You Will

Monday night I curled up on the couch to watch a little TV and eventually dozed off. I was there keeping Scott company as he had spent the last five days not being able to stand upright without his head exploding, or at least feeling like it was going to.

He has a bit of a freaky medical history and was having some issues. Five days before, he’d had a medical procedure done as a precautionary test to determine if his recent issues were related to his freaky history, or if they were caused by some new ailment. Or, as he and I have come to classify many things, maybe it was all just a result of THE CURSE. You know, the whole Adam and Eve thing and Satan attempting to destroy everything and the complete downfall of man and all.

Anyway, he had been miserable since the medical procedure.

Not only that, we’d also experienced a considerable bit of difficulty trying to get information from the medical facility and all the lovely people that work there about the test results. Scott called every day for five days and no one would return his calls or respond to his pleas that he wasn’t doing too well. That alone is enough to add to the headache.

He even missed church on Sunday. As a minister, you only get 52 chances a year to do that thing you do. If you factor in 2 weeks for vacation and that some people only come on Christmas and Easter, it’s really even less than that. Skip what you have to through the week, but push through it and show up on Sunday morning. For him to miss a Sunday morning because he wasn’t well meant he REALLY wasn’t well. His lips and cheeks were as pale as his backside that never sees the sun. He spent the rest of the day lying on the couch.

He tried to get up and go Monday, but eventually ended up back in the bed again. When I got home from work we had some dinner and both of us went back to the couch. He finally confessed that he couldn’t go on like this so we made plans to get up in the morning and head to the hospital, the ER if necessary. Since we couldn’t get a doctor to call us, we thought making a personal visit might produce at least a few answers. I made a mental list of things to pack in my oversized handbag (i.e., snacks, dental floss, Sudoku puzzle book, cell phone charger). Waiting rooms are awful without these luxuries.

Later I got up from the couch, moved to the bedroom and crawled into bed. It didn’t take but a minute before I was sound asleep. Scott was just a few minutes behind me in coming to bed. I was already asleep but stirred when I felt him sit down on the bed. He laid his head back on the pillow and spoke a few words to me. I realized then that he was in pain, practically in tears and scared to death that something might be seriously wrong with him. I was no longer asleep. I was awake. Wide awake.

I laid there listening to him breathe until he eventually drifted off to sleep. I laid there with my eyes open wondering what in the world to do for him, for me. Thirty minutes or so went by. I was still awake. He seemed to be resting OK. The phone rang once, which is not long enough for the message system to pick up. Post bedtime ringing phones are a sure sign that I’m not going back to sleep anytime soon, especially if I have no idea who it was or why in the world they dialed my number after midnight. I guess it was just meant for me to be awake. Sleepless nights are a part of The Curse too; just another way to destroy me, because I’m useless without my beauty sleep.

Scott was lying on his side facing the edge of the bed. I put my hand on his back and began to pray. I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t want to leave his side and get out of earshot of his breathing noise. I prayed for forgiveness for being stupid, stubborn, neglectful, and lazy. I knew I needed to confess everything so that I could be certain there was nothing blocking the path of my prayers to God. Then I asked God to heal whatever it was that was making Scott feel this way. I did not pray in statements. I did not say, “Oh, God, please heal Scott.”

Instead, I prayed in questions. “Will You please?” “Will You?” After a long time of asking God that same thing over and over, “Will You?”, the words took on a different perspective.

Will. You. Say them over and over. Will. You. Will. You. Will. You. Will. You. Will. You. Will. You.

After a while, it became a little difficult to tell the beginning from the end. You. Will.

You Will.

Of course. You Will.

My prayer then became merely, “Your Will.” Whatever it may be, God, Your Will is what I want. I know You Will, if it is Your Will.

That’s the last thing I remember praying as I drifted off to sleep.

About 3 hours later my alarm went off. I immediately got up and into my getting ready routine. That’s me. Once I have a plan, let’s get busy. No dilly dallying. No lollygagging. Just do it. I packed my snack bag and my puzzle book and was ready to go to the hospital.

Scott was moving a little slower. I tried to be patient. I just wanted to go. He was taking his time. I kept asking him how he felt. Finally, he asked me if I thought you could scare yourself into wellness.

I understood. He went to sleep scared to death; he woke up without the fear of it.

He also woke up without the headache and all the other ickiness that had sent him to the couch for the past week. I think he felt normal, but maybe a little hesitant to believe it.

He called the doctor’s office one more time, just in case. Wouldn’t you know it, they called him back in about 15 minutes. By now it had been 6 days and they hadn’t called, but now they respond in record time. They finally looked at the test results and saw that it was negative; everything was as it should be. Really, by then Scott didn’t need them to tell him that because he was already feeling normal.

I’m convinced that the reason no one had called us about that test before now was because no one had looked at it. I’m also convinced that the reason no one had looked at it before now was because God was waiting on us to get to the “Your Will, whatever” point. None of us knew the test was clear until Scott had already experienced the healing.

Do I think God Photoshopped the scans? Maybe. Maybe not. But it doesn’t matter. At that point Scott was ready to go on about his day as if it was just another Tuesday, and he did. He packed up his things and headed to work.

I took up the vigil on the couch.

I had not told Scott about my prayers. I had not said a word to him about the “Will You?” question or the “Your Will” answer.

I felt as if I had just experienced God’s glory right there in my own home, right there on my own husband, right there in front of me. It paralyzed me.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I could hardly speak. All I could do was just sit there.

I know now why God put Moses in a cleft in the rock when He passed by. It was just too much.

How do I live now after experiencing such a thing?

I did not see God’s face, but I felt it. I see the evidence.

People won’t believe me. They will find ways to reason and rationalize the events. Because of that my tendency is to stay in that rock cleft, hide out until no one suspects anything different; sit on the couch until the awe fades away.

But I have lived through such a thing to be able to tell the story. And I will tell it because I have seen His glory, the glory of the One and Only , who came from the Father, full of grace and truth. It is the One and Only thing that can and Will stop The Curse.

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth. John 1:14

And the LORD said, “I will cause all my goodness to pass in front of you, and I will proclaim my name, the LORD, in your presence. I will have mercy on whom I will have mercy, and I will have compassion on whom I will have compassion. But,” he said, “you cannot see my face, for no one may see me and live.” Then the LORD said, “There is a place near me where you may stand on a rock. When my glory passes by, I will put you in a cleft in the rock and cover you with my hand until I have passed by. Then I will remove my hand and you will see my back; but my face must not be seen.” Exodus 33:19-23

The Year I Lost It: The Budley

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

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

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

How wide and long and high and deep?

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...

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

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

The Beat Goes On

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

Advertising my flying cheerleader days

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

The good and bad of ye olde nostalgia

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

Looking good will cost you

If I don’t write a blog post, it is usually not because I don’t have anything to write about.

More often than not, it is the opposite. I have so many things swimming around in my head that I have trouble narrowing them down enough to post about (which is also why my posts are usually not short and sweet. Sorry).

Then, occasionally there are the times when I have something specific to write about, but I’m just too embarrassed or ashamed to admit whatever it is.

Alas, that is where I’ve been for the past couple of days.

My hang up that I don’t want to say out loud?

I’m old.

Oh, and I’m cheap.

I got solid confirmation of that this weekend when I tried to get a new pair of glasses.

Scott and I both had eye exams last March. Scott got his new glasses shortly after that. At that time, I got new contacts so I put off getting the new glasses for a while. One, buying two (his and hers) new pair of glasses at the same time was more money than I wanted to spend at one time. The contacts I can pay for monthly. Two, I don’t wear my glasses that much. I usually only wear my glasses at home in the evenings after I take my contacts out. Three, my new prescription was for bifocals. My first pair. I was not eager to have them.

I’ve been seeing a TV commercial for a store advertising a 50% off sale on glasses. I’ve been putting it off for nine months. Plus, after I take my contacts out at night and I sit down to read, I have found that my regular, old glasses just don’t cut it anymore and I have to wear a pair of drug store reading glasses on top of my other glasses so I can see the words in my books. Yes, that’s two pair of glasses on my face at one time. It was time. I had put it off long enough.

We went to the store with the 50% off sale and I picked out some frames that were reasonably priced. The 50% off sale had obviously brought lots of other customers in to the store too, so we had to wait a while. The technician finally called my name, asked me several questions, made a few computer clicks, explained all about how to make the adjustment to bifocals, then she told me what that total price of my glasses would be.

Turns out the price of glasses has gone up since March. I guess it was all that up and down stuff in the economy or something. Even with 50% off, the cost of my glasses was way more than Scott’s were back in March. WAY more. And his weren’t even on sale.

I couldn’t do it. I could make a mortgage payment with that money. Or two car payments. I just couldn’t spend that much money on glasses. I walked out of the store without them.

So, have you ever seen the little old lady who’s wearing glasses styled like she’s had them for 20 years and she’s still squinting because she can’t see to count out the sixty-eight pennies at McDonald’s for a cup of coffee, or in my case a Diet Coke?

That’s me. Old and cheap.

Huh? What did you say? Speak up, I can’t hear you….

“What do you want me to do for you?" Jesus asked him.
The blind man said, "Rabbi, I want to see."
"Go," said Jesus, "your faith has healed you."
Immediately he received his sight and followed Jesus along the road.
Mark 10:51-52

Do What?

I have tried to get this post up for three days now. I’m having a little trouble getting it done the way I want it done, which is what this post is about anyway.

Sometimes I just can’t keep up with myself.

I’m not typically a procrastinator. While I do have my moments, I am not a lazy person. I like to get all my work done so that afterwards I will have time to sit down, rest, and do nothing for a bit.

I just don’t rest well if there is something left unfinished that needs to be done. And mind you, I do like my rest.

It's so hard to figure out why it is that the things I want to get done first almost always end up being the last actually completed.

I realize that to some extent, the more important something is to me, the longer I take to think about it before I actually get busy doing something about it. Then, once I get started, I am more deliberate and attentive and therefore probably slower accomplishing the task.

Why do I do it? I guess the REAL question is, why don’t I do it?

It’s not until the stock market has days like it did earlier this week that I remember I need to move some of my itty bitty 401K funds from stocks to bonds. I need to do that because I’m getting old and all financial advisers say the older you get the less risk you should take. I’ve been needing to do that for months now, regardless of the level of the Dow.

Every time I sit on the toilet in our master bathroom, I get a clearer view of the linoleum from a closer angle and I think to myself, “Gee, that sure could use a good down-on-my-hands-and-knees kind of scrubbing.” I walk on that floor every day. I turn out the light on my way out and don’t look back.

After I unload the just-bought groceries, I begin putting them away and open the refrigerator door. It is about at that point that I remember my ice-maker has been broken for months and I should have bought a bag of ice at the grocery store. I really need to call the repairman. Instead, I just keep making second trips back the store to buy bags of ice.

I have a full time job. On a weekly basis, besides my regular attendance at church worship services, I put together the screen presentation stuff for the Sunday worship service, I go to choir practice, ensemble rehearsal, two Bible studies (one I lead, another one someone else leads. Both have homework), and lunch with my prayer partner. I do a lot of other Nancy-can-you-help-me kind of projects for the church, the chamber of commerce, the arts council, the museum, my not really work related practical joke playing boss, and lots of dearly beloved friends. I wouldn’t trade any of it. Especially the last part.

Oh, and then there’s this blog. Which, most days, is what I want to do first but usually ends up being last.

I don’t say all that to prove how busy I am and justify my neglect of the things I don’t get done. It is really quite the opposite. Even in spite of all that I do, I still have time in every day that could be put to much better use. I am not sitting around doing nothing, but still, time wastes away.

Often I do what calls out to me the loudest or most urgently that day. Loud and urgent are not always right. The quiet, unassuming things get pushed back.

The things I want to do , I don’t. The things I probably should put off until I’ve really thought them through. Well, I end up doing them anyway.

Gracious me. I think Paul’s been reading my mail. I guess it’s a good thing someone is reading it because it’s been piled up on the dining room table largely unopened for a while now. . .

I want to do what is right, but I can’t. I want to do what is good, but I don’t. I don’t want to do what is wrong, but I do it anyway. But if I do what I don’t want to do, I am not really the one doing wrong; it is sin living in me that does it. I have discovered this principle of life—that when I want to do what is right, I inevitably do what is wrong. I love God’s law with all my heart. But there is another power within me that is at war with my mind. This power makes me a slave to the sin that is still within me. Oh, what a miserable person I am! Who will free me from this life that is dominated by sin and death? Thank God! The answer is in Jesus Christ our Lord. So you see how it is: In my mind I really want to obey God’s law, but because of my sinful nature I am a slave to sin. Romans 7:15-20

How big is God?

Here' something I wrote on this day seven years ago. Writing it was my personal therapy that day to remind me not to give up hope.

God is brokenhearted today.

He is brokenhearted because you and I may have at some time in our lives ignored our call and didn’t take advantage of the opportunity to share Christ and to show His love with one of the people killed today. We may have been face to face with them, whether we knew their names or now, and perhaps were afraid to speak up.

Now, a different fear is spreading.

Or, 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?

He is brokenhearted that unique pieces of His creation embraced evil. Oh, the blessings He had in store for them. But their choices just blew them away.

As much as it may have physically hurt to have a Boeing jet crash into your office, as much as it may have burned to have the temperatures 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.

He is brokenhearted that any of His creation has to suffer. He, most of all, knows what it means to suffer. It is suffering, however, 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 those that jumped from the buildings fell, as far beneath the rubble as some were buried, God’s love will go father.

As long as it takes to search, as long as it takes 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 workers and relief efforts 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 his whole 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 saints, 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

It's raining here, what's it like where you are?

We had reservations at Myrtle Beach for this weekend. As the weekend and Tropical Storm Hanna both drew closer, it looked more and more like they would converge together sometime on Friday. So, we stayed home.

At home we basically did some things around the house and monitored the storm. The local television stations kept broadcasting updates all day long. Local schools were closed. They were not expecting Hanna to hit us directly, but from everything the meteorologists said, I felt sure we would see a significant amount of rain and wind.

We kept waiting and anticipating. Around 5 pm Scott and I went outside to bring the cat in. She is truly and outdoor cat, so it was not an easy task. We just didn’t want her to be outside in the storm.

We waited all night long. We saw a little wind and a few raindrops, but nothing big. Our electricity stayed on. There was one point for a couple of hours when we had no water, which was odd. Even though we had bottled water in the house, I think Scott and I both realized we could live without power a lot longer than we could live without water. Ahh, I think that’s a metaphorical lesson for another day.

But the whole storm thing...We spent our entire day looking for it. Waiting. Anticipating. Planning. Rearranging our plans. For us, it turned out to be just another day with no extreme weather.

The whole episode has brought home a sermon I heard about two or three weeks ago. It bothered me and I’ve been carrying it around in my mind ever since. It wasn’t that the words of the sermon convicted me of some great sin or anything, it’s just that I realized how much we put words into the mouth of God that aren’t really there. We keep looking for storms that aren’t really there.

The sermon was based on Matthew 14:22-33. It’s the story of Jesus walking on the water.

Stop a minute and think about what you know about that story. What was the weather like that night?

Was your answer “stormy”?

And how about the disciples? The three gospels that tell story describe them as being afraid. What were they afraid of?

Was your answer “the storm”?

And if you had to sum up a lesson from the story, what would it be?

Did your answer have something to do with Jesus coming to us, being with us, in the storm?

Well, I read and reread that story in all three gospels (Matthew 14, Mark 6, John 6), and the only evidence of weather I could find was wind. Just wind. No rain, or thunder, or lightening.

And, it seemed the wind wasn’t swirling, it was merely blowing hard from the direction they were headed. They faced a strong headwind. That’s all.

It reminded me of being on the beach on a very windy day, when the sun is still bright and hot and the water it still cool. The high wind blows sand all over my towel and the waves are numerous and frequent – good surfing weather if I were a surfer. Not exactly what I would call a stormy day.

And the gospels all say that the disciples were frightened with they saw Jesus. Their fear had nothing to do with the weather. They were afraid, so the scriptures say, because they thought they saw a ghost.

I think the story is more about the disciples being faced with the miraculous, divine, power of Jesus. They were faced with it and challenged to believe that it could be theirs, and it scared them to death.

It’s kinda like being handed the reins or the car keys or whatever for the very first time, only on a more giant scale. A power you’ve never had before if now available to you. It is frightening.

I’m not sure why we so often associate a storm with this story. Maybe it is because we don’t want to believe it or face it or admit that the miraculous can actually be ours, so we let ourselves become distracted by the weather. We forfeit the power Jesus displays and assign it to the weather. And before you know it, we have convinced ourselves there really is a storm out there even though we don’t feel or see the rain.

It’s a lot easier to just talk about the weather, whether it is actual or merely forecast. But to really know that the power that makes the wind blow is available to you, now that’s something to talk about.

But Jesus immediately said to them: "Take courage! It is I. Don't be afraid."
Matthew 14:37

W-w-w-w-ater would be nice

Last Wednesday my computer became infected by a virus and completely shut down. I haven’t gotten the problem completely remedied yet so right now I’m shuffling between a couple of back-up computers.

About twelve hours after my computer went down, I also got some kind of up-chuck bug that completely shut me down too.

Actually, I ate some scrambled eggs that I think must have been slightly-salmonella-tainted.

I was feeling absolutely fine and never got any hint that I was about to go down. Just a few hours before, I had even shared a story with a friend about how not too long ago I ate some leftover Taco Bell refried beans for breakfast and found them most satisfying, even before 11 AM. Not really something I think you would talk about if you felt a queasy stomach on the horizon.

But exactly four hours after eating those eggs, with no warning, I sat up and said, “I’m gonna be sick.” And I was.

The day afterwards, meals consisted of Advil and fruit flavored Life Savers.

A couple of days later as I began to feel better, I had a strange craving for tortilla chips, salsa, and queso. I think my mouth just wanted to taste food again and spicy just seemed like the way to jump start my appetite and get it back in shape. Saturday Scott dutifully took me out, not only to eat chips and salsa but to get me out of the house for a while. I needed some fresh air and a change of scenery for sure!

Of course we had to travel an hour to get the really good chips and salsa, so while we were over that way we made a trip to the Lifeway store (for me) and to Best Buy (for him). As we got ready to head back home, I told Scott he was going to have to stop and get me a drink. I didn’t think I could make the hour trip back home without a traveler. Except this time, the drive-through would not do. I needed to go in, order a large iced tea, sit down and drink it there. The reason I needed to do that was because I needed a refill. I knew I needed a refill even before I took the first sip. And that’s what I did. I actually refilled it twice before I walked out with the third one. I was THAT thirsty.

A couple of days in the wilderness of dry heaves and parching fever left me craving the spicy, but it was the drink that satisfied me more than anything.

I think there’s probably a lesson in there somewhere.

He led you through the vast and dreadful desert, that thirsty and waterless land, with its venomous snakes and scorpions. He brought you water out of hard rock. He gave you manna to eat in the desert, something your fathers had never known, to humble and to test you so that in the end it might go well with you. Deuteronomy 8:15-16

Behind the uniform

I don’t usually take naps on Saturday afternoon. However, this past Saturday we were up, dressed, and out the door long before we normally even think about rolling out of bed on the weekend. So, by about 2 pm, I laid down for little rest.

I dozed off and as I’m likely to do if it’s an unusual sleeping time, I had a crazy dream. I don’t remember a lot of the details about the dream. I know it involved a large crowd of people. The crowd, including me, was wandering through a big building trying to negotiate our way through a labyrinth of hallways. We kept looking for the policemen in the dark blue uniforms. One was positioned every few yards pointing us in the direction that led to wherever it was we were headed. I think maybe we were trying to find our way out, but I’m not sure.

The next thing I remember of the dream is that lightning struck something outside of the building we were walking through. There were cries all through the hallways to “Call the fire department, call the fire department!” Next thing I knew, we were standing outside (funny how quickly you can move through walls in a dream). We were standing around a car that was charred and parts of it still burning. The car was on some kind of tile flooring and all four corners of each square of tile was singed and curled upward. We all stood around just staring, waiting for the firemen in their reflective overcoats and hard hats to come and make it right again.

I don’t remember how the dream ended. When I woke up, the dream was still on my mind. I knew exactly where it had come from. The sights and sounds my senses had absorbed in the morning hours prior to my nap had permeated my subconscious and affected my soul.

The reason we got up, dressed, and out the door so early on a Saturday morning was to attend the funeral of one of our county sheriff’s deputies that was shot and killed earlier this week as he answered a burglary alarm call.

I did not know the officer personally. The service was held at our church because it is the largest sanctuary in town and a very large crowd was expected.

When I first heard the news of the shooting earlier in the week, my thoughts immediately went to the deputies and troopers that I do know personally. There are at least four (that I can think of right now, maybe more) law enforcement officers that attend church with us. Even more whose families and relatives worship with us.

I couldn’t help but think about what THEY must be thinking and feeling. I could not imagine what it would be like the morning after a tragedy like that to get up, put on the uniform and go to work just like any other day. What are they supposed to do with all the fear, the guilt, the questions, the doubt, the anger, the shock, the grief, and everything else I cannot even begin to think of?

What? Just what? What in heaven’s name are they supposed to do?

But I guess the real question is, what am I supposed to do?

It all made me think of another incident not too long ago.

A couple of months ago, Scott and I were on the way to the mall or somewhere (I can’t remember exactly now). Anyway, we were headed to the next metropolitan area about an hour away. Our route was detoured by a wreck that involved two people on a motorcycle and a van/SUV-type vehicle. All traffic on the two-lane road had been rerouted.

On our return trip, we stopped at a restaurant to eat as we waited for the road to open up again. One of the state troopers that attends church with us came in the restaurant. He had been working the crash. We spoke to him and asked about the incident. We were curious about exactly what had happened that had slightly detoured our evening outing. He shared a little bit about the scene…and it really wasn’t appropriate dinner conversation. But we had asked for it. He said it had been a long time since he had seen bodies messed up that badly in a wreck. The road re-opened, our curiosity somewhat satisfied and eager to get home and see the film at ll, we spoke our pleasantries and went on our way.

It didn’t occur to me until about three days later that I should have asked that state trooper that night how HE was doing. He just witnessed death, and a very ugly, bloody one (two, actually), and I didn’t even think to reach out to him and offer him some comfort and support. How could I be so insensitive and take for granted that he wasn’t affected by it?

Saturday I stood in the back of the church as I watched rank after rank of officers stand at attention as the casket passed by. I watched them file silently in front of me filling every seat in the church. Row after row of uniforms lined the pews. The service moved out to the courtyard and I stood behind them as Amazing Grace flowed from the winds of the bagpipes, taps rang out from the bugle, a gunfire salute blasted the silence, and helicopter propeller blades cut through the sky. All the while, not one of them moved a muscle except to salute on command.

I stood behind them watching it all.

Actually, I guess the proper perspective is that they were standing in front of me. After all, that is what they do day after day. They stand in front of me, protecting me from danger. They stand in front of me, making a way for peace and order.

Because they stand in front of me, they see much more of the evil in this world than I do. They see it first and they see it on a daily basis. I think they see so much more than their fair share of it and therefore that is why they strive so hard to protect the good.

Again, I guess the real question is, what am I supposed to do?

Besides striving to never take any one of them for granted again, I will stand behind them.

I will stand behind them with thankfulness and compassion.

I will stand behind them with respect and support.

I will stand behind them.

When the slide show ends, you can click on the X in the top right corner of the slide screen to replay it.

Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. John 15:13

You're not going out in THAT, are you?

We loved the Sears and JCPenney catalogs when we were little girls. We enjoyed the colorful pages all year long, not just at Christmas when the Wish Book came out.

My sister and I would play the game of “if you could pick only one item on this page, which one thing would it be.” We would take turns picking first because, of course, you couldn’t pick an item if the other one had already chosen it. We then would turn to the next double page spread and start over, all the way through the clothes, shoes, and jewelry sections.

I don’t remember that our mother ever actually ordered any apparel for us from those catalogs. The only time I ever remember getting something that came in the mail wrapped in plastic was a dress my Grandmama Martin ordered for me. I was in the second or third grade. It was a made of heavy, thick, synthetic fabric. It was gold with brown and rust colored trim. I wore it to have my school picture made that year. I was so proud of that mail-order dress.

Most of the other clothes my sisters and I wore, our mother made on her sewing machine. She made a lot of short sets, pant suits, and dresses for us to wear to school. And if ever there was a special occasion, it most definitely called for a dress handmade with that extra touch of love. We spent almost as much time looking at Butterick pattern books as we did the department store catalogs.

My two sisters and I still like to study fashion catalogs as if we’re preparing for the bar exam. We thumb slowly through the same 25 pages over and over again, memorizing colors and styles, turning down page corners, creating wish lists, and circling potential purchases.

But somewhere along the way, it all got lost in translation for me.

I have not been able to make the transition to shopping in real life.

The recent shopping trip with my sisters has confirmed that for me. If I ever had any fashion sense, I realize now that it has been lying dormant somewhere in the back of my closet full of clothes I never should have bought in the first place.

I do not own a single pair of capri pants. This is partly because I do not like to wear shoes without some kind of sock/hose. My feet get cold very easily without socks, and when they do I am miserable. The other reason I don’t own a pair of capris is because they do not look good on EVERY body type. Ahem.

I own only one sleeveless top. It is a white tank top that I wear underneath things, never by itself.

I have issues with flip flops. Flop rhymes with slop, and that’s what they make me think. Sloppy. And there’s that annoying slapping noise when you walk. I do own one pair. I bought them after some coaxing from my husband that I needed a “treat” (his word for something you wouldn’t normally buy for yourself). They are metallic and beaded, so they are not quite so sloppy, but they still slap. They are fun, but I don’t wear them that much.

And, I don’t see anything wrong with pantyhose. Except that no one else is wearing them.

See. I AM a fashion weirdo.

I know that the last 10 years living an hour away from a mall, and four hours away from a GOOD one has had something to do with it. And then there’s always the budget too. Ugh. Somewhere along the way my fashion confidence got left behind.

But I’m ready for a new do-over challenge, so, last night I took everything, yes everything, out of my closet. I loaded up yes-sir-yes-sir-three-bags-full of “what was I thinking?” shirts, skirts, pants, and shoes.

And of course, all the things that were two sizes too small got tossed as well. No sense keeping those things one minute longer.

The things I put back in my closet were things that have a glimmer of hope. I still have plenty of clothes, but I also have some work to do. I think it has more to do with my attitude - - learning to believe that it is OK to step outside the narrow safety zone. Don’t worry so much about it. Take some risks.

I don’t think I’ll ever make it to the fast lane, but hopefully I will at least find my way into the current traffic/fashion pattern.

Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more important than food, and the body more important than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Matthew 6:24-25