The handwriting on the envelope

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

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

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

Have you ever seen an alien with arthritis?

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

Why do children have to die?

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

Sanford, South Carolina, and Secession

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

Go Hatters!

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.

The Microwave Move

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

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