Alicia

The words were so clear they woke me from a sound sleep, “Thank you, Lord for this another day of life” and I recognized the voice. It was my Pappaw Campbell’s voice, strong and gentle. That was the way he began every meal time prayer. It was not a ritual, it was a heartfelt sentiment that he had found words to express and he humbly reminded the Lord of his gratitude at every opportunity.

The clock on the bedside table mocked 2:35am and something told me that fluffing and flipping the pillow would not be enough to coerce my exhausted body back to la-la land. I could read that would mean turning on the light and possibly waking my sleeping daughter, who had decided to join me since Daddy was out of town. I could write but that would mean getting out from under the warm blankets and that did not seem too appealing. There’s just something about lying awake in a quiet house that gives way to soul searching.

Where was this deep sadness coming from? There is so much to be happy about, so much to be grateful for and yet, it seemed the tide of desperation was coming in rapidly. The feeling of being alone, far from home, from my calling, from the joy that used to reign in my life; wounded from the rejection of family members and the calloused criticism of acquaintances was pouring over me like wet concrete. It has been said and rightly so that time waits for no one and proven again, the alarm clock slipped its unforgiving crow bar into my domain and was demanding a response.

Up, floor is cold; down, bed is warm…I can’t believe I did not sleep last night, up with smile on face, Oh Lord help me just get through this one and by the way who is this person in my mirror? Maybe, if I sneak to the coffee pot—I will be able to have a moment of solitude. Nope, those snap tops for freshness that appear so amazing in TV ads make a monstrous noise when the kitchen is as silent as a morgue. As if rehearsed, feet begin to hit the floor from every corner of my humble abode. The day is here darling—deal with it.

Fast forward….needed to attend a funeral, had car trouble, husband out of town so decided to make a furniture delivery, instead. The lady had been calling for a couple of weeks so anxious to have her table and chairs. Since, the funeral was out. There was plenty to be done to take care of the living. First on the agenda was delivering a dining room table and chairs. For me, it was just a matter of coordinating help for the loading and the unloading. It quickly became apparent that this trip was about so much more than furniture. The lady of the house was reviewing an insurance policy with her agent but, she left him sitting. Through tears, she told me that she was facing major surgery to have her eye removed. Her other eye, severely damaged by a stroke, would not be much good and she was just not sure what she was going to do. Oh God, thank you for the car trouble that sent me on this errand. This dear soul needed a shoulder to cry on, someone to listen and help her sort out all that was before her and she was still able to see the table; a few more days and that may not have been the case. Your timing is perfect. Your agenda is superior and your purpose for us is far greater than we see. I was checking a job off a list. You were loving the unloved. I was delivering a bit of furniture. You were bringing light to a rapidly darkening world.

Carpool, counseling, cooking, calls…full day, good day, homework. Fifteen folks for dinner, thankfully they came in shifts and gratefully everyone was in a jovial frame of mind. Ringing phone…probably a telemarketer—they usually call at dinner time. Not a telemarketer but a social worker from a local agency in need of a favor. A mutual client had called in need of diapers. Her water had been cut off. She had gone to her grandmother’s for help. The grandmother had no money. I took the diapers and met her in a safer part of town because by this time it was dark.

This young mother had all seven children in her van with no gas…followed her to the station, pumped the gas and filled her dry radiator (van overheating). Her children were sitting in the van like little soldiers, quiet. The eldest daughter reminded me of the baby’s name as I played the name game with them while their mother checked the oil. They loved the fact that I could remember their names. I not only loved it, I was totally amazed because there are times when I have difficulty remembering my own name.

“It’s my birthday, Mrs. Debbie” said the sickly, timid little seven year old. A birthday and no celebration only a bumper car ride from a home with no water to a Granny’s that had more problems than could be numbered in one sitting. No cake, no candles. I could run into the convenience store, borrow a match and stick it in a purchased Twinkie. We could have a cake and a song. That was not to be. I had just put my last dime into the van so that this mom could get these children back to Granny’s and off the street.

It was easy to make judgments. Unfortunately, dozens of them came to mind as I made the journey across town. My heart broke as I thought of a little boy with no fanfare on his birthday and the lady (from the furniture run) weeping over the loss of her eyesight. Tonight, I returned home knowing that neither family is in a perfect situation. I have been working in heartbreak long enough to know that there are not easy solutions or pat answers. It is easy to complain about people’s choices and reactions without considering all the variables. It is also easy to talk about a quick fix without thinking of all the repercussions.

The one thing I do know is this: we were able to make the immediate circumstance palatable by giving a hand and not a judgment. There will be a time to work on the blaring problems but for now, it’s enough to breathe a sigh of gratitude as we hang the “closed” sign up on this 24 hour gift. No doubt, it should sound something like this, “Thank you, Lord for this another day of life”.

our chickens return

My house guest held two pieces of a plastic ladle in his hand and timidly said, “I did not mean to break this”. “Oh no” I lamented, that was special piece from a museum in Poland and there is no way that it can be replaced. Why I wouldn’t even try? Honestly from the look on his bewildered face I don’t think he heard anything after my “oh no”. Realizing that he had not caught the humor in my voice—I quickly told him that nothing in my home was worth worrying over…just things…things, not people. The transformation was incredible; he went from very concerned to laughing with me. What could have made this once successful minister fearful over a broken ladle? People.

People that had at one time worn the title, “friend”; people that had worshipped and worked alongside of him; people that had betrayed, backstabbed and belittled in the name of climbing the proverbial ladder; people—like my friend and like me made in the image of God. How did we (people) stray so far from the original?

Since our creator made us people and not puppets, we choose. Life is a continual choice—moment by moment: Obedience or disobedience, selfishness or sacrifice, comfort or comforted, loving or unloving, blessing or blight. Our words are powerful and our actions paramount. My Christian perspective says that I have the power within to reflect the ONE that I belong to and an obligation to my fellow man to give a proper estimation of Jesus Christ.

However, even without belief in a deity there are just some (unspoken) laws that govern (or used to govern) humanity. It seems (and my battered friend is proof) that we are getting farther and farther from respect and civility. It is important for me to remember that I am a reflection but—I am also a receiver. My great grandmother used to say “chickens always come home to roost.” It is beneficial for me to consider the “chickens” to which I am giving flight because—they will be back.

Cheyenne

God always answers prayer. Not always in the way we plan, usually not within our time frame but, He always answers. A few days ago, I was privileged to spend the day with my precious granddaughter while her Mom was attending discipleship and her daddy was working.

Grandchildren are tagged that (grand) for a reason. They are born with the capacity to love you just the way you are, trust you without a valid reason, welcome your presence without notice and believe that you are an amazing part of the universe. We as grandparents have a wonderful opportunity/obligation to keep up this image by investing our lives in them.

As I opened the bedroom door my tiny tumbled down princess peeped her head out from her rosebud blanket and said with great excitement, “Hi, Nana” and the adventure began. We had a tea party, read all about the “Silly Monkey” and built a fabulous tent out of blankets—all before breakfast.

When it was finally time for a snack, Cheyenne climbed into her high chair and I took a seat across the table from her. To my left and right were empty spots at the small round table. The chair just to my right was pulled from the table; left askew from the night before when everything else had been put back in its place. As I looked around the apartment, noticing every detail and thinking back to where this little family had been both physically and spiritually just a year ago, I was totally overwhelmed by the gracious hand of God. As a result, I just started to pray aloud, thanking the Lord and watching one of those “reasons” for gratitude munch on her breakfast. My prayer was a simple, joy filled conversation and Chey didn’t even seem to notice until I said, “and Lord Jesus thank you so much for”.

Immediately, Cheyenne looked up from her breakfast, shot a puzzled look my way and then to the “empty” chair to my right. She quizzically looked at me and then back to the empty chair. Without even the slightest hesitation, she cocked her little head, pointing toward the empty chair she said, “He’s wight day-uh” as if to say, why are you looking at me if you are talking to him?

Needless to say, my chill bumps had chill bumps (as they do now and have every time I have shared this story). There is no doubt in my mind that Cheyenne saw Jesus. Her vision, unlike mine has not been tainted by the world, life experience and rationale. Even though my vision is marred, the eyes of my heart can see perfectly and just as He has promised, He is with me always even unto the end of world. God used a tiny piece of Heaven seated in a highchair to remind me.

holding me

Are you a poor leader or am I a pathetic follower? Well, that goes without explanation. Every miniscule fragment of history indicates that you are an impeccable leader. The perfect, sovereign, awesome leader of Daniel in the den of lions and Moses in the midst of the unforgiving crowd of future Israelis; the matchless leader of the stars of the millionth galaxy as they line up in perfect order to be tagged and tossed purposefully into the velvet atmosphere. Your majesty and leadership again and again are proven perfect.

Obviously, the flaw is not with the leader but with the designated follower: me. Oh, I do great for a second or so then the wearisome details of the journey get me completely side tracked. Sadly the good that I do along the way in a feeble attempt to “feel” close to you only brings distance that is almost more than I can bear.

When I look up from my completed task, beaten and exhausted, starved for a tender nod of approval, I find that you are so far away that you are almost unrecognizable. How did I lag so far behind? How could you leave me? Don’t you love me? Can’t you see I am trying so hard to please you? Why did you keep walking away from me? I was doing fine for awhile, you saw didn’t you? You knew, yet you allowed me to slowly step back, you could have stopped me. Why do I keep lagging behind? Every weary, leaded, fractured step depletes me.

Standing, extending to the greatest height I can muster (like a little girl tip-toeing to see something wonderful), I see you are a vague shadow, distant, far away; but as my posture changes from head strong and tall to kneeling then falling on my face, I find that you are no longer the vague figure on the nebulous horizon. You are present, a touchable, tangible Savior and a gentle, caring Master. You are anxious to lift me to my feet, ready to set me aright, forgiven, new and on my way. I however want to stay at your feet, clinging to you, like a little child grasping her mother’s ankles, holding tightly; partially out of humility and gratitude; mostly convinced that if I let go it is easy to once again lose my perspective. Oh precious Master, could that have been the reason Mary brilliantly chose to anoint your feet, to be near you, to honor you, to take her rightful place?

If I cling to you just at the hem of your garment, I will know when we are to move, I cannot make a misstep and I will not stray from the One who should be the grandest object of my affection. If I hold on tightly all is well, always, forever. It is then that I realize You, lovingly, are with Your very thought, holding me.

war

What could cause a mild mannered thirteen year old to turn into a ball of fury—screaming threats, slamming doors and continually disrupting the harmony of her typical suburban church going (three times a week) Christian family? What would turn an up and coming executive into a mass murderer? How could a mommy become her child’s murderer? What is this dark epidemic that seems to be taking our nation systematically one situation at a time?

There does not seem to be a safe place. When our sons and daughters learn about phone sex and homosexuality through acquaintances in their youth groups and parents do not allow their daughters to go to football games, unchaperoned because they are being stalked by other girls. Does this smack of Sodom and Gomorrah…or worse?

What do we do? Complain, keep our children at home or confront the culprit? If we choose to confront, which situation should it be? Where do we begin? We may physically inhibit unacceptable activity (at least around our child) but the problem; like an anxious, active volcano, continually erupts. Its contents spew up from the “sewer” of our society and its vomit of degradation is oozing its way across our pristine landscape.

Not one of us is immune. Even the creamy complexioned, brace-faced, purposely polished teen fortunate enough to be homeschooled and sequestered from the plague that continually bombards the average teenager cannot be kept from the germ of sin. Yesterday, monitoring friends and media consumption was a pretty sound method of protecting the minds and hearts of our Treasures. Today, powerful corporations use sex to sell everything from cars to candy. Familiar cartoons that used to be entertaining and innocent promote many amoral conditions. If a specific lewd behavior is not promoted outright — then wrong is portrayed in such a light as to be entertaining and those who oppose the “wrong” are pictured as out of touch, narrow minded morons. Observe.

How did this happen in our clean, crisp, conscientious country? Those of us who were supposed to hold the standard have been unfaithful. Our post has been overrun. The Church (not the building) has been referred to as a sleeping giant. Unfortunately, that is not true; we are wide awake and apathetic. We see the problems; we have fought them for years. What began as a slow, low, under the radar crawl of the enemy Satan, has mushroomed, exploded and is raining it’s hideous debris into our lives while we that lodge under the name of Christ, wring our hands, talk about the problems and go on with business as usual. We act as though our children will grow out of this stage and morph into responsible adults, take on responsible roles and become “good” church goers and community leaders.

Hey—we weren’t perfect little saints and we turned out pretty good, right? No, we did not. We have swallowed what our parents would not tolerate. We embrace the things that would have given our grandparents nightmares. We have fallen much farther than our parents into the abyss. We have tolerated the “gray” so long that the dismal pitch of darkness doesn’t alarm us.

It is easy to be saddened yet, basically unaffected when I learn that a friend’s daughter has been exposed to a new level of filth through a casual friendship; but I’m left speechless when my adult son casually announces that he plays pool at a local restaurant/bar that gained its reputation by using buxom females as wait staff. Now, I am not naïve enough to think that this is the worst that he has been exposed to while living here in the first notch of the Bible belt. However, the stinging reality for me was that my child did not flinch when we discussed the reputation of the establishment. “What is wrong with going to ------ to play pool?” he shot. “The only other places are bars.” What does he think this restaurant is, Sesame Street? My son - loved, protected, brought up with morals, values and as much as our flawed frames could muster, was taught a Christian World View. If he thinks meeting his buddies for a game of pool and three dozen glances at scantily clad female bodies is not an issue, then I have missed a step somewhere and I honestly believe I know where.

All “good” parents pray for their children, right? Let’s say that we have read a lot of books on prayer, have attended seminars on prayer, have gone to Bible Studies on the “how to” and the “whys” of prayer. After all, we should talk to God shouldn’t we? God is the focus of our faith and our means of communicating with Him is prayer. Then why are those prayers so few, so sporadic and so impotent?

We are quick to toss a “God is great…” onto the list of things that are most important to teach our toddler. Yet, we give equal value to “Green Eggs and Ham” or “Goodnight Moon”. We (may) bow together before bedtime and rush through—“now I lay me down to sleep” but the evening news is priority. There are things that must be done before our racing minds attempt to rest.

Our world is in chaos, we wield the TV remote coasting from one disaster to the next. We watch stunned as the dominoes of financial misconduct, political confusion and feigned integrity tumble leaving circumstances too great for man to correct. We cast some words heavenward but they ricochet back like a shot from a BB gun set off in a steel room. We wrestle not against flesh and blood and we cannot “fight” as though we do. (Ephesians 6)

Is the problem in my mirror? Psalm 66:18 says, “If I regard (cherish, hold on to) iniquity (lawlessness, sin, unrighteous thought or behavior) in my heart, the Lord will not hear me”. When we face difficulties, we (may) race to God. We know that He has the answers but we are not familiar with talking to Him and we certainly feel uncomfortable listening to Him. We have access to the Creator of the Universe yet, we throw Him off like a cartoon character because we do not really believe.

My prayer today is that the troubles of the world, the apathy of our sons and daughters and the tragedies that we see will crush us to the heart of God. Only His intervention can redeem the past, repair the present and the rescue the future. He, alone is God. It would be foolish to miss an opportunity to know him intimately. One day, we will stand before him.

Let’s fight from a kneeling position. Satan despises a bowed heart. Our enemy loves for us to learn about prayer. He doesn’t care if we “talk” about prayer, attend dozens of prayer conferences and are familiar with all the conventional thought on the subject of prayer BUT, The gates of Hell quake when the simplest among us begins to earnestly seek the attention of Heaven.

Let’s commune (continually) with the One who can renovate us or our circumstances.

Let us pray.

breathe....

Many years ago, it became apparent that there was no reason to make New Year’s Resolutions because I always drop them somewhere along the way—especially those having to do with self-care: weight loss, relaxation time and general self-improvement. Touting wise time management prowess, it just made sense to gain knowledge from serious exercise gurus while reclining and eating my favorite chocolate dessert thus covering all three areas in a single bound. That single bound usually found me in a guilty fat heap covering my head and vowing that there would not be a next time—until the next time.

Resolutions made in the dead of winter were doomed anyway. However, spring was another story. So, I recruited a friend with a ton of knowledge, a head full of expertise and years of combat experience in the battle of the bulge. Knowing me well, my wise friend gave me small reachable goals. I have read a few hundred times that those (small, reachable goals) work. The first week we reduced caffeine intake and stopped eating after seven o’clock. (After midnight snacks do not count—you go by the day. It is not necessary to be so technical). My water intake was good. It figures, the one thing in the weight loss regime that I have under my belt (no pun intended), water consumption has been scientifically proven not to make a difference. I say “hogwash” to that discouraging propaganda. Water consumption has long been standing alone in my positive column and by George, it ain’t moving. Anyway, I clicked the list off with great resolve, caffeine reduction….check. Not eating after seven (technically) ….check.

A week into my new lifestyle and I was feeling pretty pumped, still very plump but pretty pumped. Anyway, I should have known that the torture would soon ensue. My kind-hearted friend smiled as she came toward me with a book of “how-to” exercise pictures and a box of bands. I am not kidding; my friend carried a box of giant-sized rubber bands. She handed me a section and started coaching. I watched my mild mannered friend turn into an insurgent on a mission and I was the target. Tiny muscles that I did not know existed sprang to attention—screaming mild obscenities and begging for mercy. Larger muscles woke from their extended hibernation rubbing their eyes in disbelief and horror. In unison my revolting body sang out, “What on earth do you think you are doing?” My valiant attempt at reassuring the choir in my head that all was well and that this was very good for us—was interrupted by my friend, turned drill sergeant ordering, “Breathe, you have to breathe.” My brain, oxygen deprived or not, had an “aha” moment.

That was the glitch. I had been racing through life on auto pilot; meeting needs, fielding demands, and making deadlines. Even vacation plans were attached to a list, systematically hacked away and completed without even realizing that the vacation had come and gone. Breathe. I did not know how to breathe. Obviously, the mechanics masterfully locked in by creative genius had operated correctly for quite some time. However, I did not know how to really breathe….to enjoy a sunrise without racing the clock; to hold my child tightly and enjoy the scent of a freshly showered mop of hair without rushing him away to an undone chore; I did not know how to breathe. No wonder “me” resolutions were impossible. They were just one more weight tied to an already worn out neck, one more thing to do.

Today, I can’t say that the scales register a result that thrills my heart or takes the stress off my zipper. I am a work in progress. I will probably have an “under construction” sign around my neck when I step into Heaven. Nevertheless, that spring afternoon that my muscles refer to as their “near death experience” taught me a great deal about savoring life and really breathing.

lessons from a teapot.....

“We are having a three course tea, whatever that is, like they have in England. Do you have a teapot that I can take? My teacher said for anyone that could to bring a teapot.” After dragging my very weary, out of shape, poor example of a body out of bed, I made the trek to the dining room where four prized possessions kept watch. The only pot that would serve the purpose for a room full of eighth graders was Mammaw Campbell’s canning kettle. It almost seemed a sacrilege to call it Mammaw’s because—it was my dear Pappaw that always retrieved it from the stove in the basement whenever it was needed. It was Pappaw that always handled the steaming liquid that would be poured over the jars in the canning process. My mind’s eye had no trouble vividly conjuring up a picture in full color of Pappaw meting out just the right amount of water into the precious commodities that he and Mammaw were storing away. It would be Pappaw that would dry the well used pot and return it to its rightful place until the next time it would be called to duty.

Pappaw never called it a teapot; it was always “the kettle”. Every now and then his strong Irish descent would pop to the surface of a conversation like the tender sprouts of corn in his garden. This was one of those occasions. My cousins and I loved to hear Pappaw Campbell say, kettle because the initial e, in kettle, ran like a frightened rabbit and was replaced by a snappy “i”, He proudly pronounced it, “kittle”. We would giggle and try to get him to say “kittle” again and again. Pappaw would laugh with us and then tell us that he didn’t have time for such foolishness (“go on you fellars—I have work to do” ) and he would be on to the next project….one or all of us following like ducks to a pond would trail behind him. Pappaw’s plans may take us from the kitchen but never far because, when there was canning to be done, He always had to stay within earshot so when Mammaw called he would only be a few steps away.

The journey back to that little green hill and Mammaw’s kitchen took just milliseconds. When my heart goes to Mammaw’s house, there’s always a patchwork sample of lives well lived, not rushed through—not endured, invested--lived intentionally. As I placed the kettle into a Wal-Mart bag, I reminded Dallas of the treasure that she was taking to school. “Please take care of this baby, it was your great grandmother’s”, I cautioned. A kiss on the cheek, a quick, “I will Mom” and my sweet daughter was out the door. As I walked from the kitchen to the living room mulling over—my memories and sipping my lukewarm coffee….the trailing words of my plea, “…it was your great grandmother’s” repeatedly trickled from my mind to my heart “…it was your great grandmother’s, your great grandmother’s, your great grandmother’s.”

The word “your” began to wrap itself around me like a toasty blanket on a frosty morning. Our lovely, vivacious daughter was a gift to our family when she was just a little girl. She had not been born to us. She has truly been an undeserved blessing. By the same token, her adoption into our family gave her rights to all that we as a family possess. The stroke of a judge’s pen gave our Dallas a lady from Birmingham England for a grandmother, all the stories from the West Virginia Mountains and the right to claim the Tarheel ancestry of those born in North Carolina from my side of the family tree. Every family story, every tear, every side splitting story (like Aunt Senia’s horse ride or Mammaw putting linament in Pappaw’s nose), every recipe, all the joy, each uphill journey, all the unique pieces of our puzzle became hers. All Dallas did was just be, just exist, just be. Wow, what an incredible transaction. As the Holy Spirit smoothed the canvas of my mind’s eye—the picture of God’s grace in the gift of His only son, Jesus vividly came to life.

The Creator of the Universe gently painted a clear picture of His eternal plan and in His grace and mercy chose this morning to remind me of His love. “That is what I have done for you, Debbie—Adoption is a beautiful thing. My grace has made it possible for you to have all the riches of my glorious heritage. You are my beautiful adopted daughter. All those children that my Father brings to me are absolutely gorgeous in my sight. Their beauty in my sight is not because of what they are able to accomplish. Every son and daughter is beautiful, in my sight, because they look like my Son. That is what adoption does, Debbie, passes to you all the riches of glory and you just get to “be”. “I love you my daughter— I love you, died for you, chose you, adopted you.

Prayerfully, the teapot will return from English class. It will be returned to its place on the shelf in the dining room but—I doubt that I will every look at that or any other teapot quite the same.

Christmas carols

It was a typical Saturday morning, if there is anything typical about spending the morning with grandchildren. The boys helped Poppa cook breakfast, disturbed the slumber of two dozen rolly-pollys (who thought that they were safe wintering in the border around my flower bed) and then they assisted me with making beds. They make beds the way I attempt life by climbing right into the middle of it. That’s a story for another day.

The younger of the two loves to see how things work. It was not unusual for him to be drawn to a small music box sitting in the windowsill. In his usual un-methodical manner, he began twisting the fragile stem to make the music begin. Thinking that I was rescuing the music box from him so that one day, I would one day be able to “leave” it to him brought a chuckle. Would these energetic promises that shared our last name remember this morning? Would the thought of Saturday mornings at Nana-Pop’s house bring a chuckle to their hearts 20 years from now?

While they listened to a Reader’s Digest version of the box’s history, I gently wound and released the key. As expected the clearest tinned melody began spilling out of the tiny box. The song was clear and familiar to me. The two angels crowded closer to me than space permitted, listening intently. “That is a beautiful song” commented the eight year old. His four year old brother agreed wholeheartedly telling me to make it play again. In the midst of placing our order for a replay of that lovely Christmas hymn—I asked the boys to tell me the name of the tune. Neither of them knew. How had this happened?

Fast forward to Sunday Morning; waiting for Bible Study to begin, a friend shares with the teacher how she feels lead to purchase Bibles for her nieces explaining their “sad” circumstances, “they don’t even recognize the Christmas Carols.” Anytime there is a common theme, especially if that theme seems a little out of place, I know that it is a “board out of Heaven with a message written on it” moment and I have learned to pay close attention.

Monday, heading home, I flipped on the radio and was not surprised to hear a regularly scheduled radio host. What was surprising was his topic. The Garlow Perspective was discussing, of all thing, Christmas Carols. A radio show, on the 9th day of February, talking about Christmas Carols; does that seem a bit odd to you?

I am not sure what all of this means. Honestly, regrettably, I have not taken the time to get before the Lord and ask. My time with Him has been primarily requesting wisdom for handling other situations that screamed loudly and demanded immediate attention.

Three days, one apparently misplaced theme, two precious grandchildren who may not always be so attentive to what I have to say and a newly acquired interest in Christmas songs has me thinking. You know, in ten years, it will not matter if every item on my “to do” list from this past week was crossed off. However, I believe with all my being that Heaven has a word for me neatly woven into the melody of a familiar Christmas Carol. That message has eternal value.

Needless to say, I am listening—I will be seeking God’s heart on this topic. I will be researching the history of Silent Night and my grandchildren will hear Joy To The World playing at Nana’s in the Spring.

dusk 2 dawn

The couple was so concerned for their daughter. They were people of faith and knew that God could take care of this difficult situation. We promised to pray for their daughter, Dusk. There was no need to write the request; such an unusual name would be easy to remember. Then on to my next appointment: carpool.

Layton, my six year old grandson and I had a few minutes to spend after school before my next commitment. Layton would probably like helping wash the car. Besides, it would be a great way to make a memory even if the car didn’t get clean. As we were pulling into the carwash, we saw a young lady perched on the edge of a drainage ditch (Montgomery was once a swamp so it has a grand network of drainage ditches).

Before I even stepped out of the car to start washing, I knew the coins that we had mustered for the car wash would be spent a different way. “Where are we going, Nana?” Layton asked as I told him to get back in to car. I pulled over to the ditch and asked the sad looking girl if she was waiting on a ride. Her answer, so typical I could have scripted it but—so was mine. For the next few minutes, Dawn was given physical food (purchased with the carwash money) that would last an hour or so and spiritual food (purchased by the blood of Jesus) that will be in her mind from now on. She did not pray with us but, she heard truth and her next “high” will not be nearly as exhilarating. She has an offer of help—when, she is finished with the “ditch” living. She has hope that there are people who care and will help her find a new life. Dawn tearfully thanked me for the meal and clutched the card I had given her. “I may call you….in three hours or three weeks” she mused.

As for Layton, he was not the least bit disappointed about the carwash. He smiled and tucked his little head shyly as, I explained how he had “ministered” by just sitting quietly while I was talking to the lady from the ditch. As for making a memory with my grandson—I can’t think of a better one.

I had to smile when I thought about beginning my morning with Dusk and ending my work day with Dawn. The Lord really does care about every miniscule detail. From my perspective—I should have met Dawn first. When, asking the Lord about it later. He reminded me about the verses in Genesis that clearly reflect the order of the Jewish Day.

….and the evening (Dusk) and the morning (Dawn) were the first day...

Our God is amazing. He does not have to show up in our day to day but, He certainly does.

Listening,

time management

Overload, stress, deadlines, quotas …what are we doing? Balancing on the cutting edge could be cutting our lives short, interfering with the quality of our lives and will certainly cost the next generation. Most of us have felt the insidious sting of pressure. Some have felt the vise grip of demands for so long that we believe it to be a typical way to live. We have forgotten, if we ever knew, what solitude feels like.

Our children have never lived in a society where there was cool down time between the treadmill and spinning class. We flurry from dance to soccer to birthday parties. Everyone will be there and God forbid little Chandler miss this party. Who cares if he’s sound asleep in his car seat, could care less where he is going and will probably scream his head off for the 45 minutes after his arrival to the blessed event? This looks like an innocent birthday party but it is actually a war room where already stressed parents strategize away their family’s free time. “Busy” is the catch phrase. Life is tenuously pulled through tennis lessons, aerobics and a dozen (count them) community organizations and sporting events.

We have distorted time management. Instead of investing time wisely, we operate in a time spending frenzy that leaves us exhausted and frazzled. We arrive, strapped in the latest trend but the time it took to get this look was costly. Think this is an exaggeration? Watch people in line at the bank drive-thru. Do they sit leisurely smiling at their children or are they jockeying for position wiping out any concrete barrier or over fed shrub in their path? Do not get in their way. They are ripping through a to-do list with ultimate precision.

Observe people on their lunch hours. Typically, they will ingest a trendy salad while in the company of at least two techno-savvy business partners. For interest sake, add electronic devices and a human clone also on the fast track with his e-associates. The humor of the predictability is rapidly pushed away by the somber obvious.

The humans racing to their destinations have an untapped advantage. They have the ability to verbally communicate, express feelings and have intimate relationships. Unfortunately these archaic methods take practice which requires time that unfortunately, has been “managed” into oblivion. Note to self: This is not working.

identity crisis

Identity Crisis? Not a chance. I would be the one to walk through my house and find a huge arrow written in dust, on my coffee table and labeled, “she went that way.” There is not enough time or space for me to exercise my right to an identity crisis or any other interesting sounding catastrophe. Are you kidding? There are people around continually reminding me, who I am…

For my dear husband, I am a coffee clutch partner. He wants me to join him for coffee about 5 p.m.. He wants to be in the swing, coffee in hand and have me there, too. He may not say a word, he may be playing with his cell phone or even talking on it but, he wants me to be there and is highly insulted if I am not.

For my children, I am transportation for all of their left behind paraphernalia: items, they must have, to avoid being sent to the gallows. I am the family treasurer. I can find gas money where there was none. Actually, my children think that I am all knowing and totally out of touch—simultaneously. How can I locate belts, shoes, orthodontic rubber bands, literature books and the TV remote yet have no clue about life? How is it that the same children who trust me with their children, their dog and their health disregard my advice on just about everything else? How can the ones who believe that I am as old as dirt think I know nothing about living?

For the precious, perfect pictures of God’s infinite creative wisdom called grandchildren, I am a jungle gym, a pitching machine and a chef rolled into one. My grandchildren believe that I was created to entertain them; whether its making up silly songs, reading the 15th book or playing marbles. I am never supposed to get tired, ill or think of giving up at anything. For them, Nana is an infinite source of wisdom. I know everything from where bluebirds go when it rains to whether or not worms burp. It is amazing that their parents are convinced I know almost nothing and they think I know everything.

To My co-workers: I am a sounding board, a whipping post, a true anomaly and prayerfully, a dependable comrade. They chide me, love me, misunderstand me, encourage me and fight alongside me. For them, I am a wearied cheerleader, an unnecessary referee and a foolish dreamer.

To those whom I serve daily; I want to be a source of hope and encouragement. I am a resource, a shoulder to cry on, an ear to tattle to when they have been wronged or when they just want to feel like their words count to someone. I am a deposit for a place to live, a payment on an electric bill, a voice in court, a caring advocate or a thorn in their flesh. I am the one who insists that they dream big, work hard and keep trying. I am the one who avoids their phone calls and tracks them down when they attempt to avoid me. I am a relationship that points them to the only relationship that can take them around this world and into the next.

To my parents, I am a daughter—capable and inept, kind and thoughtless, fun and foolish, helpful and unnecessary, loved and hated; understood and irrelevant. I am a dependable source of love, and comfort.

To my friends and extended family, I am a belly laugh, a listening ear, a caring heart, a willing hand, a believing and understanding soul. I am there.

Even my dogs give me a tag: I am a pat on the head, a yell as I fall headlong over them, I am a grump when they beg, a softie when they are ill and the one who makes sure that someone makes sure they have food and water.

To my Lord: I am a weary servant and a jubilant daughter. I am a refusing runner like Jonah and a defiant, defender like Daniel. I am a graceful dancer and a bumbling idiot. I am haughty and repentant, fearful and bold. I am painfully timid and totally confident. I am a mess most of the time, seen through the eyes of Heaven and explained by the testimony of His Word, without merit of my own. When the crisis, identity or otherwise, comes my way; Whether whispering from the deepest crevice or screaming from a pinnacle, when I am at the top of my game or waving the white flag of surrender; the identity that I treasure above all the others is: “HIS”.

plans

"I’ve spent the last fifteen minutes looking for my reading glasses. So indicative of my last 49 years looking for worth, searching for love, looking for my car keys, stalking my purse, digging for a pen, scrambling to find a schedule and at this juncture of life—I’m longing for a complete thought.

I have chosen to refer to this marvelous portion of life as “half time”. In sports, that is the time to regroup, refresh, rethink and relax. That’s the problem... I am trying to do this in the wrong order. No wonder I can’t get a clear thought. No wonder, I don’t want to write thank you notes or tackle my mail. No wonder life seems to be flying yet in sepia tones of slow motion so I can visualize all that I am missing—no wonder.”

This journal entry from the summer of 2007 was the beginning of the next chapter, the 2nd half if you will. It marked a time of reflection, introspection, painful evaluation and a renewed sense of purpose. Prayerfully, this communication will allow you, the reader to laugh, to cry, to identify and to grow with me into the image of our loving Heavenly Father. He truly is working all things for our good. No matter if you are frantically paddling in the middle of the first quarter of life or you are seated at the bottom of the third. Life is meant to be enjoyed—not endured.

There is a marvelous plan because there is a magnificent Planner.