wooden pews for the choir. Behind the choir pews and elevated above everything else is another recess - -the baptistry (spellcheck wants to make that baptistery, but that just doesn't look right to me).

The baptistry has tall, white, wooden doors. I'm not sure why. To keep people out? To keep people in? Well, back to that in a minute...

Here's a visual peak just to get some perspective. That's Rhonda back there standing behind the tree (and she's not a short person), just so you can see how large that evergreen is.

Now. Here's where the pens in the cups and tumblers come in. And the creativity and resourcefulness. I present to you, The Baptistry.

We close those doors, hang a 10 lb. wreath on them, cover the ledge with red, satiny cloth and holiday poinsettias. It's beautiful. And well done. That's the real thing too, no tacky plastic here. It's creative. And resourceful.

And not at all what it was intended for.

That's the part that makes my heart hurt.

We truly have paved the road to hell and shut the door to heaven with our good intentions and filled it up with our own creative and resourceful purposes. Those doors should be open. It should be filled with water. The water should be warm from the frequent use and cloudy from all the sins that have been washed away.

"For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost." (Luke 19:10).

That is Christmas.

But Joseph said to them, "Don't be afraid. Am I in the place of God? You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done, the saving of many lives. Genesis 50:19-20

The Beat Goes On

2009-11-30T16:10:00.005-05:00

Two or three weeks ago, Scott and I were sitting on the couch mindlessly trying to find something to watch on TV. Scott was flipping through the channels. He stopped on the movie Drumline. We came in on the last 10 or 15 minutes of the movie. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this movie in its entirety, but in all my channel surfing days, I have caught this final culminating scene several times. Something about that last snare beating showdown always makes me stop and watch.

From what I gather from that final scene, it is an underdog struggle kind of movie centered on a band competition. The final face-off comes down to the rhythm sections of the final two opponents. Both sides beat the heck out of those drums all the while they were spinning and dancing and who knows what else. In the end, the top dogs lost because they disrespectfully beat on the other line’s drums. The underdogs won because they showed some class by keeping their own drumsticks to themselves (oh, just go rent the movie. It’s a lot more effective to see and hear it yourself!).

ANYWAY.

As I watched the blur of those drumsticks moving back and forth and listened to that click-clack cadence get more and more intense as the competition grew fiercer, something hit me. BANG! Like a big bass drum. Or maybe some really loud cymbals. It’s the rhythm. My rhythm! That’s what’s off with me. I’ve lost my rhythm.

Not my dancing or foot tapping rhythm, but my living rhythm. I’ve been clapping on the offbeat since about April. It’s just taken me this long to realize it and to begin to try and get it back.

Yesterday in Sunday School we talked about hope. What are we hoping for in the next year? Saying out loud that I hoped the next year would have none of the icky that this year had helped me see it. And I began to faintly hear it. Ahhh, a quiet little tapping.

The icky of this year that threw me off?

Well, there were my friends. One of them died. In her 40’s. That’s not supposed to happen, is it? Circumstances I can’t do anything about have taken two other special friends out of my regular day to day circle. The quick pace of their chatter in my ears leaves me with lots of quiet. I miss them.

Then there’s my family. My dad was diagnosed with cancer. My 86-year old dad has lived through a heart attack, open heart surgery, prostate cancer surgery, all kinds of skin cancers, a lawn mower accident that took one and a half of his fingers, and a long list of other medical maladies. This chemo has about done him in. It has also sent my mother into orbit because she just doesn’t process new information like she used to. I don’t really know what to do for them anymore or when to do it. I can no longer read their sheet of music.

Oh, and my church. I’ve loved church since I was a little girl. When I was a teenager, I was the only one under 30 that would show up on Wednesday night. That’s how much I loved it. Still all these years later, everything in my life is based around my love for the bride of Christ, often at my own personal expense. So needless to say, I was knocked off balance when the leadership there very NON-lovingly told me that I did not live up to the standards and expectations they had for me and that I needed to sit down and shut up or else. What? All I was doing was trying to look out for someone else’s wellbeing, not even my own. I don’t even know now to march in step with that.

Then, there’s my job. There are just two of us in our office. The boss and me. It’s been a tough year with the economy the way it is and all. The boss turns 65 in January 2010. With business slow and that social security eligibility date looming for him, he announced his retirement for that date. I spent weeks posting the job announcement, collecting resumes, reviewing the resumes, taking all kinds of phone calls about the position, wondering about all the what-if scenarios that might take place after he was gone, and getting slightly depressed over all the variables and unknowns. Then, over a long weekend earlier this month, he changed his mind. He’s staying one more year. Well, OK, I can get back in that groove, but my, oh, my, all the worrying and speculating I wasted on it!

The only major area of my life that has not been rattled this year is my marriage. Then again, Scott and I have always, always, always, marched to completely different drummers anyway. (insert your favorite Thoreau quote here). I think continually trying to hear each other’s drum is what keeps us together. He picks us all the extra beats that I miss. We truly live a syncopated life together.

Once the Drumline movie inspired me to label my situation as a rhythm problem, I did what I usually do. I went to scripture to try and find out what God might say about such a thing. I did a little research (admittedly, not a lot, but still—I used a concordance and a lexicon. That counts for something, doesn’t it?).You know what I found in the Bible about rhythm? Nothing. It might be in there, I just didn’t find it.

The closest I came was:
There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven...a time to search and a time to give up, a time to keep and a time to throw away… a time to be silent and a time to speak… I have seen the burden God has laid on men. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. Ecclesiastes 4

Well. I’m not ready to give up yet. I’m not ready to throw it away yet. I get more and more ready to speak up every day.

Scripture also says that to God, a day is like a thousand years and a thousand years are like a day. Not only do the number of days belong to God, but so does the rhythm at which the days pass by. Some days are soooo long they seem like years. Some years fly by so quickly that it seems like just weeks between birthdays. In all of them, God is the one beating the drum.

Just one more thing….
(and a spoiler alert...I'm about to REALLY embarass myself).

When Scott was in high school, he was the drum major for the James F. Byrnes Marching Rebel Regiment Band. Apparently, that’s a big deal in South Carolina. His mom told me on several occasions how she prayed for him to achieve that position if it would help him with this career down the road. He’s still pretty good at this beat-keeping business.

Me? I’ve always had trouble keeping up. When I entered band class in the 7th grade, I started out playing the drums. I blinked my eyes every time my drum sticks would hit the snare head. I could never see the music because my eyes were always closed. That lasted about a month then I switched to the woodwind section. A couple of years later, I was in the marching band for one and only one football season. I just couldn’t cut it and eventually gave it up.

I just wish I had been more in tune to God’s cadence at the time and not the one I was conjuring up myself. It would have saved me a lot of heartache and embarrassment.
Please don’t let this happen to me again. If you see me swaying out of step, remind me again to get my fingers out of my ears and listen for God’s rhythm that makes everything beautiful in its time.

But do not forget this one thing, dear friends: With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. 2 Peter 3:8

Fallen

2009-10-14T15:23:00.006-04:00

We have a multi-million dollar project at work that is relying on state and federal grants to be completed, but is being held up by another division of federal bureaucracy. The term limit on the grants will expire before the project is completed if the specific agency holding up the progress doesn’t get everything in order and file the appropriate paperwork, which has already put us behind in the schedule and definitely over budget. Yes, I work for the government. In South Carolina.

We live in a rural county with a higher than average unemployment rate. Not much happens here. We don’t get a lot of attention on the state government level. We’re the ones that usually have to kick and scream to get state officials to notice, and we don’t normally have all that much to kick and scream about. So, it was unusual when the Governor’s office called us and said he wanted to come meet us and talk about the project.

And that he did. The black sedan pulled up and parked. He and a driver got out. The two of them and my boss and I went into a construction trailer where all the woes of our project were laid out. Governor Mark Sanford seemed genuinely interested in our project and problem. He was interested in being educated about it. He asked more than once how he could help. A little over an hour later, the two of them got back in the black sedan and drove away.

Before they were even out of the drive, my boss said, “There’s one lonely man.”

I imagine Gov. Sanford has lost a lot of “friends” because of his recent behavior. He’s still getting grief over it.

We joked a little about the Gov. having to come slumming to the rural counties where nothing ever happens in order to find someone who will really needs him, or at least needs the power of his office and authority.

Our project is further along the process now and even potential future needs are on the Governor's radar. So the truth is, we do need him and the power of his office.

I’m not here to defend or defeat any of Gov. Sanford’s actions regarding his family or mistress or travel arrangements or money. All I know is that he messed up, he knows he messed up, he admitted his shortcomings, and now he’s trying to make the best of a bad situation.

We’re not all public figures or celebrities that make the news, but we’ve all messed up. We’ve all done things where the consequences knocked us down a notch or two from our comfortable perches. We’ve been taken down to a level lower than we’ve ever been before. It’s ugly and dirty. It hurts. It’s embarrassing.

But when you’re down like that, look around. There are people already down there who need you; people who can’t even see your ugly because they’re squinting so hard from their own pain; people whose need is greater than the shame of your fall. When you’re down, serve. That’s when you’ll see lives redeemed. Even your own.

Praise the Lord, O my soul, and forget not all his benefits, who forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases, who redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion. Psalm 103-2-5

Getting Ready

2009-10-02T17:30:00.003-04:00

I went to visit my parents this past weekend. They live a little over 3 hours south of here. It was not really a spontaneous trip, but sort of. I’ve been trying to find some time to make the trip, but little obstacles either at my house or theirs kept me from it. When I saw a small window of opportunity last week, I decided I better take it.

I had been thinking about it but had not really made any actual preparations to go, or be gone. Once I crossed the bridge from thinking about it to actually doing it, I rapidly started making that mental list of tasks I needed to complete before I got on the road.

I was going to make the trip by myself because Scott was already committed to some things here. I wasn’t going to be gone long, but it did involve packing an overnight bag. I needed something to sleep in, something to wear the next day, and as always, two extra pairs of underwear just in case.

Then there are all the bathroom products. We don’t travel that much anymore, so we don’t really keep a separate stash of that stuff in miniature sizes. At home, Scott and I share the same tube of toothpaste, bar of soap, bottle of shampoo, hair dryer, and a few other health and beauty products. Before I left, I had to make sure I had everything I would need packed in my bag while still leaving Scott with everything he would need. He’s very discerning man and is particular about his grooming needs. And trust me; you really wouldn’t want to see him without the benefits of shampoo and a blow dryer.

It required a trip to Wal-Mart.

Then there’s all the media. Was the battery on my iPod fully charged? Do I have any minutes on the pre-paid phone I use just for things like this? Don’t forget to put my Bible in my bag along with the book I’m currently reading. Oh, and the GPS.

I also couldn’t forget the little cooler for my snacks and Coke Zeros (and for bringing Scott some Sonny’s BBQ on the way home).

There are some other things I always do around the house before I leave on any trip that lasts longer than 24 hours. It’s that thought of “what if something happens” that persuades me to do these things.

What if I have car trouble and end up having to stay longer than I planned?

What if a tree falls on my house (not a far-fetched notion in my neck of the woods!) while I’m gone and someone other than Scott has to go inside my house?

What if someone comes to visit Scott while I’m away? What if it’s someone that needs to spend the night?

It goes on and on.

So, in preparation and anticipation, I do things like empty all the trash cans in the house and take the bags out to the bin outside.

I made a pitcher of tea and put it in the refrigerator. Just in case. While I didn’t do it this time, I usually throw out all the leftover food in the fridge.

I tried to get all the laundry done and put away. If something happened to me, I wouldn’t want Scott to have to deal with it without a stack of clean underwear and hankies in his dresser drawer.

I cleaned the toilets.

Once I finished at home, I had to go to the office and do the same thing. Check all the emails and voice mails and respond appropriately. I had to clean off my desk, put all the pending stuff in one stack each labeled with an instructional sticky note (as a reminder to myself when I got back, if nothing else!), and then file everything else where it belongs. I mean, what if something happened to me and someone else had to some in, sit at my desk and do my job? It would be difficult enough without my efforts in trying to make it easier for them.

I had to call my parents and tell them I was coming and approximately what time I would arrive. I had to call my sisters and tell them too.

I stopped by Scott’s office to give him a hug and kiss and tell him I love him, then I drove through Sonic to get a Route 44 iced tea for the road.

I did as much as I could and finally got on the road to see my parents.

My Dad is currently undergoing chemotherapy. He’s halfway through the treatments. When he gets the second half behind him he’ll have radiation to deal with. I’ve never had chemo, but I know it’s hard, especially if you’re 86 years old. The doctors have said that the type of cancer he has is treatable and curable. They did not say the treatment would be easy. I guess it’s what they don’t say that is always the hardest to understand.

He is a survivor of a heart attack, open heart surgery, surgeries for other types of cancers, WWII, three daughters, 50+ years of marriage, and who knows what else. He has always been the kind of person that once he sets his mind on something, there is not much that can change his mind or dissuade him from pressing on. He told me that this chemo has been one of the hardest things he’s ever done.

I tried to remind him that this was only temporary. There is an end to it. I tried to help them experience less stress and more hope.

There wasn’t much else I could do, or that they would let me do for them.

On the 3-hour drive back home, it’s all I could think about. It’s only temporary.

I empty trash cans. I make pitchers of tea. I buy extra toothpaste and pre-paid phone cards. I leave instructional sticky notes on yet-to-be-done stacks. I kiss my husband. I visit my parents. Falling trees. Unexpected guests. Car trouble. Cancer. Chemo. Memories.

All temporary. There is nothing in this world that I can prepare for that is not temporary.

But that “what if” question still burns in my heart. That “what if” won’t let me get out of the state of preparation. I have to keep trying to help the people and things around me get ready, but not for anything in this world.

One day there will be no more temporary anything. Falling trees and car trouble and cancer and dirty laundry and all the things I’ve left undone – they will all be gone.

Eternity is permanent. Forever and ever to infinity and beyond.

All the more reason to prepare.

"Do not fear what they fear; do not be frightened." But in your hearts set apart Christ as Lord. Always be prepared to give an answer to everyone who asks you to give the reason for the hope that you have. 1Peter 3:14-15

Say what?

2009-09-10T17:11:00.001-04:00

Father, forgive me for I have been silent. It has been almost a month since my last blog post.

It’s not that I haven’t had anything to say. Quite the opposite, really.

Funny thing though. It seems the more I have on my mind, the less I say.

If you’ve ever held a somewhat serious conversation with me face to face then you know what I mean and how that plays out. I have to think long and hard about something before it can ever get past my vocal chords and out of my mouth. That mind-to-mouth-relay delay is the cause of a lot of anxious silence in my conversations. It drives Scott nuts. He can look at me and tell that my mind is working, but my lips are squeezed tightly closed. “Just spit it out,” is often what he says to me when he sees my face in that “I’m-thinking” contortion.

Alas, that has been my dilemma for the last month or so.

I’ve been thinking about my father-in-law and his most recent 10-day visit to our house.

I’ve been thinking about my boss’ upcoming retirement and everything that means for our office.

I’ve been thinking about my dad and his cancer treatment.

I’ve been thinking about my mom along with the joy as well as the difficulties that her upcoming 80th birthday brings.

I’ve been thinking about my sisters who are both completely different from each other and even more so from me, yet still sharing some of the same characteristics and how all that affects the two previous things on this list.

I’ve been thinking about my husband’s continued frustration with his work and purpose.

I’ve been thinking about how I’m still trying to figure out how to manage the loss and the change that resulted from my lifelong love of church being abused by its leadership.

See there. I’ve already said too much. How can I let those things slip out without explaining the depth, detail and meaning of each and every one of them?

So, I remain silent.

The curious thing about all this is that I am a WORD person. Ugh, how I hate the NUMBERS. I prefer word games like crossword puzzles and Jumble and Boggle and Scrabble and Pathwords. Not so much the Yahtzee and…. I can’t ever think of any other numbers games because they are just not fun for me. They are more of a chore.

Oh, and add to the previous list above: I’ve been thinking about reconciling my checkbook but not ever actually doing it.

The hesitation in getting my words out is usually because I’m trying to consider just how the person listening will actually hear what it is that I’m about say. Will they fully understand? Will they hear it like I intend it? Will they really know what I mean? Will they think I am absolutely nuts? Will they think I’m being critical of them personally? Will they hear it in love? How can I say this so they will know exactly where I’m coming from? How can I say everything that I’m thinking in a short, concise, clear manner? How can I be absolutely clear?

It’s the hearer of my words that hangs me up.

Sometimes, no matter how long I hesitate or how much I carefully consider my choice of words, they still get misunderstood.

I guess I can understand a tiny, little bit of what Moses must have felt. He classified himself as slow of speech. Yeah, me too.

Once his bush began to burn, though, that fire led the way for him for the rest of his life.

Even when his audience wasn’t really listening.

God gave Moses his mouth, helped him speak, and taught him what to say.

God gave me my mouth and is teaching me what to say. He will help me.

So, if I ever get to the point where I can immediately respond and speak what’s on my mind in a serious conversation, you can bet that I will have already thought long and hard about the topic before I ever even got involved in the current conversation. I’ll have taken what He’s taught me to heart.

Which is to say, once I finally start talking I probably will say everything single thing that’s on my mind. Without hesitation. Look out. The woods might be on fire.

Moses said to the Lord, "O Lord, I have never been eloquent, neither in the past nor since you have spoken to your servant. I am slow of speech and tongue." The Lord said to him, "Who gave man his mouth? Who makes him deaf or mute? Who gives him sight or makes him blind? Is it not I, the Lord? Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say." Exodus 4:10-12

Advertising my flying cheerleader days

2009-08-18T13:14:00.002-04:00

I tried out for the cheerleading squad when I was in the fifth grade.

By that time in my life, my oldest sister was away at college. The middle sister was taking the school bus to the junior high school in the next community. Both Mom and Dad left early every morning to get to their jobs. I was pretty much left with getting myself to and from the elementary school I attended. It was about a one mile walk through the neighborhood from our house to the school.

(Really, this is NOT my I-had-to-walk-5-miles-in-the-snow-uphill-both-ways-to-get-to-school story. It was a different time then. There are different threats these days. Taking it slowly on long walks to and from school was one thing us latchkey kids did to pass the time so we wouldn’t be at home alone so much.)

I remember watching the bedroom clock every morning waiting for exactly the right minute before setting out on my hike to school. I had the walking distance perfectly timed so I wouldn’t get there too early. The mornings weren’t so bad because of the anticipation of the walk and of the school day. It was the afternoons when I got home that were hard. Boring. Lonely. A little scary sometimes.

I think that’s why I tried out for cheerleading even though I wasn’t the cheerleader type. I needed some afternoon entertainment; something to fill up the empty hours. (We didn’t have all the homework kids have now).

I didn’t make the squad first time I tried out, but I did the second time. That was about the time things started changing in the cheerleading world. Things were moving from saddle oxfords, Keds, and sweaters to jumpsuits, mini shorts, and boots. Our squad was the first to wear the blue mini shorts jumpsuits that zipped up the front and black knee high boots. I was 10. (There are no pictures, thank goodness).

I told my parents about staying after school for the practices the week or so before the try-outs, but I don’t think they took me seriously. Like I said, I just wasn’t the cheerleader type. The day the actual try-outs came and my name was called, I was so excited that I think I ran that entire mile home because I couldn’t wait to call my mom at work and tell her. She didn’t believe me. I can still hear the skepticism in her voice as she asked, “Are you SURE?”

That cheerleading squad turned out to be a little pathetic. We weren’t very good. At all. And the newness of the knee high boots and mini shorts style was not as widely accepted as appropriate as the trend-setting sponsors had hoped. It was a second rate kind of group. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoyed every single minute of every single practice and every single game. But we were pitiful. I just didn’t know it at the time.

I thought I was a good cheerleader. What I didn’t admit was that there were so many others that were better than me. Since I wasn’t really the cheerleader type, I realize now that maybe part of the reason we weren’t very S-U-C-C-E-S-S-ful (do they still do that cheer?) was partly because of me.

That scenario follows me.

After college, I worked as a flight attendant. It was exciting and fun and I put my heart and soul into it. I thought I was a pretty good flight attendant. People who knew me back when I got hired for that job most likely thought to themselves, “She’s just not the flight attendant type, is she?”. The airline I worked for was one that none of my friends had ever heard of. One reason I no longer am a flight attendant is because that airline is no longer in business. Again, maybe since I wasn’t really the flight attendant type in the first place, perhaps I’m a tiny bit responsible for their downfall.

Fast forward a few years. I got a job in advertising for a department store. The store isn’t on the level of Macy’s or Nordstrom or Saks Fifth Avenue. It’s a department store that a lot of people wrinkle their noses at. My job was copywriting and graphic design. I learned a lot at that job as I put my heart and soul into it. Still, I wasn’t quite the best at it because though the stores are still around, all the advertising has moved to the corporate conglomerate instead of continuing to do it regionally. Maybe my contributions were partly the reason for that transition.

I have gotten sucked into a lot of things that were exciting and fun and even a little educational. For whatever reason, I have thrown myself into them and tried very hard to make it work for me. I try so hard. I try to do everything right. I try follow are the rules correctly. I try to meet all the expectations and exceed. I bet I get on other people’s nerves trying to be the little miss perfect.

Those things that have drawn me in never seem to last very long.

That often leads to the conclusion that there’s not much I am good at (maybe not rightly so, but still, my mind goes there for a bit…).

This is often, thankfully, followed by another opportunity to do something else.

Which is followed by my cry to God, “But I’m just not good at that.”

To which He responds, “Well, I’m glad we finally agree on something. Now let it go and let Me handle it for you and show you just how good it CAN be! Go ahead, let go. Try it. It will be exciting. And you might learn something.”

"If you want to give it all you've got," Jesus replied, "go sell your possessions; give everything to the poor. All your wealth will then be in heaven. Then come follow me." That was the last thing the young man expected to hear. And so, crest-fallen, he walked away. He was holding on tight to a lot of things, and he couldn't bear to let go. As he watched him go, Jesus told his disciples, "Do you have any idea how difficult it is for the rich to enter God's kingdom? Let me tell you, it's easier to gallop a camel through a needle's eye than for the rich to enter God's kingdom." Matthew 19:21-23

Have you ever seen an alien with arthritis?

2009-08-10T14:31:00.003-04:00

A few days ago my friend Steve’s facebook status was something about how being at Lowe’s was somewhat of a religious experience for him. Several people, including me, posted comments to his status. Some of the comments were analogically clever (not mine) about tools and possibilities. Some comments were just snarky (yes, mine). Steve responded with his own comment saying something like Lowe’s is the only place Noah could get enough gopher wood to build that ark.

That got me to thinking about old Noah.

Genesis 9 says that after the flood Noah lived 350 years and that he was 950 when he died. According to my math, that means he was 600 years old when he finished building the ark. Without any help, mind you.

Can you imagine building an ark all by yourself right now in your life? At your age and in your current physical condition?

Me either. And I’m not even 100 yet.

How did a 600 year old man do it?

That got me to thinking about all the other people in the Bible that lived multiple centuries. Adam lived 930 years. Adam’s son Seth lived 912 years. Enoch lived 365 years. Moses was 120 when he died. Methuselah lived 969 years, for heaven’s sake.

Why don’t people live that long anymore? Google has all kinds of different answers for that question. Scientific climatic changes caused by the flood. Measuring years by fruitfulness rather than by the actual number of sunsets and sunrises. God time vs. human time. Inaccuracies in oral histories from the tendency to over exaggerate for emphasis. On and on.

The truth is, I don’t think anyone really knows for sure.

Here’s my unsubstantiated analysis for why we don’t live hundreds of years any more: It’s just too hard now.

I think God’s original plan for man did not include death. I think the original plan was that we would all live longer than Methuselah and in God’s company, forever and ever, amen. I think every day we lived that way would have gotten better and better. Sweeter than the day before, if you will. It’s not hard to imagine living hundreds or even thousands of years like that.

But we messed that up with that original sin issue and all.

Praise God for the sacrifice of Jesus to bring us back to the living forever in God’s company plan. In the meantime until I can see Jesus face to face, I’m here living on this earth.

Living on this earth is not like riding a bicycle. It does not get easier every day that you do it. No wonder He told us to become like little children. It was a lot easier then. He knew it would get harder with every birthday.

Yeah, I can learn to tolerate some things easier with a little practice. I can do a little preparation to make some things more manageable. I can find some laughter and some joy along the way and some funny people to share it with.

Overall, though, it’s tough. I face more and more challenges with every single day that I live. I get especially bothered by the challenges that I face that are beyond my ability to do anything about. Throw a few other people and relationships in there with all their separate issues, and voila, you’ve got a recipe for shortening anyone’s years.

A few of the people that are blessed with being a part of my situations and circumstances really add to my personal challenge. It happens often. Someone will say or do something that makes me think they have absolutely lost their mind. I think to myself, “What in the world were they thinking!?” That thought progression always leads me to go a little further towards another conclusion: perhaps they are not the looney tune; maybe it’s me. Every single time that brings me back to the fact that I am truly a stranger and an alien on this earth. This world is not my home.

I am reminded of that almost every single day.

Which makes me oh so thankful I don’t have to live to be 969.

Which makes my 40’s not look quite so bad.

And he said: "I tell you the truth, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Matthew 18:3-4

Unto the yeast of these

2009-07-27T15:54:00.005-04:00

I bought a pair of flip flops at Publix for $6. Green, of course. The reason that’s noteworthy is because I’m not really a flip flop sort of girl. One, because I have cold feet most of the time. If my feet are cold, everything is cold. I usually wear socks and closed-toe shoes. Two, I have really ugly toes. Most people’s toes are somewhat rectangular with a circular tip. Mine are round. Just plain round. One or two of my toes have a little twist. They actually look kinda like yeast rolls. Or maybe doughnut holes. And my toenails are wavy, not nicely curved or even flat. Just not a pretty sight, so I usually keep them covered to save others who get squeamish at such sights.

But back to the Publix flip-flops. It was an impulse purchase. We went in there to buy bananas. Scott prefers Chiquita bananas over Dole or any other brand, and they are hard to find locally. We can always count on Publix though. We don’t have a Publix close by. The nearest one is about an hour away, so it is truly an adventure to get to go there. It always makes me a little giddy. Just as we entered the door, there was a flip-flop display along with all their other summer goodies. I got caught up in the moment and just couldn’t resist.

I finally had something to wear that said “summer,” even it was something that’s not really “me.”

I’ve had a bit of a difficult time with the summer apparel.

Last year in preparation for a trip to Florida with my sisters, I ordered a swimsuit online. You may ask, “Who is crazy enough to order a swimsuit online?” Well, I’ll tell you who. I am. I simply refuse to take a swimsuit into a department store dressing room with all those lights and mirrors. I scare easily. It’s bad enough at home in the dimness of my own room.

Anyway, when the package came in the mail, I ripped open the plastic wrapping and pulled out the bottoms. They were cute and really fit well. Along with that I received a notice stating that the top had been back ordered. They provided a promised ship date. It was OK, I still had time before the trip. When the anticipated ship date came, instead of the back-ordered top, I received another delay notice. Then another. Then another. Finally a notice arrived informing me they had cancelled my order because they could not deliver the goods after all and would be refunding my money. I would rather have had the top.

So, I went on my trip to Florida topless (only in my suitcase, actually. Never out in public). I took the bottoms with me to Florida thinking maybe I could find a match in a store there. No such luck. I eventually sent the bottoms back for a refund too.

This year our planned trip was to Kentucky, not Florida, but still I wanted a swimsuit for the hotel pool. I started earlier this time. Ordered online. Yay and hooray, I received both pieces this time. However. I don’t know if I ordered the wrong size or what. The top was great but the bottoms just wouldn’t do. Not at all. Talk about looking like a yeast roll. I would rather have gone topless like last year than to wear these bottoms in public. I sent them back and ordered an exchange of a different style and size, hoping it would still match the new top. Just a few days later I received the replacement. Ick. Still not good. Sent it back too, ordered another replacement. It arrived. Yuk. Not only a yeast roll this time, but an old, stale one. I lost track of how many times I sent bottoms back ordered a replacement. The last one is still in the backseat of my car. I threw it in there thinking I’d take it back to the post office, but then realized I probably could have just bought another whole suit with all the return shipping charges I had paid. Just didn’t have the heart to bring it back in the house.

So. This summer’s almost over now, which means two summers have gone by without a new swimsuit. I think maybe it’s some conspiracy to keep me out of a swimsuit altogether, which I am NOT inclined to argue with.

Which brings me to another issue.

I went for my annual GYN exam a couple of weeks ago. The first thing the nurse asked me to do was step on the scale. I told her no. Really. I said, “Not today.” She was very sweet and sympathetic. She looked at me a little sadly, like maybe she felt sorry for me, but mission accomplished. We moved on to the exam room, bypassing that cold, cruel scale. While I didn’t say it out loud, I was thinking to myself that everything else they make me do during this appointment is humiliating enough. I don’t need the added embarrassment that little lead weight would throw in my face as the nurse pushes it further and further over.

Do they really need to know how much I weigh or do they just want ME to know how much I actually, really and truly weigh and not just what I imagine myself weighing!?

Hmmm. Maybe the doctor’s office is in on the conspiracy to keep me out of a swimsuit.

Or maybe it’s the yeast rolls they’re trying to keep out of.

Your flip and callous arrogance in these things bothers me. You pass it off as a small thing, but it's anything but that. Yeast, too, is a "small thing," but it works its way through a whole batch of bread dough pretty fast. So get rid of this "yeast." Our true identity is flat and plain, not puffed up with the wrong kind of ingredient. The Messiah, our Passover Lamb, has already been sacrificed for the Passover meal, and we are the Unraised Bread part of the Feast. So let's live out our part in the Feast, not as raised bread swollen with the yeast of evil, but as flat bread—simple, genuine, unpretentious. 1 Corinthians 5:6-8

This is driving me crazy

2009-07-21T17:15:00.002-04:00

Have you ever noticed that many bank parking lots are tricky? Most of them have one-way drives. I’m guessing maybe that’s because of the drive-thru teller windows. It might also have a little something to do with security, although I’m not entirely sure about that. I mean, I don’t really think a robber is going to pay attention to a one-way sign in an attempted fast getaway. However, trying to travel speedily the wrong way down a one-way drive crowded with cars all headed in the opposite direction might prove detrimental to an escape.

Either way, and whatever it is, I’m sure there is a reason for it. If they go to all the trouble to paint arrows on the asphalt and put up directional signs, then there definitely must be a good reason even if I don’t really know what it is.

My office is in a bank building. I don’t work for the bank; we just lease space on the second floor of the building. I’m in and out of our office, and therefore in the parking lot, at least a couple of times a day. We also have a bird’s eye view of the parking lot from our second floor window. And we watch.

The parking lot here has one main entrance from the road. The main entrance is NOT also an exit. It’s a one-way deal. There are other outlets from the other side of the parking lot, but the main entrance from the roadway is a one-way drive. The parking spaces are diagonally aligned in the direction of the one-way traffic flow.

I’ve seen it happen time and time again. A car enters the parking lot from the opposite direction and travels the wrong way up that one-way drive. They are usually customers who want to go inside the bank instead of using the drive-thru teller lanes. For some reason they just don’t want to drive the extra 9/10 of a mile further down the road to get to the appropriate entrance to be in the correct direction for the parking spaces. I’m sure they see the Do Not Enter sign but deliberately choose to disobey. Then, because they are travelling in the opposite direction of the lot plan, they have to do a 3-point turn in order to get their car somewhat in between the white lines of a parking space. And even with the 3-point turn, they never quite make it, which creates problems for other people trying to park adjacently.

Crazy thing is, when they come in that opposite direction, they pass by a section of the parking lot where the spaces are perpendicular to the drive, not diagonal, so no 3-pointer would be required. Which, by the way, is probably exactly why those straight parking spaces are there - - to provide a place to park so you won’t have to go the wrong way up the one-way drive. Of course parking in those spaces would mean you would actually have to walk a few extra steps more to get to the door of the bank.

Yesterday I was standing out on the walkway by those one-way, diagonal parking spaces waiting for my lunch date to pick me up. Sure enough, a woman drives her Buick up the wrong way, does the 3-pointer, and puts it in park even though one tire is still over the white line. She got out and as she walked by me she said with a humpmf, “I know I’m not supposed to come in that way. But I did.” I hadn’t said a word to her. I was just standing there. I had my sunglasses on so she couldn’t even really see my eyes to know if I was looking at her or not. I guess she didn’t see me when she first drove up, then when she realized I was standing there, felt the need to comment.

I’m curious. What are these people thinking before they pass by the Do Not Enter sign?

Maybe, “It’s just little ol’ me. It won’t matter.”

Or, “I’m just one little car in the midst of all these others. No one will notice.”

Or, “Just this once won’t make a difference.”

Or, “If I hurry, no one will notice.”

Or, “Just this once won’t make a difference.”

I am struck and convicted by the fact that I don’t think anyone really seems to be thinking about anyone else but themselves. It’s just me and my way.

We don’t consider beforehand the opposition we might meet from others actually going the right way. We don’t really think about becoming the cause that stops progress. We don’t consider how placing ourselves just over the line becomes an obstacle to the one next to us. No one thinks about what an example they might be setting for some younger person watching. No one wants to think about the guilt they might feel if they get caught. We won’t let ourselves think about any actual consequences for going the wrong way.

No. The thinking is more along the lines of: Even though I know it is wrong, this way is more convenient for me. This way, I won’t have to travel as far. This way, I won’t have to walk as many steps. I’m in a hurry and this way is faster.

But does that kind of thinking really get me anywhere but further down the wrong road?

Oh, that I could always, in every situation, see the right Way.

Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” John 14:6

Why do children have to die?

2009-07-14T20:55:00.005-04:00

The past weekend Scott and I went to the upstate to visit with Scott's dad, my father-in-law. We call him Pop. Scott's sister was there too. Sunday was the 2-year anniversary of my mother-in-law's death and Pop wanted his family to be together on that day. Pop wanted Scott to sing in his church on Sunday the song Scott sang at her funeral.

My mother-in-law was on hospice care for nine months before her death, so there was a lot of time to think about her funeral service. Nobody actually did much talking about it, but everyone was thinking about it, and I think everyone must have been thinking something different. Pop was absolutely sure he wanted Scott to sing. Scott was absolutely sure that he would never make it through trying to sing at his mom's funeral without losing it. Scott spent all of those nine months telling me so.

When my mother in law did finally leave us for heaven, not only was Scott grieved, he was also a nervous wreck about the whole singing or not singing business. Pop has always been stubbornly persuasive with Scott. In the end Scott decided it was easier to say yes and struggle through it for Pop than to say no for his own personal relief.

During the funeral and with his agreement beforehand, I spent every minute up until it was time for Scott to sing trying to distract him from what was going on in the service. I guess a better way to say that is that I was trying to help him keep his focus on nothing but singing to help prevent him from losing it. When the time finally came and he got up to sing, a voice came out of him that I had never heard before. And it was beautiful. Scott made the sacrifice and let himself be used of God to bless others. I'm convinced that it was the voice of the Holy Spirit that I heard that day.

So, here we are two years later. Scott did sing that same song in his dad's church on Sunday. Lois was the reason we were all together that day and she was definitely missed, but it was a little easier to celebrate her life this time.

Later that afternoon as we got ready to leave Pop's house to head back home, another funeral procession was underway. Pop's house is right across the street from the cemetery so standing in the driveway, we had front row seats.

We had to wait for the procession to drive by before we could get out on the road. It was unlike anything I've ever seen before. It was Heather Brooke Center's funeral. She was a 8-year old little girl who was shot four times by the estranged husband of her father's girlfriend. It is a sad, sad story (you can read about it here). None of us know the family, but it didn't matter. We were still moved by what we saw.

There were hundreds and hundreds of motorcycles in the processional. One motorcycle even pulled the casket behind it in a carriage. I'm willing to bet that most of those riders didn't know the child either, but they wanted to pay tribute to this special situation.

Scott, who has sung for countless funerals for people ranging from those he didn't even know to his own mother, said, "but it's different when it's a child."

I stood there on the driveway in the sweltering heat. I had a napkin in my hand that I had been using to wipe perspiration off my face. As the cyclists drove by, a time or two I found myself waving my paper hankie at them before I realized what I was doing. Then, I was wiping the tears from my eyes with it. Again, I didn't know the child or anyone in her family.

But it's different when it's a child.

I have two good friends that are close to my age. They don't know each other because they live in different cities and are from different times in my life, but they have something in common besides having me as a friend. Both of these women lost sons to cancer before they ever reached double digits in age. I know that the death of those little boys changed their lives completely and forever.

I never knew Blake or Tyler either. (The anniversary of Tyler's death is this week too.) I didn't meet their moms until after they were gone.

I don't know how Ron & Cindy and Linda & Bobo have managed to beat the odds and stay married in spite of how difficult it must have been.

I don't know how they managed to continue to raise little girls after that, teaching them to love a brother they never really knew.

I just don't know. As I sit here and think about it I just can't imagine what it must be like.

Then I hear a voice in my heart and maybe I understand a little better.

"It's different when it's My child."

And I know it's the voice of God.

For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. John 3:16

What's in your house?

2009-07-09T17:23:00.006-04:00

I had lunch with a friend today. She and I and a third friend try to get together for lunch once a week. Emphasis on the TRY part. We always plan on it, but it doesn’t always work out. Intersecting the schedules of three busy women is no easy task, but we do try. Today it was just two of us.

Our goal of getting together is to help and encourage each other in our own spiritual walk. We have a 3x5 notebook of index cards filled with scriptures we have attempted (again, emphasis on the ATTEMPTED part) to memorize. We share our prayer needs and pray together. We try to keep the conversation focused on how God is working and moving in and around our lives at that particular time.

Today, when my friend asked me what God was teaching me this week, I told her that God has had me looking around my house. I’m looking to see what’s in there. Really.

Elisha is the one who made me start thinking about it. There’s a story in 2 Kings (chapter 4) about a widow whose husband died leaving her and her two sons with a great deal of debt. The man that all the money was owed to was coming to take the sons as slaves as payment for the debt.

Elisha asked her, “Tell me, what do you have in your house?”

Turns out all she had was a little bit of oil.

After she followed a few instructions from Elisha, she filled not just a few, but many empty jars with oil. She ended up with more oil to sell which brought in enough money to pay back the debt with enough left over to live on.

The oil was in her house all along.

That’s what has stuck in my mind. It was in her house all along.

When I told my lunch buddy about it, her eyes got big and she could hardly wait to tell me what she’d been thinking all week.

She’s been studying John 2. There was a wedding going on there and they ran out of wine. After a few instructions from Jesus, they filled all the empty jars with water. They ended up with not just wine, but the best wine.

They started with empty jars. And water. Those things were in their house all along.

Those things were already there.

God took the provisions that the widow and the wedding party already had and made more than enough to go around. And made it the best.

My friend asked me, “What is it that you don’t have enough of that you need?”

Oh, my. How do I answer that?

I have plenty. I have more than a lot of people in this world and I am grateful for it all.

Still, there are some empty jars in my life. Emptied of things that money can’t buy.

But I’m going home to look again. I know I don't have any wine, but I do have a little oil. Whatever else is there, I know that God can and will use it to fill my jars if I follow His instructions.

His mother said to the servants, "Do whatever he tells you." John 2:5

I did and still do

2009-07-02T16:10:00.002-04:00

OK. There. It's done, finally.

I've been trying to get that picture posted all week.

I was out of town last week, and couple of days the week before too. Getting back in the swing of things after being away for a while gives me a headache. I want to whine about it because I like the road trips better than I like going to the grocery store and answering the phone at work and sorting laundry and piling up dirty dishes in the sink. Plus, there's a holiday at the end of this week, so nobody really wants to do anything anyway. Including me.

Except that I really, really, really, wanted to show off these roses. It's just taken me a week.

My sweet little husband put these roses in the church last Sunday in honor of our 23rd wedding anniversary. Sunday was actually the date of our anniversary.

Someone asked him at church that day, "At what point did you know it was going to stick?"

His answer: "June 28, 1986."

Good answer, honey. Good answer.

Buying me flowers is not typically something he does. And that's really OK with me. He's the kind of person who doesn't like to see the same scenery twice, so when he does something for a special occassion, chances are he will do something different the next time.

I am so-o-o-o-o not like that. Which is why I love him. He really is everything I am not.

We always do things completely differently. It doesn't matter what it is. If I start something on the right, he starts on the left. If he thinks something needs to go up, I'm looking down for it. I survey my options before I decide and then go, he goes on ahead to see what all the other options are and then decides. He looks at absolutely everything all along the way, I hurry up and get where I'm going and then and only then do I take time to look around. He drives fast and walks slowly. I walk fast and drive slowly.

We do, however, often have the same goal. We just never seem to have the same idea on how to get there.

So, I have no idea exactly how we have managed to stay married and happy for all these years.

But we obviously have had the same goal all along: keeping it stuck.

And it has.

I love you, Scottie.

For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh. This is a profound mystery—but I am talking about Christ and the church. However, each one of you also must love his wife as he loves himself, and the wife must respect her husband. Ephesians 5:31-33

Kentucky wild Catts

2009-06-22T21:22:00.004-04:00

I didn't go to church yesterday, which is unusual. I'm always at church. Scott and I spent the day traveling instead. We traveled through four states and this is where I woke up this morning:

Scott said this picture was appropriate with me in it because of the slogan and/or web address. Is he saying I'm wild? I think he meant that as a compliment. ;-)

Anyhoo....

So, back to the church thing. Like I said. I'm always there. Except for yesterday. And even though it is one of the most consistent things I do always and forever, I did not miss it one single bit yesterday. I was even a little giddy as we drove past church after church with cars in the parking lot, thinking to myself "nanny nanny boo boo, y'all are at church and I'm not!"

I think that's a good sign that it was time to take a break from it.

But I made up for it today.

I heard several wonderful men of God speak today. One of them was Michael Catt. He's the pastor of Sherwood Baptist Church in Albany, Georgia. They are the ones that made the Fireproof movie (and Facing the Giants and Flywheel).

Oh, oh, oh, what a message.

Here are some highlights:

Everybody either knows Christ or needs Christ

Carnal people won't care about lost people. Only spirit filled people will care about lost people

There is a difference between being just welcomed and truly wanted

If you're slinging mud, you're losing ground

A great problem in our churches today is the presence of an absence - the absence of the Holy Spirit.

Whatever your choice is regarding living in the spirit or not, either way there are consequences.

Wow. He said more in that 30 minute message than I've heard in several months of Sundays. Made me glad I came all this way to hear it.

I'm not going to want to go home.

As a prisoner for the Lord, then, I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received. Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit—just as you were called to one hope when you were called—one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all. Ephesians 4:1-6

Miss Daisy's cantaloupe

2009-06-19T15:47:00.003-04:00

I bought a cantaloupe this week for 99 cents. Yay! I was so excited because usually they cost two or three times that. Mmmmm, yummy. It’s one of my favorite summertime foods. I bought it at the Piggy Wiggly. Every time I say Piggy Wiggly out loud I always think of Driving Miss Daisy.

Scott and I saw the play at the Alliance Theatre in Atlanta a couple of years before it ever became a movie. When it eventually came out on DVD we just had to buy it. It has become one of those movies that we find ourselves pulling quotes from that seem to aptly apply to the clunky state of affairs we often we find ourselves in around here. Like…

“Highway robbry.” (that’s not misspelled, that’s just how Miss Daisy pronounces it.)

Or,

“Now that’s between me and Mr. Werthan.”

And,

“You’re a doodle, mama.”

In the story, Hoke (the old black man) and Miss Daisy (the old Jewish woman) were put into a situation by Boolie (Miss Daisy’s son) where they had to build a relationship that on their own, neither one of them would have chosen. It took Hoke and Miss Daisy a lifetime to learn to get along and really understand each other. I think they tried to accommodate each other without acknowledging that they were being accommodating (I think that’s a Southern thing!). In the end you recognize the great value in their strange and wonderful relationship.

So what does that have to do with my cantaloupe? Well, I didn’t get to eat much of it right away because I had to go to see my own mama. Actually, I went to take my dad to a doctor’s appointment, and my mom is part of that package.

They live in Georgia, about three hours south of here.

Miss Daisy lived in Georgia.

I went to chauffer mom and dad to the doctor.

Hoke was Miss Daisy’s chauffer.

Therefore, I am Hoke.

OK, not really.

I love my parents but I don’t always know what it is that I’m supposed to do for them. I don’t always understand what is it they want or need me to do. Like Miss Daisy, they rarely ever actually come out and say it.

I think it will take a lifetime to learn to get along and really understand each other.

So, I just keep sitting here in the car waiting for the directions. I’ll hear them eventually. And I when I do, I will go. It is, after all, their ride.

In the meantime, my dad still likes to take a spin behind the wheel. Every time I go to their house he always takes me on a golf cart tour around the property to show off all his flowers and trees and fruit and vegetable plants.

You know what I saw on the tour this time?

A cantaloupe vine.

All that the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never drive away. For I have come down from heaven not to do my will but to do the will of him who sent me. John 6:37-38

Oh, my ottoman

2009-06-10T18:03:00.005-04:00

Today my friend Linda and I were talking about how when something goes wrong, it is usually not just one something. It often ends up being a whole season of things going wrong. The past month and a half have been that way for me. On top of all the bad news about the economy and all the global distress, my own little world has been spinning way out of my control lately. More than once in the last couple of weeks I have ended up in a snotty bucket of tears just because I couldn't handle one more thing going wrong.

I was so tired of the "What else can go wrong" phase, so tired of the gloom. I needed some relief. Scott has sensed it too and has done a good job at trying to make me laugh.

I think I've mentioned before that Scott has an accelerated propensity for wordsmithing. I mean, he makes up his own words. He has recently come up with a new word for an old piece of furniture. Here's a picture of it.

It currently sits at the foot of our bed. There is a matching chair in the living room, but our bedroom is larger and has more space so that's where it's ended up. It also gets used more in the bedroom. Scott sits on it to put on his shoes and socks. And to take them off. You can see from the picture that it is lower than the bed. The foam cushion on the top is also a little, well, worn. When you sit on it you sink down into it and your knees end up higher than your rear end.

OK, I'll give you a minute to get that picture in your head.

Got it?

Now. That picture is the basis for Scott's new moniker for it.

The Squattoman.

Let me say that again. Squattoman.

Which had me laughing until I was crying. Again.

Blessed are you who hunger now, for you will be satisfied. Blessed are you who weep now, for you will laugh. Blessed are you when men hate you, when they exclude you and insult you and reject your name as evil, because of the Son of Man. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy, because great is your reward in heaven. Luke 6:21-23

What would they say?

2009-06-04T12:12:00.008-04:00

I just got back from a funeral. We seem to be surrounded by a lot of that lately. Death, that is. I'm not usually the sad or weepy type at funerals, especially if the one who has passed was a believer in Jesus Christ. I just get homesick for my real home, not this temporary one. It just reminds me that there is eternal hope beyond this life and this crazy world I'm living in right now.

The same thought has plagued me after the two most recent deaths. Selfish as it may be, this was my thought: What did they say about me when they got to heaven and saw Jesus face to face?

Not that I would be their first topic of conversation upon arrival in heaven, mind you. But somewhere after the initial homecoming party when they needed a break from all the singing and dancing and they sat down to chat about all the old home folks. Not that that's even theologically sound, but if it were...what would they say about me to Jesus? What could they say?

Would they tell Jesus that they felt loved by me?

Would they tell Jesus that they knew I loved Him?

Would they tell Jesus that they saw His work in my life?

Would they tell Jesus that they never understood me?

Would they tell Jesus that they wished they had known me better?

Scott sang at the funeral today. The song he sang today, he has sung at countless funerals throughout his ministry. Whenever he sings it, he always gets a few more future requests from others to sing it at their funerals when they go too. If you're preplanning your service, I'm sure he will be happy to add you to the list if you wish.

The lyrics of the song are what I want them to say about me if they see Jesus before I do:

She sings because she's happy, she sings because she's free; she knows Your eye is on the sparrow, and she knows You watch her.

This video is not from the funeral today (actually not a funeral at all); but it's Scott singing the song. I know most of you have probably seen this before, but it's worth watching again.

Indeed, the very hairs of your head are all numbered. Don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows. Luke 12:7

I'm ready to fly

2009-05-29T11:50:00.003-04:00

I came across this picture this week. Yes, that’s me, bottom left. Over 20 years ago.

Seeing this picture evoked a whirlwind of memories and emotions. I could go on and on about all the things it made me think about…

…Like the day I got the phone call informing me I had been hired to fly the friendly skies. I was so excited not just to have a job but to have THIS job. The first person I called to tell was my mom. She was NOT excited.

…Or on the Friday night flight out of New York I kept telling one of the girls I was working with that the man in the back row was so very handsome. He was handsome because he looked a lot like Warren Beatty. It never occurred to me that it might actually BE Warren Beatty. I finally realized that it really was him on the Sunday night flight back in to New York when he was sitting with Geraldo Rivera. Duh.

…Or the day the turbulence was so bad everyone on the airplane got sick. One fellow passed out. I sat strapped in the jump seat in the back of the plane and kept throwing airsickness bags down the aisle and people kept reaching over to pick them up.

…Or the day a minister from the Baptist state office gave me an in-flight sermon about how I was contributing to the demise and eternal damnation of all the poor sinful passengers by serving them alcoholic drinks.

…Or the many flights I sat looking out of the window as we followed the Hudson River and banked around the Statue of Liberty. It was a beautiful site. I don’t think planes are allowed to do that anymore. I wish I had taken pictures.

…Or the many mornings I ate nachos for breakfast in the Miami airport. Before 8 AM. Or, for that matter, all the stinking peanuts I ate in-flight. Mmmmmm.

…Or the beaches it took me to. Key West. Nantucket. Martha’s Vineyard. Naples. Miami…

Like I said. I could go on and on.

When I saw the picture, I felt a little nostalgic and sad because I don’t lead that kind of life any more. I’m not that person any more.

I also felt a little relieved. For the very same reasons.

I’ve come a long way and a lot has changed in my life since then. No, I’m not completely satisfied with where I am right now. But I can’t help but think that in 20 more years, I will not be living the life I have right now. Things will be different. I’ll be looking back at pictures taken in 2009 and I’ll be flooded with memories and emotions again. And I’ll be a little sad that I don’t lead this kind of life anymore. And a little more than relieved too.

My life is in His hands.

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the hearts of men; yet they cannot fathom what God has done from beginning to end. I know that there is nothing better for men than to be happy and do good while they live. That everyone may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all his toil—this is the gift of God. I know that everything God does will endure forever; nothing can be added to it and nothing taken from it. God does it so that men will revere him. Ecclesiastes 3:11-14

Dust on the Table

2009-05-25T09:01:00.003-04:00

Have you ever had that moment when you read a familiar verse in the Bible, one you've read a thousand times or maybe even have memorized, and all of sudden it hits you like something you have never heard before? And then you think, WOW, why haven't I ever seen it like this before?!

It happened to me recently with Psalm 23. Yes, a very familiar verse. But this time it was much more personal than it ever has been to me.

I had been unknowingly and unwillingly thrown into someone else's unsettling circumstances. It was nothing I planned, nothing I intended, nothing I even imagined, but there I was - a little speck of dust sucked up by an evil vacuum cleaner. And it was very clear that they didn't like my particular variety of dust.

In the midst of it all, one morning I grabbed a little devotional booklet that I pick up at church every month. The devotionals in the booklet are brief one-pagers that include one verse of scripture, about 4 or 5 paragraphs of inspiration, and a one-sentence prayer. I don't usually use this booklet for devotions, rather, I read it when I need a quick inspiration or Word.

This particular day the verse was Psalm 23:5.

"You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows."

I read that verse and realized I would be sitting around that table later that day. I had an appointment scheduled with the vacuum cleaner operator. And they certainly felt like the enemy. When I read this verse I realized that God had prepared that table for me. FOR me. And He had anointed me with oil to protect me from being penetrated by the evil of my enemy.

Psalm 23 wasn't just a chapter of comfort any more. It was written about me. For that particular day.

After that, I couldn't seem to get away from Psalm 23. I came across it in reading and in conversations over and over again.

It all reminded me of a study I took at least 15 years ago, Prayer Life by T.W. Hunt. In that study one of the assignments was to write your own 23rd Psalm. Hunt explained that David was a shepherd, so he wrote using his own personal daily language. He wrote about things he knew and dealt with every day - shepherds, green pastures, rod, staff, those kind of things. The assignment was to use our own buzzwords and write our own.

I went through my stack of study notebooks last night and found mine (yes, I hang on to all those things....for years). Here is it:

The Lord writes my story; I don't have to find the right words or even make it rhyme.
When I follow His outline, the storyline takes me to such peaceful places.
The things He writes always leave me wanting more. He has not only written the script, but has given it the direction that will always lead me back to Him.
Sometimes the words He's written are painful and make me cry, but they are always followed by words of love and compassion.
You write my story in such a way that other people can read it too; even those who want to write their own ending to it.
You have given me so many words; they often spill out of my mouth with very little prompting. You have written Your words on every day of my life and because of that, there is no end to my story.

Psalm 23 is only six verses. You should try writing your own.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not be in want. He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul. He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows. Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life, and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever. Psalm 23

Peggy and Promptings

2009-05-11T20:42:00.006-04:00

Peggy and I became fast friends as freshmen in college. Our dorm rooms were right across the hall from each other. Her roommate was the quirky, eccentric chick on the hall; mine was America’s sweetheart. She and I were the “real” people somewhere in between those two extremes and we found a connection with each other there.

My memories of her from those college days are that she never hesitated much when it came to going for the most out of life. She was a music major. She changed from piano to voice because she couldn’t lug those 88 keys around with her as she lived life to the fullest, but she could take her voice anywhere she went.

It wasn’t long before she fell in love. We were sophomores when she and Ken got married. Several of us on that dorm hall wore the blue pleated skirt bridesmaid’s dresses in the wedding. I was her Maid of Honor.

When she left the dorm and started her life as a newlywed, naturally we were not as close any more, but we still kept up with each other. I remember the first time she invited me over to their cozy little love nest and she made homemade soup.

Her first son was born before we graduated from college. It was another step in the separate ways our lives took.

After graduation, I moved away.Then I moved back. And got married, and then moved even further away. She and her husband had another son. And another one. And another one. And then she and Ken divorced.

We kept up with an occasional email. We’re not as close as we once were, but the memories of our friendship remained cherished and favored.

Sometime right before Easter this year, I got a burden on my heart for Peggy. I didn’t know at the time where it came from or why the burden was so marked and heavy on my heart. (You can read about that here).

We’d had a little communication by email so I knew she was ill. But, really, I had no idea.

My heavy heart led me to call her a few times. We never really got to “talk.” I got to hear her voice again. She got to hear me say, “You’re in my prayers.” That’s about all.

As the days went by so did the short but sweet attempts at communication. Facebook updates, mostly. I kept looking forward to a long, intimate girlfriend conversation with her.

Before I knew it, April was over. April ended on a harsh note for me. Some unexpected distractions in my own life kept my focus on things other than Peggy or that burden I had felt. I was busy staring at all the broken pieces in and around my life that had accumulated and piled up all around me over the last couple of weeks. I was fully engulfed in grieving over all that brokenness.

Then I got a wakeup call about my friend.

And an answer to where and why I had felt such a burden.

And another reason to grieve even more.

Peggy passed away.

She was only in her 40’s.

She died of a cancer I can’t even pronounce – leiomyosarcoma

I don’t know why things like that happen. But I do know that God’s hand was in my life because of it. I know without a doubt that the Holy Spirit was the one prompting me to reach out to her just weeks, days really, before her death. Although I didn’t get to talk about any details of her life or her cancer with her, I did get to hear her voice again. I cannot tell you just how loudly that voice is in my memory right now. The Holy Spirit made that happen.

I have been reminded how important it is to follow His promptings.

I can say this from experience: Today, if you hear His voice . . . Listen. And follow.

Come, let us bow down in worship, let us kneel before the LORD our Maker; for he is our God and we are the people of his pasture, the flock under his care. Today, if you hear his voice, do not harden your hearts ... Psalm 95:6-8

I've been expecting you - - or not

2009-05-07T13:39:00.005-04:00

A lot of years ago I had a young friend who was struggling in a young marriage. I wasn’t that much older than she or that much more experienced at the time, but I did offer her one piece of wisdom I had already struggled over and come to terms with myself.

She expected her husband and her marriage to be a certain way, and neither was living up to it. I told her to eliminate her expectations. Not lower them; forget them. Put away the measuring stick for a while. If you are not measuring to see how someone or something compares to your personal standard, then the likelihood of disappointment is decreased.

If you constantly compare something/someone with where it actually is to where you think it should be, all you will ever see is the gap in between. Sometimes it helps to just see things and people as they really are without any surrounding, calculating comparisons. Try to see them like God sees them.

Now I know that God looks at all of us and sees the potential of who we could be. I also believe that we should do that with each other. Where I think we get into trouble is when we start assigning markers to the steps of someone else’s potential. Like saying, “isn’t he old enough to know better?” Or, “doesn’t she know she shouldn’t be doing that?”(And, for the record, I’m talking about adults here. Not children.)

When we set those markers, we’ve imposed our expectations on them. It’s one thing to want and hope and pray that things and people will turn out to be what we want them to be. It’s a completely different animal when we transfer the sole responsibility of living up to our expectations on to them and then punish them when they don’t.

Last time I checked, the convicting and refining work of the Holy Spirit was not my job.

So, why am I thinking about all of this?

Recently I was told by someone that I didn’t live up to the expectations and standards they had for me. It was not in my marriage. It was at church. I was shocked by the confrontation. It was…unexpected. I had no idea that such standards had been placed on me.

My reaction? Of course I was hurt. I thought I was striving to lead a Godly life. I regretted that anything I said or did unintentionally caused someone else to become so angry and confrontational. Honestly, it felt more like they were disapproving of who I was rather than of anything I had said or done. I felt unjustly condemned.

Then, I began to think…the one who confronted me should not have handled it in the way that he did. I thought about all the different ways that whole situation should have been approached. Someone in his position should have taken into consideration…

Ahhhh, there it is. He’s not living up to my expectations either.

So.

I’m throwing out my measuring stick. The gap is gone. My expectations are gone. I’m looking to see more clearly what God sees.

Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged, and with the measure you use, it will be measured to you. Matthew 7:1-2

My shrub nubs

2009-04-28T21:23:00.005-04:00

My, oh, my, the bizarre-ity I've lived the past few days. The events and surprises that have come my way are certainly blog worthy. Except that I'm not that kind of blogger. I mean, I can't sit down and immediately rant about what just happened. I have to ruminate for a while before I can begin to write it down. So, I've got a lot on my mind, but you'll have to check back in a fews days (or weeks!) to find out what it is.

Scott's been a victim of my bizarro world activities lately too. He told me several times over the last 24 hours that he just wanted to come home after work today and work in the yard. Do some mindless physical labor. No thinking. So that's what we did.

Now, just in case you did not know, I am not really a yard person. We both let the yard work slip way down on the priority list once we moved to the woods. We tried to keep it up at first, but it became too difficult to keep up with all the shedding trees. It was a never-ending, losing battle. Going au naturale was a lot easier. Easier, yes; lovelier, no.

If my dad saw my yard he would declare, "Depart from me, I never knew ye." His greener than envy grass and plant and flower and fruit tree and pepper plant self would be so embarrassed for me and my grey moss and brown leaf ground cover.

But, alas, it was time. We needed the distraction and the yard needed some attention. I started out today trying to re-pot a couple of ferns, but soon realized I didn't have any potting soil so I gave up on that. Then I got out the hedge clippers. The bushes along the front of the house had been spawning spindly arms that almost reached the roof. Those shrubs needed to be chopped. So I got busy. And busier. And busier. And busier. Did I mention I'm not a yard person? I have no idea how to trim a hedge, or a shrub, or a bush. I now no longer have shrubs. I have sticks growing out of the ground. I don't know what happened to all the leaves. I guess I got a little carried away.

There is one bright spot in this shrub escapade. When I first stepped behind the bushes I noticed a little lump of something brown up close to the edge of the house. From where I was standing it looked like a little pile of poop. There were flies buzzing all around it. I figured it belonged to Marbles the Cat, but I thought it was odd that she hadn't covered it up. She always covers it up. There are a lot of brown leaves around to help her with that. Plus, I've never seen her poop so close the house. But I kept cutting my shrubs, working my way towards that little pile of poop. Once I got up to it I took a closer look. It had little tiny feet. Four of them. Upon closer inspection I saw that it was not a pile of poop but rather a decomposing mole.

I suppose I can still blame that on Marbles.

Last year moles ate the roots of my plumbagos. While Marbles napped. You can see the pictures of that and read about it here.

Oh, she's come so far.

I hope I'll be able to say that about myself when I'm finally able to write about what's really been going on this week.

May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer. Psalm 19:14

Welcome to the Hotel California

2009-04-20T12:36:00.005-04:00

"...You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave..."

Erin sent me this photo a couple of days ago. Ever since then I've been wracking my brain to come up with a clever post about it. But I got nothing. Nada. Nichts.

It just speaks for itself.

And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment: So Christ was once offered to bear the sins of many; and unto them that look for him shall he appear the second time without sin unto salvation. Hebrews 9:27-28

I remember

2009-04-17T11:54:00.004-04:00

My dad celebrated his 86th birthday this past Monday. He was born in 1923. It was the roaring twenties. It was a time when life in the United States began to return to normal in the wake of World War I.

He would have been starting school the year the Stock Market crashed in 1929 and the onset of the Great Depression.

He was 16 when World War II broke out. He eventually joined the Navy and that War. He was 21 when he floated on a watercraft in the English Channel on D-Day.

Warren G. Harding was President of the United States the day my dad was born. Calvin Coolidge got the job a little later that same year. Dad has lived to see 14 more Presidents get elected since then.

He was in his late 30’s when he lost one and a half fingers in a lawn mower accident.

I don’t remember any of that.

What I do remember is that he used to smoke a pipe. That is, until he had a heart attack at 53. He missed my sister’s high school graduation because he was in the hospital recovering from that heart attack. He also missed that same sister’s wedding six years later when he was in the hospital recovering from prostate cancer surgery. Four (or is it 5? I can’t remember now!) Years ago, he and my mom sold our old homestead in Florida and moved to Georgia to be close to that sister.

He was in his sixties when he had open heart surgery.

He was able to be there for my high school and college graduations and to walk me down the aisle at my wedding.

Both of my sisters and I were able to be there for his birthday party this past Monday. It’s not often that our immediate family all gets to be together, but it certainly is interesting when we do. We talked about memories of growing up together. It’s funny how totally differently we each remember the same incident. And how prominent one memory is for one of us and for others there is absolutely no recollection of it at all.

And we each have our favorite memories; stories that we repeat over and over every time we get together.

My brother-in-law always tells the story about me crying when he and my sister told me they were getting married. I was in the back seat of my sister’s car; they were in the front seat. It was the first time I had ever met him. I remember the tears, but certainly not for the same reason he remembers them.

Sister #1 always tells on Sister #2. When Sister#2 was about 3 or 4 years old, she sensed my mom was in peril because the car was out of gas. She wanted to help out so she took the water hose and filled the gas tank up. With water. I don’t really remember that one, but I believe it.

My Dad tells a story about me of which I have absolutely no recollection. Apparently there was some concert I was dying to go to and he agreed to take me. I had some sort of hissy fit in the car on the way there because an accident had traffic at a standstill and threatened my actual attendance at the concert. Apparently we did make it to the concert without my dad having to take me to the hospital. I don’t remember that at all. I don’t even remember who was playing at the auditorium.

My oldest sister graduated from high school the same year I finished the third grade. She went off to college, and then got married right after that. I only have a couple of memories of her being at home when I was young. We both remember one summer she was home from college. It was just her and I at home during the day. She had the ironing board set up in the living room and was working diligently on all the wrinkled clothes. I had had the hiccups all morning. When I totally was NOT expecting it, she finally screamed at me and scared me so badly that I no longer had the hiccups, but then we both couldn’t stop laughing about it.

We don’t realize when they are happening that we are actually writing these stories. The fact that we each remember the same incidents so differently is proof to me of just how individual and different we all are; how we each are uniquely made by God and serve a very specific, individual purpose.

All the things I remember are the things that only I remember. While we may share some, no one else has exactly the same collection of memories. I realize that even more so when I think about what memories an 86 year old man might have. Some of them are things I can only read about in history books yet they are very personal for him. Given the course of his life and his time in history on this earth, he has so many memories. Some of them include me. And I thank God for that.

All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. Psalm 139:16

Flexing my "I" muscles

2009-04-14T22:05:00.004-04:00

Yes, "I" always seem to end up in the middle of things where I do not belong. When I force my way in like that, the end result is usually that I end up confusing the real truth for everybody else.

You were taught, with regard to your former way of life, to put off your old self, which is being corrupted by its deceitful desires; to be made new in the attitude of your minds; and to put on the new self, created to be like God in true righteousness and holiness. Ephesians 4:22-23

I die a little bit every day

2009-04-11T12:52:00.003-04:00

Last Wednesday I called a friend of mine. It wasn’t really a good time for her to talk then, so I promised I would call again later.

She and I became fast friends as freshmen in college. Our dorm rooms were right across the hall from each other. We did a lot of laughing and learning and sharing secrets in that dorm hall.

Marriage, children, careers, divorce, time and miles have all played some part in us not being as close now as we were back then. Plus, you’re just never as close to someone again once you give up sharing a bathroom and a hall telephone (imagine that, we went away to college without cell phones!).

A couple of months ago I received one of those “it’s-been-ages-and-how-the-heck-are-you” emails from her that we trade every few years or so. She told me in that email that she has cancer.

I couldn’t seem to get her out of my mind earlier this week, which is what prompted me to call her. I tried to call her a second time on Thursday. Alas, it was still not a good time to talk. I told her not to worry, I would keep trying to call until we finally hit the right time. I hung up the phone again not really knowing any updates on her condition. I didn’t know how she was feeling or what she was thinking or anything.

Even though I knew nothing about her current condition, I sensed a great burden to pray for her. I know we’re not that close any more, but suddenly she became the only friend I could think about.

I went to bed that night unable to stop tears from dripping down my face. I prayed for her family. She’s a single mom with four sons. The youngest is still in high school. She teaches music to elementary school children. I prayed for them. I laid there thinking how it just didn’t seem right. I mean, I know death is imminent for all of us. But why this way? Not that I have any kind of death wish, but why did it have to be her instead of me? I mean, there are only two people in my office (including me), I don’t have any children, and I do have a loving husband. If I were dying, there would be far fewer lives affected by it.

We may never really know why suffering and grief gets distributed the way it does on this earth, but I do know that I cannot waste it. I must find a way to see the glory that God can use it for. It’s not always easy.

When I woke up Friday, I still felt the burden. And kept praying.

Then I began to read other blogs. Ones I read frequently. The first post I read was about a woman teaching her son that life wasn’t fair and if it was, he (and I) would have a lot less than we do and others would have a lot more. She wrote on about going to a medical facility to have blood drawn for a non-life threatening condition and being surrounded by a waiting room full of bald people waiting for chemo. All she could do afterwards was cry fierce tears over the unfairness of it all. And there is nothing we can do about it but trust God.

I cried some more. And prayed.

Then I read a second blog post. It was the one year anniversary of the birth and death of a child. They knew before the little girl was born that she would not survive, but they chose to trust God and not terminate the pregnancy. Apparently they planted a tree in the little girl’s memory and now after a year, it needed to be pruned. The mother wrote how about difficult that experience was for her, even though she knew that God tells us He has to do it in order for us to grow. Pruning hurts.

I cried some more. And I thought about pruning. I had always thought of pruning as something that was done to each individual. Everyone needs a little pruning of their own braches in order to grow. It wasn’t until all of this that I saw pruning as maybe something that happens to the human race as a whole. I mean, maybe some lives are plucked so that others will grow.

I went to the next blog and read on. This one talked about speaking at the memorial service of a long time friend. The service was for a woman who had won a temporary battle with cancer and through it inspired other woman to truly pray in faith. The cancer returned later and God took her home. The speaker at the service talked about the woman who reached out for the hem of Jesus’ garment, and was healed. She went on to say that even with that miraculous healing, that woman still eventually died from something else. We all do. The best we will ever get in this world in just a hem of healing. The real, true healing comes after we leave this earth.

OK. So I cried and cried and cried some more wondering, why is everything I’m encountering focused on death??? I grieved over it all the entire day.

That day was Good Friday.

Now it is Saturday. The dark, dark days in between Jesus’ death and His resurrection.

My friend with cancer; like I said, we’re not as close as we once were. The blog posts I read; I have never met any of the writers personally. I don’t really know any of these people well and yet, I am grieving for them.

I thought about what I would do if they were all my close friends.

Jesus is my close friend. I hate what they did to him.

But I love what He did for me. He came back. He brought life for all of us that are grieving.

There is hope.

Going out on a limb

2009-04-03T17:14:00.003-04:00

Recently I made a spontaneous purchase. It was a book. Surprise, surprise. Me buying a book is not that unusual. It just wasn’t the book I specifically went to the bookstore to get. It was a small book (136 pages) and relatively inexpensive. Plus, I had a discount card that saved me an extra 20% off.

Scott was the one who first pulled it off the shelf, handed to me saying it looked like my kind of book. I took one look at it, totally agreed with him and bought the book.

After reading the first 50 pages or so, I was a little disappointed. The content didn’t seem to be nearly as thrilling as making the spontaneous purchase itself, so I put it down for a couple of days. I’m one of these people that cannot leave a book unfinished. Even if it’s the most boring book I’ve ever read and it takes me weeks to do it, I simply have to finish it. A few days later I picked the book back up and took it with me because I knew I was going someplace where I was going to have to wait. I figured a boring book was better than just sitting there doing nothing.

Well, surprise, surprise. The second half of the book turned out to be worth the price and any associated spontaneous purchase guilt.

What caught my attention and eventually sucked me in was when I read the sentence that said something like, “Zacchaeus went out on a limb for Jesus.”

The author went on to explain that the people of Zacchaeus’ community just paid their taxes and went about their lives. They tolerated Zacchaeus and his tax collecting ways. They didn’t like it, but they played along for the sake of keeping peace. There’s no record of anyone else trying to help Zacchaeus see the error of his ways. They just labeled him a sinner and left it at that. I think we can assume that most had given up on trying to influence him to change so they turned their eyes from his business ethics and basically ignored him.

“But Jesus looked at him and believed in what he could become, so He invited Himself to dinner.”

And immediately Zacchaeus changed.

Then the author asked, “Is there a Zacchaeus in your life? Somebody that everybody else’s has given up on? Judged incapable of any further good?”

Well, hmmmm. There might be. So what if there is?

I’m not about to go and tell them what they’re doing is wrong. That would be rude. Plus, it would make me look like the bad guy, being so judgmental and all. I don’t need anything else that encourages other people to think that I think I’m better than them. No. I just act cool. Look away. Turn my head. Ignore it. Just let them go on doing what they do. That’s the polite thing to do. That’s showing love, isn’t it?

And while I’m ignoring them and looking the other way, playing my politically correct game, I miss seeing that they’re out on a limb looking for Jesus.

And I miss my opportunity to point them to Him.

Jesus said to him, "Today salvation has come to this house, because this man, too, is a son of Abraham. For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost." Luke 19:9

The book is The Furious Longing of God by Brennan Manning

The application of appreciation

2009-03-30T13:40:00.006-04:00

Appreciation.

It’s an interesting thing.

I think on some level I want it. At least I think I want it.

At work, the appreciation I crave in response to the efforts I put forth comes mostly in the form of “show me the money.” If I do a good job, I don’t need my boss or anyone else to tell me so. Just give me a raise. Or a bonus.

At church, which is the other major occupier of my life, I certainly don’t expect to get paid for anything I do. Here again, I don’t need anyone to tell me how wonderful I am or to tell me how much they love what I’ve done. Words of affirmation are definitely not my love language. I just don’t need you to tell me how wonderful I am.

Actually, if you do tell me, it makes me uncomfortable.

So why do I those things? This is where it gets complicated for me.

Do I do things merely out of obligation? Well, at work, yes, much of it is an obligation. I was contracted for certain tasks when I agreed to take the job. There are a lot of things I do that go beyond my job description. That’s my integrity and my hope for the future. Surely that extra effort will pay off somewhere down the road either in a new pay grade or a new position.

On the church side, do I still do things out of obligation or do I have another more sincere motive?

Most of what I volunteer for at church, I do because I want to serve God. It gives me joy to do them regardless of what anyone else thinks. There are some things at church, however, that I just don’t feel like doing but I believe that doing them is the right thing to do. I know that loving people and serving them is what God has commanded me to do. I don’t always feel like doing that, but I know that I have to keep going through the motions until the feeling part follows. And it almost always does.

The contrary is also true. The feeling of love and appreciation usually never comes if I haven’t already been trying to get through the” doing” part of it.

Even more confusing for me is how other people love and serve me. Just how DO I want people to appreciate me?

I say that I don’t really want other people’s appreciation of me if it is not sincere. If you can’t really appreciate me or the things that I’ve done, then I certainly don’t want you to lie to me and tell me you love me or that you’re thankful for what I do. I don’t want you buying me gifts that are completely wrong for me just because it’s a special gift-giving occasion. If you really knew me enough to honestly love and appreciate me you would know that I do not like that color or that I already have three of those. It doesn’t really matter if it’s words or gifts; if they don’t personally fit me, I just don’t want them.

Yes, there are people out there who can’t appreciate who I am or the things that I do. Imagine that.

And, yes (especially since I live in the Old South), there are people who carry on the pretentious effort of keeping up appearances. Appalling, I know.

So that business about going through the motions until the true love and appreciation catches up, does that not apply to these folks too? Do I allow them the courtesy of going through the motions until the true emotions of love and appreciation emerge?

Well, if I don’t want to be hypocritical, then I guess I have to, don’t I??

What makes me sad is that perhaps I haven’t loved or served these people as much as I should have. I haven’t been the example to them that would teach them how to truly love and appreciate others. If I were a better friend to them, then they would be too.

I guess that makes me guilty one. I think they might be able to appreciate that.

Offer hospitality to one another without grumbling. Each one should use whatever gift he has received to serve others, faithfully administering God's grace in its various forms. If anyone speaks, he should do it as one speaking the very words of God. If anyone serves, he should do it with the strength God provides, so that in all things God may be praised through Jesus Christ. To him be the glory and the power for ever and ever. Amen. 1 Peter 4:9-11

My alter ego Eve

2009-03-23T12:46:00.003-04:00

Scott gave up coffee and Coke for Lent. He’s done very well. I think he does pretty good on doing without the coffee. It seems to get tough when the associations that come with coffee tempt him – like breakfast or cinnamon rolls. He’s already announced that we will have Easter lunch at Starbucks.

I did not give up anything for Lent. I was in no mood to do without; or to be a failure yet again at not being able to hold out on doing without.

We have attempted to eat healthier lately, and given that, eating out is a little bit of a challenge around here. We found ourselves going to the Cracker Barrel a lot. They at least serve vegetables and you can get grilled meat. Cracker Barrel is one of the only two major franchise sit-down restaurants less than an hour’s drive from our house.

Our familiarity with it is embarrassing. We are so familiar with it that we have our own pet names for it. I call it the Barrel. Scott calls it Crackers. As in, “Hey, wanna go Crackers for lunch?”

After our one-millionth visit there, which was just a few days into Lent, I announced that I was giving up the Cracker Barrel for the rest of Lent. I could not eat another mouthful of those green beans, baby carrots, or pinto beans.

And we did give it up.

For a couple of weeks.

Alas, in my general exhaustion and total frustration over what in the world to cook and how many times I have been to the grocery store in a week’s time, I said, “Let’s just go to the Barrel.”

And we did.

In our brief absence, they introduced their new seasonal menu. Scott and I both ordered seasonal specials and it was a delightful change from the regular menu offerings.

So, I’ve failed again. But it sure was tasty.

By the way, did you know that a specialty at the Barrel is fried APPLES?

But I am afraid that just as Eve was deceived by the serpent's cunning, your minds may somehow be led astray from your sincere and pure devotion to Christ. 2 Corinthians 11:3

My favorite subject

2009-03-18T13:05:00.002-04:00

Last week I ended up being very disappointed. I had my heart set on something that just didn't work out. I made plans in my head. I got excited. It was one of those things that I may never get the chance to do again, so I really, really, really wanted to do it.

I psyched myself up by convincing myself that it was something that I needed, something that would make me a better person, something that would refresh and renew me and enable me to face the world again with more vigor and vitality.

Yes, it would cost me time, money, and extra effort but I reasoned that it would be worth every sacrifice required.

I lived in denial right up until the very last minute. So why didn’t I go through with it?

Well, it turns out, I don’t live in this world alone. Whether I like it or not, my life affects other people.

The money I would have spent, the time I would have used, and the effort I would have had to put forth would have served only me. Not only that, the cost in time, money, and effort would have been shared and shouldered by the others who needed me to be doing something else other than enjoying my own personal retreat. I have a boss and a board at work depending on me. My husband, even though he is always up for an adventure, would have suffered a schedule squeeze. My friends and accountability partners would have missed me at our weekly get-together. The things I usually work on for the Sunday morning worship would have been thrown together in haste. And let’s not even talk about the housework, laundry, and groceries.

I know I need a break from those things every now and then in order to maintain sanity. It just got me to thinking, and eventually convicted, about how much of what I do is purely for selfish reasons.

I tell myself that if I do certain things just for me, then I’ll be better able to help and serve others. The truth is, once I’ve experienced the personal satisfaction of whatever it was, I dwell on it and think about it long after the event is over. I think about how wonderful it was. I talk about what great fun it was or how meaningful it was to me.

Me. Me. Me.

The one thing I use more than anything to justify my actions is my own personal need. And they certainly need justifying because often they are so flimsy that they can’t stand on their own.

I need a nap (Never mind that I stayed up late watching TV).

I need a break (Never mind that I haven’t really accomplished anything all day).

I need a raise ( Never mind that I didn’t save a single cent from last week’s paycheck).

I need some new shoes (Never mind that I have a 3-tier rack full in my closet).

Those “never mind” things are the things I never let my mind think about.

Oh, I’m so tired of thinking about myself, because you know what? I’m not really all that exciting. There are much more interesting people in this world. I think I should like to think about them more.

Never mind me.

If you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any fellowship with the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and purpose. Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit, but in humility consider others better than yourselves. Each of you should look not only to your own interests, but also to the interests of others. Philippians 2:1-4

Homer Laughlin has my heart

2009-03-17T17:15:00.008-04:00

OK, ya'll. You don't have to wonder anymore. You can go here and buy all my Christmas, birthday, anniversary, get well, sympathy, Hanakkuh, Kwanzaa, and any other holiday or excuse gift. 'Cause look what they have:

Homer Laughlin Fiesta heart dishes. In eight different colors. That makes me so happy. I feel like they made them just for me. Too bad my bank account would not agree.

Is any one of you in trouble? He should pray. Is anyone happy? Let him sing songs of praise. James 5:13

Sanford, South Carolina, and Secession

2009-03-14T11:20:00.005-04:00

So. Our governor, Mark Sanford, made the front page of news sites yesterday. We had been hearing about it for a couple of weeks around here, but it officially became national news yesterday.

It seems Gov. Sanford will be rejecting the stimulus money that President Obama's plan allocates for South Carolina.

Now before I go making political commitments I can't back up, and before you make assumptions about my political affiliations, let me just say that I have not personally read the stimulus bill. I'm sure there is a copy out there somewhere and I could probably find it if I searched hard enough, but I hear it's hundreds of pages long. Plus, it is saturated with two things that always bring me to boredom or tears or both: finance and politics. Ugh. I'm sure I would be setting my hair on fire before I finished speed reading page 10.

That is the reason I vote. I vote to elect people who will do those things for me.

No matter whether I actually cast my vote for them or their opponent, the people now holding office are the ones that got the most votes. If I don't agree with how they carry out their elected service term, I will have another chance to vote in a couple of years or so.

Some say Gov. Sanford is doing it to make national headlines to build his reputation as a strong Republican conservative making his way for a Presidential race bid for 2012. His plan to pay down debt with the stimulus money instead of spending it is conservative.

Some have questioned Gov. Sanford's motives for rejecting potential new jobs the stimulus package could provide given that South Carolina's unemployment rate is 10.4%. The county I live in has a 13.5% unemployment rate. The US rate is 7.6%. (That's as of Jan. 2009).

I think that there are some valid points to Gov. Sanford's ideas about the stimulus package.

HOWEVER...

The last time that South Carolina decided to enforce their own political independence separate from the rest of the United States, well, I don't think it turned out like they expected. That was back in 1860, almost 150 years ago, and some people still haven't gotten over it yet.

We have a long road ahead of us.

Submit yourselves for the Lord's sake to every authority instituted among men: whether to the king, as the supreme authority, or to governors, who are sent by him to punish those who do wrong and to commend those who do right. For it is God's will that by doing good you should silence the ignorant talk of foolish men. Live as free men, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil; live as servants of God. Show proper respect to everyone: Love the brotherhood of believers, fear God, honor the king. 1 Peter 2:13-17

Lower your voice, please

2009-03-09T15:18:00.005-04:00

All sopranos, basses, and tenors, please move along.

This sign is in the parking lot of a local grocery store.

The sign on the opposite side of this intersection facing the oncoming traffic just says "STOP" with no vocal part clarification. So, I guess you can go in, but you can't get out without singing. In harmony.

Now, before you go and tell me I'm stoooopid 'cause alto means stop in Spanish, let me assure you that I already know that.

I took a couple of semesters of Spanish is college. I can read it OK and can usually at least figure out a little bit about what I'm reading.

I just don't speak it very often at all. Certainly not nearly as often as I visit this grocery store parking lot.

It just struck me funny, here is our little town where the majority of the general population doesn't understand what you are saying if you don't speak with a southern lowcountry drawl. Much less a foreign language.

Maybe the grocery store is trying to drum up business from the Taco Bell crowd. It is, after all, in the same parking lot. You can even hear the Bell's drive through associate repeating orders on the loud speaker as you walk from your car into the grocery store. Except, I don't think any of them speak spanish.

It also made me think, if alto is the Spanish word for stop, what is the Spanish word for alto (as in, the lower female voice part)?

Which also made me think, if you sing the lower female voice part in a lovely Spanish choir and the choir director wants you to stop singing, does he say, "Alto, alto!"?

If the director were speaking directly to me, he would probably say, "Alto loco."

To which I would say, "adios and hasta la vista, baby."

The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge. There is no speech or language where their voice is not heard. Psalm 19:1-3

The good and bad of ye olde nostalgia

2009-03-05T17:51:00.003-05:00

I spent another lunch hour with the Stetson University BCM kids again today. They will be leaving early in the morning, so I said my goodbyes and then left to do my errands and get back to work.

I’m back in my office now, alone, with the worst case of homesickness.

Margie, their BCM director, is the only one I really knew from long, long ago. She amazes me. Even after all these years she remembered things about me and my years there. That made me feel like I was still a part of it all. It was a bond that may have gotten covered over with other things through the passage of time, but absolutely never broken.

The other 29 were people I just met this week, but somehow I had a connection with them as well. I have been in their shoes. I have slept in the same dorms. I have sat in the same classroom chairs under some of the same professors. I have loved some of the same people they love (some of their parents were my classmates). I sat on the same Allen Hall wood floor for Thursday night vespers. I have taken naps in the same library and been thrown in the same fountain. It’s funny what kinds of things draw you together.

So.

Here I sit.

Thinking to myself, I just don’t have friends like that around here. I live so many miles and lifetimes away from who and where and what they are now.

Yes, I have some dear friends here and they are very precious to me. They are here and now. They know my life as it is now. They share my very present joys and challenges. I thank God for them often.

But it’s different.

I guess being around these kids this week has reminded me of who I used to be. At the very same time, it has also caused me to look more intently at who I am now. I can’t help but see the difference between the two.

No, I don’t really want to be 20 years old again. I mean, not all of it, anyway. If I could go back to only the good things about being 20, then yes, tell Marty McFly to please pull the DeLorean up the driveway. However, there were also all those days that included enough stupidity to make me want to stick my head (rather, my whole body) in the sand from all the embarrassment. Nope. Just don’t want to do that again.

The other, older, "now" part of it is, I don’t think I am all I’m supposed to be yet either. I have more experience at this “life” business, a little more common sense and a few more smarts than I did twenty years ago, but I’m not where I thought 20 years ago I would be by this time in my life. I thought I was supposed to have it all together and figured out by now.

But I don’t.

It all reminds me of one of the songs Jimmy used to sing at Thursday night vespers back then. I can’t remember who actually wrote it or recorded it (If you do, let me know!), but I do remember some of the lyrics went something like this:

I’m not who I wanna be
I’m not who I’m gonna be
But thank God I’m not who I was.

As for you, you were dead in your transgressions and sins, in which you used to live when you followed the ways of this world and of the ruler of the kingdom of the air, the spirit who is now at work in those who are disobedient. All of us also lived among them at one time, gratifying the cravings of our sinful nature and following its desires and thoughts. Like the rest, we were by nature objects of wrath. But because of his great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy, made us alive with Christ even when we were dead in transgressions—it is by grace you have been saved. And God raised us up with Christ and seated us with him in the heavenly realms in Christ Jesus, in order that in the coming ages he might show the incomparable riches of his grace, expressed in his kindness to us in Christ Jesus. For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this not from yourselves, it is the gift of God— not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do. Ephesians 2:1-10

Go Hatters!

2009-03-03T17:09:00.016-05:00

A week or so ago I heard the Director of Missions for our county mention the local Baptist Association’s new website. Several days later, I finally remembered it when I was actually sitting in front of a computer so I clicked on over to check it out.

I clicked on several pages, read his blog, looked at some pictures, then I went to their calendar events. The very first thing listed for March was:

“Stetson University Mission Group in CBA”

What??!! How did I not know about this? Have I been on a long winter’s nap or something?

I set about making phone calls and sending emails for more information and learned that they were to arrive on Sunday. It was Thursday when I found out about it. Three days!!!

What I found out from my inquisition was that it was the Stetson University Baptist Collegiate Mission group (BCM) and this is their spring break mission trip. They planned to do some repair and renovation work on the Christian Women’s Job Corp (CWJC) building. Which, I might add, is in desperate need of a re-working.

Well blow me down. The CWJC building is on the property of the church that I attend (where my husband is employed, for goodness sakes). Scott and I actually lived in that little building for a month or two back in 1997 when we first moved here and the builders weren’t quite finished with our house. The front door of that building is just a few yards from the door of the church kitchen.

I’m a graduate of Stetson and was what we called at that time, a BCMer. I felt like my own family was coming to town.

I’m not entirely sure how the Stetson BCM group from Florida got hooked up with our tiny little rural South Carolina county and it would probably be too long to list all the associations here, but I do not think it was coincidence. I’m just grateful and blessed and feel privileged that God made all those connections in my neighborhood.

This is Margie. She was on the BCM staff when I was in school. She didn’t have the title then, but she was still the one in charge. Now, she has the title. She is the director. At least until December when she retires.

I know I said it’s rural SC, and this does give the impression of an outhouse (without walls, no less), which may or may not be typical for our area. It was, however, the toilet they removed from the building so they could replace the rotten bathroom floor.

Here’s Margie again. That’s me on the left (I am the one who does not look like I belong in the picture. The oddball). The other two kids? Well, they are children of people that I went to school with. Troy’s daughter and Debbie’s son. I couldn’t believe it when I was introduced to them. That’s why I had to have a picture made with them, so I could go back later for a second look. I am so old. Funny. In some ways, I still think of myself as one of them. Maybe I should consider therapy.

Here’s the entire group.

And some more of their work.

I’ve spent lunch breaks with them the last two days. Being around them and involved in their conversations has reminded me what the brains and hearts of college people (students AND their leaders!) are really like.

They are thinkers. They are learners. They are doers. They are passionate.

They reminded me that I have gotten away from some of that. And I want it back.

Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says. James 1:22.

No - Not - Note

2009-03-02T15:41:00.001-05:00

My husband doesn’t read this blog on a regular basis. Instead he catches up on it every few weeks or so, which is fine. Really. When he does read it, he finds all my typing mistakes. I don’t have that much trouble misspelling words, but I do have a tendency to use the wrong word. Well, not exactly the wrong word. More like just not the word I intended to use, but more about that in a minute. I also sometimes add an extra word that doesn’t need to be there or I leave one out that should be there. That is mainly because my brain works way faster than my fingers. If you’ve read many of my posts, you know.

My husband has suggested that I hire him as a proofreader. I admit, I need one. Trouble is, his once-a-month reading just doesn’t suit my schedule. Whatever my schedule is. I don’t even know myself because the past couple of weeks, I have hardly posted anything.

Anyway.

The main reason all of that was on my mind was because I made another typing boo boo at work this morning. I made the same kind of mistake I frequently do. The wrong word came out. It wasn’t that I chose the wrong word. It was my poor typing. See, I type the right word but I end up adding an extra letter or leaving one off, which changes the whole meaning, not only of the word, but of the entire sentence and the complete thought I’m trying to convey.

Here’s what I typed this morning.

“Dough.”

Yes, that’s a word and it is spelled correctly. No problem with that.

However, I was addressing an email to my boss’ boss. His name is Doug.

Not Dough.

Dough, boy. I mean, OH, BOY. I sure messed that one up, didn’t I?

(And just so you know, Doug is not really the tall, lean, muscular, athletic type, which made me feel even more stupid. Ugh.)

I get so carried away sometimes that I don’t pay close attention. I do it all the time.

I think it happens in my hearing too, not just my typing. I think I hear one thing, but what is actually being said is something with just one added letter, but a world of difference in the meaning.

Like when I think I hear God saying, “No.” I think I hear that “no” so I sit around waiting on Him to do something different to change the situation.

But what He’s really saying is, “Now.” He’s waiting on ME to do something. For Him. Now.

And you know what? The clarification between “no” and “now” usually comes from other “proofreaders” in my life, my husband among them, who help me with discern what I hear.

"Teach me, and I will be quiet; show me where I have been wrong. How painful are honest words! Job 6:24-25

It's just a small thing, really...

2009-02-25T12:39:00.003-05:00

A couple of months ago in a Bible study session we were talking about how our society and culture has a way of making sin acceptable. Little by little we become more accustomed to a accepting a behavior as normal that once was thought of as sinful. It’s not an overnight thing. It happens gradually, so much so that we don’t even realize it’s happening. Little by little we become numb to the fact that sin has crept in without us realizing it. Even when we read words in the Bible that remind us that God considers the behavior sin, we still offer explanations of “cultural relevancy” or say something like “this is the 21st Century” or this “this is not the dark ages anymore.”

At that same Bible study session, I shared with the women about my personal example of this. The organization I work for leases office space in a bank. There is shared kitchen in the building that is just down the hall from my office, right across from the women’s restroom. The main reason I go in that kitchen is because there is an ice maker in the refrigerator. Ice is free, renewable resource, right? Yeah, I thought you would agree.

Sometimes I would go down the hall with the restroom as my main goal. When I finish up in the restroom, I realize I have forgotten to bring my cup so that I can fill it up with ice from the kitchen (I have my own drinks in my office). Right there on the kitchen counter are plastic disposable cups with the bright red and blue bank logo printed on them. I whine about not wanting to make a trip back to my office to get my own personal cup, so I fill one of the bank logo cups with ice from the ice maker.

After a time or two of using those cups, I began to get convicted about the fact that those aren’t my cups. I began to see it at stealing. A couple of the women in my Bible study group laughed at me and told me I must not have anything to do at work if all I’m worried about is plastic cups.

I am grateful that the temptation put in front of me was only plastic cups. But where would it lead? If I took cups, am I not capable of taking the coffee pot? If I took the coffee pot, I could take the table and chairs next. Before you know it, I could be robbing the bank vault.

Bank robbers don’t wake up one day and suddenly become bank robbers. It starts long before that. It’s those little things that they get by with that leads them to believe they can get by with even more.

It’s the little things.

Focusing more on those little things has changed my perspective some, and not thy way I thought it would.

Earlier this week I felt like such a failure. There was no major crash and burn event. I didn’t rob a bank, I didn’t cheat on my husband, I didn’t get fired from my job.

It was a series of little things. I ate things that weren’t really on my diet (that is no longer a diet because I ate those things!). I put off making a phone call that I needed to make. I had a long range project at work that is not fun, so I didn’t work on it for a couple of days. It was just a couple of days without very much success in being faithful to the little things.

I was miserable. I just wanted to cry.

I went down the hall to the restroom and to get some ice from the kitchen. I then realized I had my own cup in my hand. I grabbed it without even thinking about it. A small victory for me, but an enormous one for God because in that moment I saw that God is trying to show me HIS absolute faithfulness in all the little things, not condemn me about mine and the lack thereof.

Oh, hallelujah.

Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much. Luke 16:10

The Microwave Move

2009-02-19T17:06:00.006-05:00

When Scott and I got married, on the top of my gift registry list was a microwave. Not being much of a cook (and not much improvement since then either!), I simply HAD to had a microwave for all those easy meals that were in our future.

Because they were so pleased about us getting married, some of Scott’s family bought us the biggest, fanciest, most-bells and-whistles-ever-microwave they could find. It was a mighty fine, top of the line microwave. It was big and brown with a faux wood finish. Honestly, however, it had features I never figured out how to use, but that’s beside the point here.

We got married over 20 years ago, so it was a 1980’s model microwave. We still had that microwave when we moved into the house we live in now. That was 12 years ago.

The kitchen in this house is probably the smallest kitchen we have ever had any place we’ve ever lived. A friend described it as a galley and that’s exactly what it is. There is not really room for two people at the sink. You have to shut the refrigerator door to exit the kitchen. All of that is fine with me. Like I said, I’m not much of a cook so I don’t need much of a kitchen.

When we moved in to this little house and kitchen with our mighty microwave, there weren’t many options for its placement. We put it in the corner because that was the largest portion of counter space there was. That left little continuous counter space for anything else.

A couple of years after we had been in this house we bought a new microwave. We passed the old one on to another family member. The new one was a small, white, simple model that matched my cooking skills more appropriately. When we took the old one out, we put the new one in the exact same place on the counter and it’s been there ever since. I guess we did that because it was convenient and it was where the microwave had always been. I guess we forgot that size and space was the reason we chose that space initially. That’s been about 10 years or so by now.

Last week I stood in my little galley kitchen and all of a sudden it hit me. I realized the arrangement of appliances and utensils and other stuff on my counters made absolutely no sense. The microwave, the toaster, the blender, the electric can opener, and of course, some decorative Homer Laughlin Fiesta pieces… It was as if my eyes were finally opened and I was seeing their horribly inefficient placement for the very first time. It took me 10 years to realize it. I guess I’m not too quick on the uptake, huh?

So, I spent the President’s Day holiday the past Monday rearranging it all with space-saving efficiency as my top priority. Can I just say it? WOW. What a difference it makes. It’s like I have twice as much room now just by switching places with some things. I didn’t throw anything away, I just moved it around. I’m still surprised by all the extra room every time I walk in the kitchen. Let me say it again, WOW, what a difference. It’s still refreshing to see all that counter space.

Have you ever done that? Got used to something and lived with it for years before you woke up and realized there was a better way? Why do we let that happen? Well, it was easy. It was comfortable. It was convenient. There are a million other reasons. All of them have a way of disguising the fact that it just wasn’t right. When you finally see the light (and the extra counter space!), you wonder what took you so long to come around.

There are so many things in life like that. I just keep doing things because they seem to be working out OK the way they are. When some space opens up, I fill it with the next available thing without even considering how it might affect everything else around me.

The truth is, if I would open my eyes and take a good look around before I make any actions, I might just see a better way and the greater blessings in store. And I wouldn't waste 10 years doing it the hard way.

Open my eyes, Lord.

Say to those with fearful hearts, "Be strong, do not fear; your God will come, he will come with vengeance; with divine retribution he will come to save you." Then will the eyes of the blind be opened and the ears of the deaf unstopped. Isaiah 35:4-5

Change on the horizon and my excuse for everything

2009-02-17T13:27:00.003-05:00

Friends, forgive me. It has been 7 days since my last confession…er, uh, blog post.

Never fear, however, because I have a very good reason...er, uh…excuse… for my slackness.

And, I might add, that it is such a fine reason/excuse that I’m going to be claiming it for every single one of my shortcomings over the next 10 years or so. No, really. Seriously.

Are you ready for this?

I can sum it up in one word.

Ok, now.

Here goes.

Menopause.

There. I said it. Out loud.

I haven’t actually had a hot flash yet. The cycle continues without interruption. The closest I come to having a night sweat is the warmth I experience from piling on too many clothes and blankets because the thermostat is set on, well, cold.

I may not technically be there yet, but I must be close.

I have one defining symptom that has me convinced and it is the fact that what used to work for me no longer does.

I used to be able to control how my body reacted, to some degree anyway. The whole diet and exercise thing used to work. It doesn’t any more. I promise. My fat does what it wants to. It now has a mind of its own. It had to, because I seem to have lost mine.

A solid 8 hours of sleep used guarantee my bright rise and shine morning self. Now, getting out of bed in the morning is the last thing I want to do first thing in the morning, no matter how many hours of sleep I’ve had. I need a nap. Now.

I used to be inspired by a good book because it would always increase my yearning to read more. Now, I have a hard time even finishing a book. I just can’t seem to concentrate on it for any length of time. I think they call it brain fog.

I used to get so absorbed working on a creative project that I would lose track of time. This past weekend I spent what seemed like hours in Michael’s craft store pouring over all the possibilities, then leaving the store empty handed because when I actually considered putting all that time and effort into something “homemade,” I grew weary just thinking about it.

I just can’t seem to do it anymore.

The other side of it is, I find myself doing things that I used to would not have been caught dead doing.

Like forgetting to mail the bills. I have never been a math person. The checkbook has always been my albatross, therefore, I was extra careful and diligent with it. Now, instead of crying over not being able to reconcile it, I just ignore it. Since I can’t concentrate on words or numbers for any length of time, I put it out of my mind completely. That seems to alleviate my stress.

I’ve also eaten Cocoa Pebbles. I don’t even really like chocolate all that much, but recently when I compared the labels on the Cocoa Pebbles box and the box of my standard wheat and oat cereal box I discovered that the difference in calories, fat grams, and sugar content was teensy-weensy, teeny tiny, minimal. So, I ate the Cocoa Pebbles because they made me feel like a kid instead of a fiber-eating geriatric. Do you think that’s why I keep gaining weight instead of losing it?

I have been late. I used to hate to be late. For anything. I wanted to be the first one there, not the last one. I never understood “fashionably late.” I was always the early bird. Now, at least once a day I’m late to something. It’s usually work. Which might have something to do with my inability to get out of bed any more.

So there it is.

I’m not the same person I used to be. My stamina and motivation is waning.

Who knows what or who I will become by the time this is all over.

There’s no telling what I will eat or read. Or not.

Maybe I’ll be able to stay awake and be the all-nighter kind of girl that I never was in college. That might be fun.

Whatever trouble I get myself into, I’m blaming menopause. From now on.

Then Jesus said to his disciples: "Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. Life is more than food, and the body more than clothes. Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storeroom or barn; yet God feeds them. And how much more valuable you are than birds! Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest? Luke 12:22-26

I'm a toddler blogger now

2009-02-10T16:52:00.003-05:00

February.

It happens every year about this time.

It’s the shortest month in the entire year, but full of so many different things.

Like Groundhog Day. It always makes me laugh because it’s so absurd. And, they even made a movie about it, which also makes me laugh.

Then there is Valentine’s Day. I love hearts. I have several pieces of heart jewelry and lots of heart decorations around my house. Since I was a little slack in sending out Christmas cards back in December, I have tried to make up for it by sending out a few Valentine’s cards. That’s always fun becasue people aren't really expecting them.

February also brings a holiday for presidents. Well, not really FOR presidents, but in honor of them, celebrating all the cherry pie and not telling lies and wooden teeth. And reading books and theatre assassinations.

This year we have a new president, who is also African American. Which is another thing about February. It’s Black History month.

This year Lent begins in February. I’m not sure that’s always to the case, but it’s probably close.
On a personal level, February always makes me think of craniotomies. (If you want to know why, click here and read this). It’s funny how a personal experience will affect your perspective about something simple, like the weather conditions in February. It’s also funny how something random (like the weather) will trigger memories of that personal experience. For me, there’s something about a cold, brisk, sunshiny February day that always makes me think about a brain being exposed to the light of day. Weird, I know.

And, tomorrow, I’m celebrating something new in February. My first blogiversary. It’s been one year since my very first post. Wow. I can’t believe 12 months have gone by already.

I don’t even remember how I even got interested in blogging in the first place. It’s almost like I woke up one day and said, “I think I’ll start my own blog.” And I did.

I didn’t do it for any kind of supplemental income. I don’t have ads or sponsors or giveaways, so there is no money involved.

I didn’t do it to become a part of a larger community or to network and add to my contact list. I like to communicate but I prefer more intimate settings, not mass, global levels and not at light speed. I do not have a Facebook page, I don’t twitter. I don’t even really have a cell phone. (Well, OK, I have a prepaid phone with about 30 minutes on it that I carry in my purse just for emergencies. I don’t even know the phone number of it. I only use it to call my husband and it's turned off until I get ready to do that).

In the same vein, I didn’t start blogging to grow my own cult. By that I mean, I have no intentions of building a readership for some future book I want to write. There is no such book in my head. I also had no expectations about comments. By that I mean, I expected that there would be no comments. I know there are some readers because I get emails and face to face comments from some local friends. I love those of you who do read and I’m glad you’re along for the ride, but sorry, I didn’t really get into the blog thing to keep you informed and intrigued by the goings-on in my head. That’s just a bonus, for free.

The real fun is in reading other people’s blogs. I can’t tell you how many times in the last year I’ve been drawn in to other people’s lives that I have never met. Sometimes I get so absorbed in it that I think these bloggers live right in my own neighborhood and are my best friends. The blogosphere makes me believe it really is a small world after all. But at the same time, I have never met most of the people who write the blogs I read and I probably never will because they live half way around the world, which makes me feel small and the world too big. I had no idea about any of that that kind of duality this time last year.

All I know is a long time ago I used to be different. Somewhere along the way in living life and getting older, for one reason or another, I lost many of my creative outlets. My creativity, part of my heart and soul, just stayed inside longing for release. About a year or so ago, I began to think my head would explode from the internal build-up. Voilá! The blog spot for my brain overload was born.

Maybe if I keep at it for another year, I might figure out what in the world I’m really doing here. If you have any clue, leave me a comment. Or not. I love you anyway.

Now may the Lord of peace himself give you peace at all times and in every way. The Lord be with all of you. I, Paul, write this greeting in my own hand, which is the distinguishing mark in all my letters. This is how I write. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with you all. 2 Thessalonians 3: 16-08

On my knees

2009-02-03T21:27:00.002-05:00

I’ve had something on my mind all day today and I was just waiting for a little time to myself so I could sit down and write a post about it. But, that will have to wait. Something else has transpired that has outrun that first thing in my brain, and now I just have to tell you about this other thing instead of the first thing. I just need to share it with somebody, and you’re it.

So, here goes.

Back during the Christmas holidays one of the beautiful older ladies at church gave me a Ziploc bag of Amish Friendship Bread “starter.” She was so excited about it. She beamed and clucked about all the different varieties she had made. Some with peaches, some with nuts, coconut, bananas, and anything else she had on hand. I could tell she had been having a blast playing around with this stuff. It sounded like all of her experiments were success stories.

The Ziploc bag of starter is mushy and stinky. It stays in that bag for 10 days and over those ten days there are certain days you’re supposed to add more ingredients to it. The days in between ingredient additions, you are supposed to knead the bag. On day 10, you mix in some more ingredients, then measure out 4 more starter bags to give your friends. After that, with the mixture that is left, you add yet even more ingredients and bake it.

And just so you know, to me, it’s not technically bread. It has a lot of sugar and pudding and stuff like that in it, so it is more like cake.

Well.

I am not a baker. The extent of my baking skills ends with canned biscuits and Martha White muffin mix packets. Scott is the real baker in my house, and he only bakes one cake per year – on my birthday. But, this woman’s joy was contagious so I took the Ziploc bag with gratitude and high hopes for that same kind of joy.

With all the holiday hoopla, I lost track where I was in the 10 days. I didn’t know if the ingredient adding day had passed or not. That will teach me to write things down. Maybe. I finally gave up and threw the bag in the garbage the day after New Year’s. I was a little embarrassed and defeated, but also somewhat secretly relieved. In the back of my mind I knew it would never bring me the joy it brought the woman who gave it to me. I hoped that she would lose track with all the holiday excitement too and forget to ask me about it.

No such luck.

She asked and I had to come clean about putting it in the garbage. She said she had plenty more and would bring me another starter bag. Which she did. Only this time she brought it to me on Day 9, so all I had to do was bake it the next day. She even said I could wait up to two days to bake it.

That was Sunday. Today is Tuesday. I HAD to bake it today. I had to stop by the grocery store on the way home to get oil and baking soda. After that, I scrambled home to get busy and git ‘er done. I wasn’t interested in having fun. I just wanted to finish the job so I could tell my friend that I had finally accomplished the deed.

In my haste, I was not careful about being neat and tidy. I kept thinking to myself, “I’ll clean it all up when I get this baby in the oven.” Which I did.

I washed the mixing bowls and measuring cups and wiped down the counter. Then I noticed a drip of batter on the lower cabinet, so I bent down to reach it. Once I bent down, I noticed some flour on the floor. I got down on my knees with a Clorox wipe to get the flour up off the floor.

As I knelt there on my knees I saw a few coffee grounds specks that didn’t make it into the pot, fell to the floor and were collecting in the corner. On my knees, I saw a dried up drip of who-knows-what staining the white cabinet door under my sink. On my knees, I noticed all the tiny crumbs on my floor I couldn’t see when I was standing upright. On my knees, I saw the dust and dirt on the baseboards under the cabinets. On my knees, I saw the nasty dirt stains on my floor.

On my knees.

That’s when it dawned on me. Sometimes it takes getting on my knees to really see my own dirt clearly. All the stuff that’s messed up about my life, all the bad choices I’ve made, the responsibilities and opportunities I’ve ignored, my personal failures due to my own stupidity, all the stuff I want to hide - - when I get on my knees before Jesus, He shows me these things more clearly than ever before. He points these things out to me to give me perspective. He brings them to my attention to remind me that the only thing I need to do about them is to admit they are mine. Then give them to Him.

When I get on my knees before Jesus my perspective changes. I see things a little more like He does. Not only do I see how big my pile of dirt is, I also see that great big pile as somewhat of a measurement of the forgiveness He has for me.

I can’t see it that clearly when I’m standing on my own two feet.

Only on my knees.

Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name, that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father. Philippians 2:9-11

Phil-ing the love

2009-02-02T11:37:00.006-05:00

Late last night at the end of another long Sunday, I sat on the couch for a few minutes of mind-numbing TV. I found a channel airing the movie “Groundhog Day.” That movie is one of my favorites, so I pulled some blankets and pillows up around me and settled into my little nest to watch.

If you haven’t seen it, the movie is about Phil Connors, a weatherman that is sent to cover the Punksutawney Phil shadow-seeing –groundhog event on Feb. 2. He has covered this assignment so many times that it has long lost its luster to Phil. He does it begrudgingly. He wants to just do the job and go home. No enthusiasm. A snow storm that he predicted would miss the area hit hard and their news crew had to stay an extra day. Phil finds himself in some a kind of time warp that keeps looping the same Groundhog Day over and over. The radio alarm clock goes off with a Sonny and Cher song blaring at 6 AM every day. And everything is the same as the day before. People are doing and saying exactly the same things as the day before. And the day before that, and the day before that.

Everything is the same except Phil. He’s the only one aware that everything is the same day as the day before. Knowing how things are going to turn out, Phil initially tries to take advantage of situations to benefit him and only him. By the end, he finds that using the foreknowledge to help others and save them from dangerous situations is eventually what gets him out of the loop.

It’s one of those goofy movies that, if you try hard enough, you can also find some inspiration and meaning in it. Smart and stupid, all in the same movie. Just my speed.

When I turned on the TV last night the movie was about midway through. I was already tired when I sat down on the couch, so it really didn’t take long for me to nod off. When I woke up a couple of hours later, I saw the same scenes I was watching when I first sat down. I almost felt like I was in the loop.

Turns out it was a Groundhog Day marathon and the channel was showing the movie back-to back again and again. Appropriate programming I suppose, given the fact that today really is Groundhog Day and all.

My alarm clock was set for 6 AM this morning. When it went off, I half expected to hear that Sonny and Cher song blaring.

It is so easy to get caught up in the loop. To keep doing the same things every day. That is especially easy when your focus is yourself. Me only circles back to Me. If my focus in on someone else, then it’s not a circled cycle, it’s a directional arrow.

So today, on this Groundhog day, I’m going to try to put down the hula hoop loop and start checking my quiver for those directional arrows, and to hopefully begin to focus outward more instead of inward so much.

Just saying the words quiver and arrows makes me think about Valentine’s Day, which is only 12 days away, and a really good day to show some extra love to others. And that makes me very happy.

Love y’all.

Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in brotherly love. Honor one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. Romans 12:9-11

Semper Fi

2009-01-30T23:25:00.006-05:00

I went for a follow-up appointment with the doctor today about my wrist-thumb ailment, which, by the way, is WAY better. I am healed and don’t need to see him again unless I find myself un-healed. Yay.

A trip to his office is a 45-minute drive from our house. The office is also much closer to civilization than our house is, so when we make the trip through the swamp to get there, we make it worth the gas. We try to shop and eat and see as much as we can while we’re there. Today was no different.

After my brief appointment, we headed a little further south for lunch at a new restaurant we had heard about. On the way, we passed the entrance to Parris Island.

I forget I live close to the place where they make Marines.

Every now and then when it is Boot Camp Graduation Day, we sometimes see the young (VERY young) uniformed men and their parents having lunch at some of the fast food places in our little town. They stop here for a quick lunch on their way back home for their first and most likely brief visit as a bone fide soldier.

I never think about them again until the next Graduation Day when I see another class and their parents having hamburgers at Wendy’s.

It’s on those days that I realize just how unaware I can be. I mean, I think Parris Island is a big deal, isn’t it? I’m sure any Marine would agree. So, here it is practically in my back yard and I forget it’s there until I drive by it or see those brand new soldiers.

I’m so unaware. I have more proof of that too…

Apparently, yesterday there was an earthquake in South Carolina. The epicenter was only 30 minutes from my house. I had no idea. I only learned of it when I heard the DJs talking about it on the radio this morning. And, this is the second earthquake here in one month’s time. Who knew??

I know there is a fault line that runs through South Carolina, but like Parris Island, I never think about it. Ever.

I don’t want to believe that I am so unaware, so clueless, so insensitive to the world around me. I’d rather think of myself as on top of things, up to date, on the cutting edge.

Alas, I must admit I am not.

I want to be culturally relevant and technologically savvy.

I try, but it all moves so fast and I can’t keep up.

Marines. Earthquakes. There are powerful forces all around me. They move and shake and change the world, and there is not much I can do about any one of them. The only thing I can do is to train my mind to be more aware that they are really there. Hopefully that will at least mentally prepare me if I ever have to meet one of them face to face.

So, I’m chaining my way of thinking. Now, when the earthquake they’ll call “The Big One” rattles the South Carolina soil, I’m going to be looking for some of those strong, young Marines from Parris Island to come and dig me out of the rubble.

Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil's schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand. Ephesians 6:11-13

I'll have what she's having

2009-01-26T12:10:00.004-05:00

Yesterday was a really long day. Sundays always are. First, there’s all the stress of getting ready for church and trying to get there on time. Then, there’s church. After that, my afternoon responsibilities are scheduled in one hour increments. Part of what makes the afternoon so long is that I have several assignments in a row and not one of them is in the same location. I have to do what I came to do, get in the car, drive to the next place, do what I came to do, get in the car again, drive to the next location, on and on. All in an hour’s time each. It’s a beat the clock kind of afternoon.

By 7:30 p.m. I was pooped. And I had a wicked headache, which had been building all afternoon. All the meetings and such were over, but then it was time to eat again. Planning meals and making dining decisions is such an ordeal, especially when you’re trying to make healthy choices and you’re tired and you have a headache and nothing quick and easy is healthy. I can only manage to actually cook one real meal a day (if that much). The other two meals are usually something that come already cooked and packaged in plastic, paper, or aluminum can.

Since I cooked lunch yesterday, I wasn’t going to cook again. My headache was confirming that. And, my throbbing head was also confirming that I truly did really need to eat something. But it was almost already 8:00 p.m.

We finally scourged the food demons by scrounging through the cabinets and coming up with a can of tomato soup (which is my ultimate comfort food), multi-grain saltine crackers (which are surprisingly tasty), and peanut butter. Oh, and two Advil.

After that I just wanted to veg on the couch in front of the TV and wait for my headache to subside. Trouble is, there was NOTHING on TV that was worth watching. I flipped through all the channels. I stopped on a couple of movies, but I just couldn’t get interested in them. There are certain channels that I always go to first (Scott says those are the very ones he skips over – but that’s a post for another day). The ones I always check out first are the Food Network, the Discovery channel, A&E, TLC, the Game Show Network, the Travel channel, and sometimes Animal Planet. Even my favorite channels seemed dull.

I kept flipping by this one program, watching for a minute or two, and then moving on. I didn’t really want to watch it because it freaks me out a little. But finally, with no other options and considering that I didn’t want to get up off the couch and do anything else, I went back to TLC and the Duggars with 18 and Counting.

Good gracious. Do y’all watch that program? Usually, I can’t watch it. It’s just too many little children in one house. And they all seem to be so happy about it all. And they homeschool. I know their family mission statement probably says something about showing the world how wonderful it can be and to inspire others and I admire that. Admiration I have, but inspiration I do not. I’m just thankful that, well, there aren’t 18 children living in my house.

Good heavens, I can’t imagine if I had to feed 18 kids at 8 PM on a Sunday night after a day full of activities and with a mammoth headache on top of that. How many cans of tomato soup would it take? Now THAT gives me a migraine.

The thing that sucked me in to watching some of the program last night was the wedding of the oldest Duggar son. Their entire story is remarkable. Their commitment to Christ, family, and purity is rare these days, and especially for single 21-year olds. It seems like their whole courtship and engagement was based entirely on faith and following God’s leadership.

I thought about that young couple all night long. Part of me wanted to say to them, “You have no idea what you’re doing.” The other part of me wished I was more like them, trusting God absolutely and completely for their future.

I woke up this morning still thinking about them. I realize now that I’m the one who really has no idea what I’m doing when it comes to planning and preparing my meals, much less my future. So, I’m going to try not to take on so much for myself, and let God do more.

So, God, what’s for supper?

Trust in the LORD with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight. Proverbs 3:5-6

Word of the day: CHANGE

2009-01-20T21:52:00.003-05:00

CHANGE FOR A DOLLAR
There used to be a commercial on TV (I can’t remember who/what it was advertising) where a couple digs underneath their sofa cushions for all the loose change and comments about how that is their retirement savings account. Scott and I both related to that commercial because neither one of us thinks we will ever be able to retire. We’re just going to have to keep on working until we die. I’ll probably be the little old lady working as a grocery store check-out clerk who is s-o-o-o slow and wants to chat about all your purchases. Scott thinks maybe if he ever gets out of church work, he might be able to get a job at a funeral home. That would make it convenient. You know, for the end. We will probably truly need the employee discount.

Anyway.

That commercial resonated with us so that we started calling the jar on our dresser our “retirement fund” and it stuck. We’ve been calling it that for several years now. It’s our loose change jar. It’s actually a tall, tropical drink glass with a round bottom and bell-like top. We throw all our change it there instead of carrying it around in our pockets.

It was almost full so yesterday I emptied it and began counting and rolling nickels, dimes, pennies, and quarters. I finished up today. The total dollar amount came to $78. I bet if we had let it go until it was completely full it would have held exactly $100. For some reason, I just had to get that change counted and summed up today. We can start over tomorrow with an empty jar.

CHANGE IN THE WEATHER
On a totally unrelated note, it snowed in the South Carolina Lowcountry today. While it’s not completely foreign, snow is not all that common around here. It snowed lightly all afternoon. Most of it melted as it hit the ground, but some of it stuck. I had snow on my car when I left the office and headed home. When I got home, my roof was lightly covered with it. The white roof really brightened up the whole place. Our roof is usually always shadowed by trees. The clean, white snow was a pleasant surprise and quite nice for a change. The snow will most likely be gone before nightfall. We’ll wake up tomorrow to a sunny forecast.

CHANGING OF THE GUARD
And on a third not really related note either, I watched the CNN.com live feed of the presidential inauguration today while I was at work. I was alone in the office. The postman came to deliver the mail and he stayed and watched with me a while. Honestly, I was so over the whole election thing long before I even was able to cast my vote back in November, so I just wasn’t in with all the hype of the ceremonies today. I must admit, however, that seeing all those people in the Capitol mall was striking.

There were an estimated two million Americans there for what I saw was one common purpose – to transfer power to a new leader. The amazing thing is that the power and authority changed from one man to the other without force, without military action, without gunfire, without coercion. That is really is no small thing. Regardless of who our president is today, or was yesterday, we live in a remarkable country.

Our sovereign God has allowed Obama to be placed in the position as leader of our country. Since God has allowed it, then He also has a purpose in it that can be used for His glory. Of course, President Obama’s key component for his campaign was ‘change’. Maybe it’s those changes that Obama envisions that will be used to fulfill God’s purpose. Or, maybe the change that will come will be in President Obama himself.

I’m going wake up tomorrow and the grey, snowy clouds will have changed to sunshine. I’ll take my $78 in coins to the bank and have the teller exchange them to dollar bills for me.

But I’ll still be the same person I was yesterday.

Maybe I should take my own words to heart. There are some things I could change to help make myself a better person. Who knows, maybe there are two million Americans out there waiting for someone like me to make a change that makes a difference.

A changed man can change the world. Especially if he’s been changed by the One who never changes.

I the Lord do not change. Malachi 3:6