My Tool Box

This morning while showering, I reached for the razor and became annoyed that although new, it wasn't doing the job. In fact, it didn't seem to cut anything. That's when I looked at it closely and discovered the plastic guard was still on the blade.

I'm an avid scrapbooker and can remember tracing letters and cutting them out by hand. No matter how slowly I went, holding my breath trying to cut them precisely, they always looked a bit ragged. Then, my thoughtful family bought me an electronic cutting machine for Christmas. Presto - perfect letters in a few seconds! It's all in the the right tools.

I often hear people complain that they don't enjoy reading the Bible. "I know I should, but it's so confusing/boring/out-of-touch. I get more just listening to good sermons instead."I love a good sermon. Many times I'm convinced the speaker has had a hidden camera in my home. They can speak to me with conviction or encouragement. Our minister is excellent and I look forward to hearing him, but...

I'm convinced that reading the Bible is my main "tool" for hearing God. I bet I have 15 Bibles in my house with different translations and commentaries. Some have thought provoking questions tied to verses on the page. Others give me lots of background information about the writer, the places, history and the times when the passage was written. These can all aide me in gaining a different perspective or understanding those confusing stories. Bible scholar books, devotion books and maps. (My husband loves maps. Is this a guy thing?) We have maps of Israel, the Bible lands then and now, the Temple, etc. Since I'm addicted to leading studies, I have whole shelves filled with study books. At some point, I've used them all but in honesty, I have more material than I could possibly cover. And yet, the one that works the best is worn, torn and marked in and the first Bible I bought when I jumped off the fence and surrendered control to Christ.

Can I throw you a challenge? Find a version that reads easily for you and then just open it. That's it. Read. Then, keep reading. He'll meet you there. He promises. You'll hear him if you're heart is listening because... well, it's the only tool you'll need.

 You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. 
         Jerimiah 29:13

Fit and Feathers

"Sometimes, you just have to do what's good for you."
"Take the good with the bad. "
"A spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down."
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger."

Don't you just hate these sayings? I know they're supposed to inspire and motivate you, but honestly, who wants to hear this when you're getting ready to do something you'd love to avoid? They make me want to throw a smarmy smile at the encourager along with a bottle of Flintstone vitamins.

I've claimed this year to be my "Get Healthy" year. I've also been talking it up - so others will keep me accountable - and telling myself how great I'm going to feel. A little voice inside I call "The Whiner" tells me to sit down and give it up, but I'm trying to ignore it. I'm desperate to convince myself that this will be fun, great, an adventure and it will have a BIG payoff. I believe in the payoff, but fun? Not so much.

I joined a fitness center. It's really more of a health and wellness center. I can handle that over the spandex clad gyms full of toned and flexing abs. Where I go, walkers are not people on a track as much as metal stabilizers with wheels. There are trainers who smile and look great, but they work alongside people who are aged, recovering from surgeries or are overweight. I fit right in on several levels! I'm not intimidated and so, although this gym is a good drive away, I'll go. Today, I'm suited up in my old workout clothes and comfortable shoes to meet with my trainer.  That cute young thing will nudge me on the machines and cheer when I don't wheeze. I'll go because it's good for me. And I'm telling The Whiner to take a nap.

That's the part of today that fits into the Just Get It Over With section. Later this afternoon, I'll reward myself with a trip to my salon. Not for pampering or nail polish, but for an "out there, go for it, I'm not such an old lady" adventure. I'm meeting my 27 year old daughter and we're getting feathers! If you're thinking Big Bird, you are soooo uncool.  I'm talking about the new fad of putting a thin, discrete, colored feather tucked into your own hair. Right now, I'm going with blue (to match my exercise bruises.)  Hey - they're removable unlike tattoos (which I detest). It's the end of a long hot summer, it's something unexpected on a mom over 50, and it's harmless fun. Why not?  And who knows, when I look in the mirror, The Whiner might even smile!

A Quick Stop

"Think I'll just run in to..."You fill in the blank. Having lived all of my life in the South, I'm not sure if this is a phrase we use only around these parts. Today, as I ran into a home improvement store to pick up a few hooks, I realized way too much of my time is spent running. I wish I could tell you my running is the healthy kind involving athletic shoes and clothes that have armour in their name. My running involves too many steps for the payoff.

Like half of the nation, the summer here has been less than refreshing. The month of July hasn't just entertained high temperatures, it offered them a package deal if they booked a month's stay. How amazing that we're thankful for a high of 90 degrees. And humidity here feels like melted molasses. We're all wearing the lightest cotton garments we can legally get away with, rushing into air-conditioning and trying to stay sweet like our tea instead of edgy. I did, however, post a comment on Facebook saying it's so hot my dog is begging to be potty trained.

This morning, I took the dog the groomer. That was all I had on my to-do list and I was content with that. After two days of running all over town, from morning until sunset, I was looking forward to a day at home. Slow-paced, quiet and most of all, cool. But then, that pesky phrase invaded my serenity. "Think I'll just run in to..."

"Running into" isn't a simple process. It involves, lowering the windows of the car just enough for air-flow, but not enough for a coat hanger to snake toward the lock. (Although who would spend that much effort in this heat?)  Next come the windshield shades. As I twist them open being sure to avoid maiming, I wrestle them under sun visors and behind the rear view mirror. Make sure I have my cell phone. Make sure I have my regular glasses to switch with my sun glasses once inside. And, most importantly, make sure I have the keys before hitting the lock button on the door and slamming it. This last step could be repeated like an obsessive maniac. No husband wants to come unlock the car in this weather. Of course, when returning from the store, all of these steps are reversed and repeated.

What ever happened to home delivery? The 1950's were full of delivery men and I remember a few entering our kitchen door. Dairy products were placed in the fridge after the milkman checked to see what we were out of. The dry cleaning was picked up and hung in the hall coat closet. The Fuller Brush Man showed us new and improved cleaning products. Big jugs of bottled water were delivered and replaced on a tilting stand. Department stores would freely deliver any purchases my mother made. Pharmacies brought drugs and tissues. Groceries would even deliver for a small charge. And, as kids, our favorite was the Charlie Chip man who exchanged large cans of greasy, salty chips to accompany PB&J lunches. Running errands was a option.

I once saw a plaque that read "If a mother's place is in the home, why am I always in the van?" Good question now that my kids are adults and on their own. I have to admit, the errands I often run are not essential but extra. I choose to run out for a few things that I certainly could live without and might be better off in the process. I find it takes a real effort for me to leave my purse on the chair and resist the urge to head to the store.  I don't know if it's advertising that has brainwashed me into being such a consumer or my need to feel like I have everything I need at hand, but I couldn't be the only one stuck in this rut. Running errands can become a full-time occupation. I'm thinking of quitting. Of spending three full days without turning on the car engine.  But, before I do, I think I'll just run in for...

My Favorite Chair

Do you have a favorite chair? The one your family knows is “yours”? There may not be a sign on it, but it’s understood. For many years, I sat in an old wing chair I inherited from my family. It’s been reupholstered in different fabric styles, but it always feels the same. When my family opens Christmas gifts, we all have to sit in the same spot.  That’s not my mandate, but my kid’s. There’s something about those seats…

A few years ago, I heard a worship song that brought chills to my arms and tears to my eyes. That isn’t always the case for me. I love to worship and for many years, I sang from the stage leading others with wonderful, spirit-led songs. During those years, my desire was to move into a place with God of repentance, praise and thanksgiving and to be used by Him to help others do the same. It was a wonderful time of ministry for me. I wonder if learning so many songs is part of the reason that I’m a hard nut to crack when it comes to moving me so powerfully. Whatever the reason, this song did it. It’s written by my all-time favorite worship leader and composer, Travis Cottrell. His love for Christ is in every word he sings and if anyone can lead me into worship, it’s him. Thank you God for those who use their gifts for you.

Travis wrote a song called “The Mercy Seat.” It’s amazing on it’s own, but he also coupled it with the chorus from a Michael W. Smith song, “Lord Have Mercy.” 

While listening to it again this morning, I closed my eyes and pictured this mercy seat. What exactly is it? Do you think of a judges bench? A chair for the Pope? The Mercy Seat was built according to directions from God to Moses.  And it was made just like he said. It’s the top, or lid, of the Ark of the Covenant. This Ark was a box which held the Ten Commandment tablets and was placed in the inner-most room of the temple. Only the High Priest could enter the room called the Most Holy Place and only on one day each year. Pretty special. On that day, the high priest would bring blood into the room and sprinkle it on the Mercy seat to atone for the sins of the people of Israel.  

So, what’s this all about? Sprinkling blood over a lid. How does that mean anything to us? Stay with me here. Sometimes, when you search the meaning behind the original Hebrew words, you understand a little more. The Hebrew word meaning Mercy Seat means to cover. Ok, I get that; it’s a cover on the Ark. But, this word means cover in two ways; as a noun, meaning a lid or top and it’s root word is a verb meaning...to pardon or atone for, as in to cover a debt. Ah, I think I’m getting warmer. Blood, sacrifice, cover a debt. Sounds like someone who saves.  But what about the seat? Is Jesus sitting on the Ark of the Covenant, the Mercy Seat?  

Covenant = promise. Jesus is the Covenant. The Promise. Everything we learn in the Old Testament points to him. All that blood, the killing of perfect animals, is symbolic of the perfect Jesus and his blood.  So, where is he seated now that his blood was given to cover us? He sits to the right of God who is always on his throne. He’s the ultimate High Priest in the Heavenly Temple and he’s interceding - going to God - on our behalf.

Today, I pictured him in this seat of honor with his arms stretched out. To me. To you.

So, come running. Come running to the Mercy Seat. 

You can listen to the song here:

http://new.music.yahoo.com/travis-cottrell/tracks/mercy-seat-with-lord-have-mercy-album--217937460

Dress Rehearsal

I have a "girly girl." She's twenty-seven now, but would still love to buy sparkly shoes and skirts with petticoats if it were fashionable. Her favorite game when friends came to spend the afternoon was dress-up and I could always count on seeing girls giggling and twirling. I must admit that I've even seen a "twirl" now and then in the dressing room as we searched for prom dresses. Twirling must live deep within the hearts of girly girls everywhere.


Whether you consider yourself girly or cosmopolitan, the desire to be looked upon as breathtakingly beautiful is universal. We women do enjoy being the princess, no matter our age. I've often thought I should have a princess party at my home.  Not for four-year-olds with plastic scepters, but for grown girls with winsome hearts. A chance to let go of our grown up ways, to giggle and to twirl all the while, feeling very special.


If you were to ask my daughter which birthday was the best, she would tell you it was the magical night that my husband and I took her on a date. She had asked (with a pout) when she could accompany us on one of our monthly date nights and when her seventh birthday arrived, it provided the opportune time. Her nails were painted pink, her blonde curls caught up in a large bow and a new dress complete with a petticoat presented. The prettiest element of her outfit was the sparkle in her blue eyes. We took her to a revolving restaurant downtown where candles glowed and teenage girls in prom dresses bustled past our table. My princess found it all perfect. After dinner we strolled beside the warmly lit fountain and listened to the clip-clop of a carriage horse.  The evening ended, I tucked her into polka-dot sheets and prayed a mother's prayer.


Dressing up and feeling special.  Is it just for little girls?  Do we all crave this and why, do you think, it might be?  Today I was reminded of a possible reason.  I think God made us to long for this specialness. When we come before the throne, we will wear a new outfit.  A new dress, so to speak.  Our Holy God can't be near sin.  It just isn't possible.  As sinful people, we're drenched with it.  So, in order to have access into the throne room, to live with Jesus and the Father forever, we need a change of clothes. Jesus provides that for us. When we surrender to him as the one who saves us, we receive his clean and spotless clothes to cover us. We're told in 1 John 3:2-3 that "we shall be like Him." Now, isn't that something to look forward to? To stand spotless before him and feel special because "the King is enthralled by your beauty." (Ps. 45:11)


Join in! Feel special! It's what he died for.  Revelation 7:9 tells of a crowd of worshippers dressed in clean white robes.  Party attire.


And I bet some of them are twirling.

Made in my domestic days for a princess.

Wah, Wah, Wah!

I detest whining. It's so annoying and just gives people an excuse not to do something. Most whines begin with the word "But..." and are followed by lots of "I can't" declarations. When my children were young and into whining, I tried to quickly shut them down with "I don't hear you when you whine. Try again and this time talk to me." It usually worked.

Today, I realized I'm a whiner about something. Just typing that gives me the creeps. I hate to admit this, but as I read the scripture for my daily prayer time, it slapped me. I'm whining that I can't do something God has repeatedly told me to do. Not run for office, go into missions, or fast for months. No, it's something I love doing. He told me to write.

So, why the whining? Because I'm afraid.

You see, I'm afraid I'll fail at this. That I'm not "good enough." Who do I think I am to attempt this? Who in their right mind would spend time reading what I think? I'm limping along with it, trying to spend time writing and hoping to finish a project and slide in under the radar achieving moderate success. Success that would validate my effort, that would satisfy God. All the while, wondering if I really have what it takes.

Have you struggled with something you think God's told you to do? Are you supposed to use a talent, maybe one that you're not sure is all that stupendous? Are you running to Nineveh to catch a fish?

Today, I read 3 verses from Exodus. Sometimes, God only needs six words to convict me. Moses was whining to God. Knelt down, shoeless and stunned, he managed somehow to move into whining and uttered,


"O Lord, I’m not very good with words. I never have been, and I’m not now, even though you have spoken to me. I get tongue-tied, and my words get tangled.”  (Exodus 4:10 NLT)


Did you catch them? "I'm not very good with words." I'm not very good. Do you ever think that? Do you say it to God when he asks you to do something? You know what? You're right. YOU aren't very good, nor am I. But, God is and he went on to tell Moses the same thing he'll tell us:


“Who makes a person’s mouth? Who decides whether people speak or do not speak, hear or do not hear, see or do not see? Is it not I, the Lord?  Now go! I will be with you as you speak, and I will instruct you in what to say.”  (Exodus 4:11-12)

Well, that takes care of the whining about what to write, doesn't it? I think I'll post this verse over my desk. But, I'm still not full of confidence. I worry that if I gain great confidence, I'll become prideful or arrogant over something that doesn't warrant it.  Maybe a good piece of writing, but nothing on the Best-Seller list. Won't I look silly! 

I moved on to my next verse for the day:

"We are confident of all this because of our great trust in God through Christ.  It is not that we think we are qualified to do anything on our own. Our qualification comes from God." (2 Corinthians 3:4-5 NASB)

I think my Parent is saying, "I don't hear you when you're whining." 

  

The Rainy Day House

     I read a quote today that seems fitting as I sit in my office listening to thunder roll across the morning sky.  (My companion, Woody, seems undisturbed!)

"Walking through puddles is my favorite metaphor for life." (Jessi Lane Adams)

     It's been years since I stomped in puddles during a summer rain. When the thunder ended, Mom would send us out with instructions to jump in as many puddles as we could find. There was something about getting the nod from her to drench ourselves with abandon that made it more exciting! Maybe I should invite the 6 year-old neighbor to join me later.

     Now that the Kentucky Monsoon Spring has abated for several weeks and the record breaking heat early in June baked us to clay, I'm ready for a rainy day. What, you say? If you look back a few posts, you'll find me whining about gloom. But yes, being the fickle woman that I deny being, I am loving being inside my cozy office with the rumbles outside.

     I've always wondered if I was born on a rainy day. There's something secure about being inside, safe and dry with warm lamplight glowing and some Campbell's soup simmering for lunch that makes me feel... loved. Having a safe "harbor" in the storm and being cared for by people who love me - can there be anything better?

     Childhood rainy day memories are good ones. I remember neighborhood friends at the door with red rubber boots slipped over Keds and dripping umbrellas on hurriedly spread out newspapers on the floor. We'd open the legs to a wobbly card table and spread out the monopoly board and distribute paper money. (Who would get the the Scotty dog or top hat as their token?) Hours of board games moved into fort building with blankets topping the card table as well as footstools pushed into rows to form tunnels. The search for batteries ensued for flashlights, as we pretended to be pirates in caves. Imagination at work. Sadly, something that isn't given much notice today. Adventure would be interrupted with soup and hotdogs followed by a "rest time" with comic books. We'd read about Beetle Bailey, Little Lulu, Casper, and SuperMan until they inhabited our dreams. Ah, to be back in the rainy day house. Safe, secure and loved.

     Ah...but I am.  :)

Honoring Heroes

Memorial Day usually finds me hauling out flags, grilling dinner and feeling very patriotic.  However, I am a child of a World War II Navy Veteran.  A gentle man, now 89 and trying to remember simple things while spending his twilight years in an assisted living home in Florida.  I recall how he tried to tell me about the war when I studied it in high school.  The terminology confused me and I'm sure I just wanted to be done listening and call my girlfriends.  It wasn't until years later, after Vietnam, after having children of my own to protect, that I sat with my husband Mike and truly gave Dad the audience he deserved.  It was then that I realized the bravery he and so many others showed.

If you've seen the movie "Saving Private Ryan" you'll remember the horrific scene at the beginning of the movie.  The beach scene at Normandy France.  It was there my father, then a Lt. jg, fresh out of an accelerated class at YALE and not even 22 years old saw death and mayhem.  A young man with barely a beard to shave and dreams of a future put on hold as he watched scenes he never forgot.  I learned of his ship, LST-133, and how they eventually hit a mine when returning for a second trip to the beach.  How they limped back to friendly port.  How they were awarded the Navy Citation Medal.

Like many from that war, my dad never talked about it.  Now, it's what he talks about most to any man he finds who served as well.  Several years ago, my mother told me about Dad receiving a phone call from an old ship mate telling him of a reunion being held.  They were too advanced in age to make that trip, but the amazing thing was, after hanging up, Dad sat down and started to cry.  After LST-133 hit the mine, Dad had held a severely injured man's head in his lap until the medics took him away.  There was no doubt in Dad's mind that he had not made it.  For almost 50 years, he lived with that  memory. "He's alive." he whispered. During the phone call, he learned that his shipmate was, indeed, alive and living out his old age.

I have a blue binder with pages of memories from my father's youth.  Many of those pages deal with the war. I have included segments of his description of D-Day on board his ship.  His words are in italics.  I tried to summarize others to shorten the post.  On this day of honoring heroes, please indulge me in giving tribute to my dad, who like so many others put themselves in front of death to defend all our American freedoms.

Walter "Bud" Witherbee

"The 'word' came down to us that finally we were to set sail from Portland on June 6, 1944.  I was not yet 22 years old.  We had been briefed beforehand on the situation with the Germans on the beach- where the strongpoints were, etc.  An immense fleet of ships had been gathered along the southern coast of England and now was proceeding on its appointed task in the invasion. Our appointed landing beach was designated Easy Red, the toughest place of all. Paratroopers were supposed to drop behind enemy lines on the beach and knock out German coastal artillery before we got there but they got confused and dropped into wrong positions with accompanying loss of life.  Likewise the gliders, who were supposed to land behind enemy lines.  They landed hither and yon with resultant loss of life and equipment.  This was to be done pre-dawn and in the darkness, which it was."

Dad goes on to recount how LST-133 received orders to beach at once - best possible speed.  When you beach at "flank speed" you don't come off again.  As they tore through the anchored ships toward the beach they saw they were the only ones moving.  A suicide mission.  My dad was the gunnery officer and broke open the small arms locker so the men would have some protection when they had to abandon ship.

The Captain (a regular Navy Chief Signalman before Pearl Harbor) was on the superconn, an elevated platform with ladder mounted above the regular conn where I was stationed.  We proceeded and got closer to the beach, I could see the effects of the earlier beachings.  Solid wreckage of smaller vessels.  There was no way to beach except to run over one or two of them.  We came closer and closer and then, suddenly to port, a blinker light going madly.  I read the blinker.  It said, "LST 133 STOP! DO NOT BEACH!"  No action from the captain.  Surely as an ex-Chief Signalman he can read it.  Still no action.  Finally in desperation, I hollered, "Captain, that LCI says 'stop, do not beach!"


"Very Well", he replied looking through his binoculars surveying the wreckage on the beach.  


The LCI continued to madly blink the same message.  I continued to wait for action from the Captain and got none.  Once again I hollered to him relaying the message.  Muttering "Very well" again, he finally got the message and at the last possible second ordered "Hard right rudder!"  We almost broached on the sand but made it successfully.  We anchored, the closest ship to the beach, just south of the largest German gun emplacement on the beach.


The following day, or as the Navy man put it, D-Day plus one found them with orders to beach at a different spot at high tide. They followed orders and once again upon nearing the beach, they were met with another blinking light saying "STOP! DO NOT BEACH!" It was too late, they beached.  The tides at Normandy were so immense that they had to wait 3 hours for them to recede and another 3 hours to come back in so that they could come off the beach.  As the tides receded, the men on board saw the reason for the frantic message.

There were iron poles braced on either side by two short iron poles.  Where they came together at the top was an explosive device.  Our port side lay against one of the bracing poles and our starboard side was against the other.  About 10 yards from our bow doors was a third similar device rigged so that when the explosive at the bow went off, it triggered the others.  Bear in mind, that my main storage area for ammunition was forward.  There was nothing to do but wait. 


Seeing that they had landed safely, the Admiral then ordered the other LSTs to go ahead and beach.  Luckily, none hit any mined poles.  Later, after the tide came in and Dad's ship retreated from the beach, they received another blinker message.  This time it was the flagship saying "LST- 133 WELL DONE!"

Well done, indeed.

Remember?

I love a good story. And a storyteller who can paint with words. My mother could capture my imagination and weave it through the stories of an era past. Whether sitting on the steps leading into our kitchen or lying with my head in her lap as she stroked my long hair, she would remember pages of her story. I can still hear her voice in my memory.  Soothing, amused, and sometimes pained. I focused on every word and tried to store it in my memory along with nursery rhymes and Winnie The Pooh adventures. I knew then that someday these would be worth retelling.

This August, I'll remember her passing for the second anniversary. She was such an amazing, gorgeous, funny, intelligent survivor of a life that could easily become a novel. What thrills me the most is that she was always a Jesus-truster and in the latter years, finally knew the personal surrendered relationship that makes all things new. I have no doubt she is singing love songs to him in heaven with her restored voice and I look forward to joining in with her someday. What a treat to harmonize together!

Mom was always my sweetest encourager and my efforts at writing were met with cheers. When I sorted through her folders, I was touched to find one filled with every piece I had sent her. From dramas written for church production to devotional thoughts on raising children, they were three-hole-punched and clicked into that folder. Knowing her, she reread them often.

Six months before she died, I had the fortunate opportunity to attend a 3 day writing workshop with a dear friend and mentor. I had submitted light devotional material thinking that was where I needed to pick up after putting my writing on hold for twenty years. When my friend, Cec, met with me on the first day, he gave me some compliments and critiques but then sat back and said, "This is good and it's fine, but I can't help but feel there's something better just waiting to be written by you. I don't know what that is, but I know it's there." At that moment, I knew what it was. I returned to my laptop sitting among the other writers at the table and opened a new page. Memories flooded my mind and I could envision the stories as if I were watching a movie. A little girl in an orphanage during the depression. A life with strict foster parents who showed no love. A teenager with a promising voice singing at nightclubs followed by late night homework. Big band travels. Marriage and divorce. Marriage again and a house full of children and friends needing shelter. Alcohol. Murder. And always hope. My fingers flew and the scenes unfurled. When I told Mom I was writing her story, she cooed over the phone that it filled her with happiness.

It's a disappointment to me that in the two years since then, I've only written six chapters of her story. A blip on the screen. I repeatedly vow to carve out time to write. I head to the library to become a sequestered novelist. Too many times, my plans are set aside for other things on the to-do list. But, when I succeed and sit before the screen, it happens. Suddenly, I'm lying on the couch and if I concentrate, I can feel fingers lightly stroking my hair and hear a beautiful voice telling a tale.

I'm One of His Peeps

I was out the door this morning by 8:30 (a rarity for this non-working woman) and headed to 3 stores before the impending storms dumped copious amounts of rain.  I wanted to scoop up all the needed supplies for dinner.  Today is my turn to pamper a friend who just had a knee replaced by taking dinner to  her family of five.  Nothing fancy, but comfort food: pot roast and brown gravy, mashed potatoes, green beans, fresh fruit salad and brownies.  She'll feel satisfied if not healed by the last course! Chocolate has definite healing properties.

As I checked out at the first grocery, the woman bagging asked the question of the day, "So, are you fixing a big Easter dinner this weekend?"  I'm sure she'll hear most women reply with menus of ham and potato salad or maybe something made with jello and pretzels.  She looked disappointed when I answered, "No, not really.  You see, my family's involved at church all weekend.  We always have been, really, and after 3 days and 5 services, they just want to veg."  She nodded muttering a polite "Oh."  I felt like I was suddenly un-American or un-Christian or something very "un". I tried to smile at her and assure her that we loved our church. The one right down the street. It's great. She kept nodding and dismissed me with "Well, have a good one, Hon." I felt I had somehow failed at Invite-Someone-To Church 101.

Driving home, I wondered when Easter became all about ham. I like ham. A lot, actually, but seriously, how did it become an Easter staple? We can't escape the bunny hiding eggs. (Not carrots or anything associated with rabbits. How do you explain bunnies with eggs?)  For way too many, Easter means meals spread on pastel tablecloths along with candy, chicks, daffodils, and children snatching dyed eggs before others can grab them.  It's tradition.  Don't mess with tradition if you want to get along with Great Uncle Albert or better yet, your mother-in-law who prepared all this food.  Still, I wonder, how can we shine the spotlight on, as Linus from Peanuts might say, "...what it's all about, Charlie Brown."

For me, Easter is tied in the top spot with Christmas.  I adore waking on Easter Sunday picturing the joy that Mary, Martha and all the Christ followers must have felt when they found out Jesus was alive.  As one of His, my insides sing with excitement on Easter.  I imagine what it would have felt like to be in their company. The wide-eyed disbelief followed by hugs and shouts of promise and laughter. Oh, to feel that excitement about my savior every morning!  I don't have to be one of those believers in the garden staring at an empty tomb.  I'm seeing my own empty tomb that was once filled with a self-centered life that only gave me frustration, jealousy, worry and despair. A grim hole with no sign of light. That was before I gave in.  I turned everything over to Jesus and said, "I trust you. You lead and I'll follow." Now, there's a light shining - it never goes out.  Now, I look to heaven knowing where my savior waits for me.  He's with the Father.  He's with my loved ones.  He's waiting to show me the room he has ready for me in a place I can't even imagine. Because he won.  He defeated death.  I'll live with Him forever. All because I surrendered to the the One who loves me most.  You can have my candy and ham - I'll take the Risen Christ.

For the Birds

I don't Tweet, but I'm into birds right now.  I've always enjoyed watching them outside my office window. Yellow finches hang on my feeder, woodpeckers drop by for suet, and vibrant cardinals add a splash of red.  An amazing show as long as I keep the feeders filled.

As much as I like the real deal, I'm being drawn to the 2D bird.  Cute little graphics.  Those pudgy little guys are everywhere and I'm all about them.  As a scrapbook fan, I find they're everywhere in the craft world.  As any good scrapper knows, you move from actually doing the pages filled with photos to simply enlarging your collection of supplies.  I've been in that mode for quite some time and could scrap for about a year only buying adhesive.  But, these birds!  So cute.  And, the best part is they don't fertilize!

I made this little guy this morning with my Cricut and a software program that is amazing.  It's called Sure Cuts A Lot and has revolutionized my scrap world.  Can't wait to explore all the possibilities, but until then - I'll be filling the feeders.

Potted

I love to fill planters with color. My annual search for flora begins in April with a trip to local garden centers overflowing with pinks, vibrant reds, white, purple, blue and sunshine yellow. I walk around the tables imagining my deck and patio garden as if they were in a Jane Austin landscape. I dream of hanging baskets cascading with wispy blooms. My goal is to create an oasis of color and tranquility where guests can sit and savor. Spring plantings promise so much. Drought delivers something different.

Every year, I remind myself that around July, the baking sun and rising temperatures will win the battle. I know that this usually prevails, but those gentle petals beguile me into thinking we'll spend the summer together.  I picture myself sipping lemonade beneath shade trees (that grow on a slope in my yard quite unable to sustain peaceful benches). In this idyllic scene, I sense the breeze as it flirts with gentle blossoms and smell the mossy fragrance of rich potting soil.

Now, cut to reality. In August on my deck, the potted plants that remain have cracked soil, withered leafless stems and fading flowers begging for mercy.  Even if I remember to water them daily, there are times when even the sturdiest of geraniums would be best served in the compost pile. If I had one.  And, seriously, who wants to sit outside and muse when sweat runs down your temples and even the dog is whining to go inside? I'm an A/C girl and not ashamed to admit it.

This April will find me full-throttle and elbow-deep in planting.  I've surrendered to the fact that I'm a floral optimist.  You'll find me filling planters and humming some Disney soundtrack hoping this year will be different.  And, if by some chance it is, stop by for lemonade.

Marching Orders

Yesterday I was domestic.  Rare around here anymore.  I used to be a pretty good housekeeper.  Now, I'm a really good dirt hider. Cleaning can be physically exhausting and a bore.  Just saying.  But, can I just "air out" a few things?

Winter 2011 has been full of, well, germs.  Friends have all been bombarded with two illnesses.  One is the Type A flu that wasn't included in the Flu shot we were all supposed to get.  It's taken body builders down.  Most have been lifeless resembling Olive Oil and sometimes whining with fevers for five days.  Not to mention the cold symptoms.  The other is the Norovirus which is a vicious stomach/intestine thing that has docked cruise ships.  It, too, lasts for almost a week.  Highly contagious. Some lucky souls have had it twice. Within the last two weeks, both of my adult kids have joined the ranks. All this makes me want become a high-class hermit. Forget the cabin hidden in the hills.  I'll take a disinfected suite on a sunny island with plenty of fruity umbrella drinks.

So, with everyone finally out of the house and temps close to 60, I opened windows, scoured bathrooms from top to bottom, changed sheets and sanitized everything but the dog.  If I knew how to do that, he'd be even whiter. (Wonder why he's been in his crate all day?) My hands look like I've been on safari without any moisturizers.  I may need Crisco by this point.

As I type, the aroma of Lysol permeates my tranquil moment.  If we can make it until Spring,  I may not have to clean again for at least 6 months!  We'll all be out on the deck anyway, sipping our umbrella drinks.

Turn on the Light!

      I am not one of those whiney winter people who incessantly talk about being ready for the beach, but today, I've met my match with grey. (Or "gray" as it's spelled in the States.)  I've lived in Louisville all of my life and therefore, am familiar with the Ohio Valley and what living in this crevice brings.  In the summer, the humidity is a constant bedfellow with the hot temperatures.  Breathing becomes inhaling "soup".  Winter in the valley here can surprise us with stalled snow systems that nestle in and dump us with record amounts.  In 1994, we received 22" of the white stuff!  No matter the season, our hometown wears the moniker of Top Allergy City.  How's that for a marketing gimmick?

     But the grey!  The constant clouds!  This year, it seems so... grey. I just looked up the average number of cloudy days here and it's 171.  Not counting the partial days.  

     Today is a Saturday.  Usually a day when people are out running errands and life seems to bustling.  I decided to escape from the house where the grey has taken up residency and fill up amid people. I bought a new cell phone case. I shopped at Target - usually a happy store for me.  Ate a healthy salad in my car with the grey skies filling all the windows.  I browsed at Barnes & Noble (my favorite guilty pleasure) sipping a free coffee and looking at spring decorating magazines.  I was planning to make another stop when I threw in the dingy towel. "I'm actually depressed!" I said aloud. My van headed home.  So, what's the answer besides move?  Buy one of those goofy sunshine lights?  

     Are you serious?  These babies cost around $140.  I'd rather spend that on chocolate and a ticket to the islands.  Besides, I can't see me sitting in front of this every day soaking in happy light without feeling ridiculous.

     Maybe if I post some photos of things I love, they might distract me.

     This is my most favorite color and makes me happy:

     This guy has made me laugh for 32 years!

     I would LOVE to travel here someday (even though they have a few gray days as well):

But, until then, I've decided to put on some rocking music that reminds me of summer nights in high school. I'm going to finish scrapbooking the photos of our cruises.  I've turned on all the lights in my office and I'm telling myself it's May in the Bluegrass state.  I may get out the summer linens and set the table.  Or inform the nut of my life (see photo of old glasses above) that we're heading out to dine.  Who knows? There may even be chocolate involved.  Beats staring at a light.

Here Comes the Sun

I'm amazed that with all the available television channels, I find so little worth watching.  We've even followed ridiculous programs that show cooking competitions, truckers on perilous ice roads, dog trainers, junk collectors and wedding dress selections.  I won't even try to watch the little girls who compete in beauty contests.  Their mothers spray tanning tiny four-year-old bodies, applying false eyelashes and veneers over tiny teeth. Seriously.

All this supports my love of our DVR.  It has revolutionized television. I even use it as a verb now. "Did we DVR that?" We tape the shows we enjoy - including the stupid ones- and then watch whenever we want to be entertained or zoned out.  Wouldn't it be great if they could translate that to your glasses so that whenever you're in a boring meeting, you could watch a show without anyone knowing??  Hmm... I may be having a millionaire moment here.

One of the shows I enjoy DVRing is Sunday Morning on CBS.  Only have a few minutes to watch something worthwhile?  This show has it.  The program is 90 minutes long, but filled with several segments. Some are political, some amusing and most of them are on people, places, or objects I would never learn about otherwise. Most are followed by the signature "sun" done in various artistic ways using all kinds of mediums.  I look forward to these each week.

A few months ago, we watched a segment on Kodak Kodachrome film and it's demise. There was only one small business that developed it anymore and it was shutting down. Digital imaging has put it to rest. I remember loading film into various cameras including a Brownie, Instamatic, and later 35mm dinasaurs like my father's Lycra which needed a separate light meter. That film in the hands of talented photographers captured many images we hold dear.  Remember the haunting eyes of the girl in Afghanistan on National Geographic? 

As I type, I'm learning about Gypsy Rose Lee.  Now, that isn't a topic my coffee chicks would bring up but I'll be ready for the Jeopardy category when it surfaces.  She was born in 1911 and became the first famous stripper. Lady Gaga has nothing on her.  Not what I'd call a role model, but interesting none the less.  Up next is a story entitled "The Real Lois Lane".  From racy to reporter, this show covers it all! So, as I dress for church, I'm assured that when I have a minute to sit, I'll be entertained and educated by Sunday Morning.

  

Who Knew?

I was not a great student in school.  Throughout elementary and high school, my parents tired of hearing "She's not working up to her potential." I don't think that was a surprise to them after several report cards.  When I was interested, I made As.  Most of the time, I was more interested in the people around me.  And the art work on the bulletin boards, the change of seasons displayed through the windows, and what everyone in class had stored in their cigar boxes.  I wasn't even close to what is now called ADD. My "condition" was and is what I'll call Creative Observation.  I'm fascinated by people, nature and objects around us.  They used to call people like me "Dreamers."  I'll take that.  I like the quote by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe "Dream no small dreams for they have no power to move the hearts of men."

I've told my husband (who listens to me patiently trying to "get me") that I see things sometimes in a movie format.  If I were directing, how would this be shot?  What kind of lighting would it need?  Sound effects? What would be in the next scene? I suppose that explains my love of writing.  I can lose myself in the scene on paper.  I want the reader to feel as if they're in the moment.  I relish a good book that takes me there; when I can see the thunderous sky, feel the scratchy sweater or smell the bubbling stew.  I just wish I were more of a wordsmith to accomplish that.  It's fulfilling for me to try and whether my efforts travel anywhere outside this blog, I'll continue dreaming on paper.

Writing at home is usually in vain.  The phone rings, the dryer buzzes, the dog wants to go out, email consumes my time, and snacks are far too easy to divert.  But, I've found an oasis for me, a secret hide-out where I nestle in with laptop, a tall travel mug of coffee or ice-tea and a blank screen.  It's a small room at my local library that can be reserved in advance.  Free wi-fi offers me a chance to turn on gentle background music as I write and plenty of research material for my efforts.  There's a window looking out on trees and another showing library patrons in the main room.  I shut the door, put the "Reserved" sign in my window and head for destinations only my imagination creates on paper.  I'm lost.  Engulfed in a world that I create and it fills me with satisfaction.  At this point, you may think I'm a little too out there, but I ask you, "What childhood book took you to a place you remember with fondness?"  Was it fighting pirates in Peter Pan?  Traversing the woods with Winnie the Pooh?  Did you smell the grass in Little House on the Prairie or cry at the end of Old Yeller? Who wasn't mesmerized by the imagery in the  Harry Potter books?

I'm heading off to my writing hide-out now.  I've allowed myself two hours to dream today.  I'll shut the door and open my mind to all I stored there in those days of Creative Observation when I was a student of fluctuating grades.  Isn't it ironic that the room I now use at the library - the place where my mind seems to expand - is called the Study Room?  Here's hoping I work up to my potential!

Hunting for Home

I recently met three of my young gal pals for coffee and a bagel in a cozy chain restaurant.  I'm always amused and greatly flattered that they include me in their invitations exclaiming, "We don't think of you as old!"  Funny thing since I'm in the same generation with their moms.  I listened as they discussed the possibility of having another baby, the dynamics of disturbing their current family cocoon and the perils of potty training.  I sipped my creamy coffee and recalled with warmth those busy days in my home. When burping cloths adorned my shoulder and My Little Pony panties charmed a training toddler.

Currently, those small children that kept me continually in a dizzying pace are now young adults and seeking a place to call their own.  My daughter, 26, just signed a one year lease for her first apartment.  She's full of excitement. Scouring websites for furniture and shower curtains, wondering how her budget will survive, deciding which wall color to choose and who to invite over first. It's a test in balance. Balancing needs and wants, friends and time, work and play and how often to head to Mom and Dad's.  I'm enjoying her anticipation.  It reminds me of days when possibilities seemed countless and life stretched so far ahead.  She'll do well.  And if we're lucky, she'll invite us over for pasta and I'll smile at the warm candles welcoming us on her table.

Our son is sleeping on a couch.  Not ours.  He wants to live in Nashville and test his dreams in music.  Along with two college buddies from the area, he lived in a wonderful renovated house downtown.  Great house, lousy neighborhood.  After one break-in (which was costly for the roomies), one attempted break-in and 2 cars with windows smashed in 2 separate incidents on the same night - they packed up and moved out.  So, for seven weeks, my twenty-two year old musician has been in his words a "gypsy" living out of his car and sleeping on a couch.  It's not that they haven't looked.  But, it's February and seven colleges in the area are still in session, so the rentals are all full.  I know that as the snow melts and temps rise, so will his chances of finding the right place.  Still, a mom hates thinking about lumpy couches cradling her kid, no matter the age.  And, it doesn't help when he texted today that he's sick.  I reminded him of the box of chicken noodle soup I sent in his last "care package".  Love in a box.

Transitions.  They can be rough at times or smooth sailing.  They're never predictable.  As they leave, I long to be the mom who hugs with a twinkling eye that says "I believe in you. Enjoy the adventure God has for you ahead." But, as I hear the door close, a piece of my heart will be still. Although both of them are looking for a place to call theirs, I'm hoping they will still think of this house when they long for home. This one has the real chicken noodle soup and a mom who's always waiting at the door.

Time Ticks Away

I’m a clock lover.  No matter what type of store I enter, I seem drawn to clocks.  I have no idea why, but they comfort me with the tick, tick steadiness of their voice always in the background.  Guests in my kitchen are fascinated by the clock on the wall saying, “ What a wonderful old clock!” and ask, “Do you tire of the noise?”  I usually laugh and tell them to listen closer and they’ll hear the one in the next room.  It sits on the mantle and has a different rhythm.  As does the large very old clock in the front hall when it is wound.  Three distinctly metered ticks of time going at once.  When you focus on one, the others fade.  My two children have grown accustomed to the sound and it reminds them of home.  Time ticking away.  

This morning as I read in Jesus Calling by Sarah Young, I was stopped by a word. One word that made me realize how very much I needed to spend time with it. In this devotion book, the author writes as if God is speaking directly to the reader.  To me. Here is the sentence that grabbed my attention this morning: 

“Thank Me for this day of life, recognizing that it is a precious unrepeatable gift.”

Unrepeatable.  That’s the word.  Today is unrepeatable.  Never to happen again just this way.  Not like the movie, that shows an ungrateful man repeating the same day over and over. We don't have that luxury.  There will be no “do-over” as kids cry loudly in outdoor games.  No- today is unrepeatable.

What if it were? If it were like my DVR where I could instantly back up and hit play again?  Ah, but the DVR only records what’s already happened.  It can’t change it.  Most of us who might long for a do-over want to make some changes.  In the way we reacted, the words said, the person ignored, the complaining spirit we nursed all day.  What would your do-over DVR change about yesterday?

I think I’ll post that one sentence on a card where I can see it every morning.  I need to realize that Today is a gift to be thankful for no matter the circumstances.  It’s the only Today I have. 

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday and today and forever. - Hebrews 13:8

New Resolution 2011

“The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” Psalm 111:10

Priscilla Shirer got me where it hurt this morning. I decided to do her study “He Speaks to Me” on my own. I’ve taken a break from leading study and thought this would be a good place to focus as I try to allow Him more of my time.

I do want to hear from Him. I’m so empty. And with that emptiness, I’m all over the place with trying to control. My family. Their choices. My friends. My health. Even my dying. Seriously. I’ve prayed and worried about dying before it’s my time because I’ve treated my “temple” so badly. That, in itself, is unquestionable. But, whether I die now or not, is not my decision. It’s God’s. Obese people die and live. The timing question is not ours, but His.

But, back to Priscilla. She did a good job of researching the words used in the verse above and then asking the one question that brought it into focus. Fear really translates into “respect and reverence”. I have long felt that we treat The Holy God way too casually. “Jesus is my best friend” is a statement made by youths as they accept Christ. They, perhaps, need to put it into that perspective due to their limited understanding. But, do we, as adults? If our understanding of who Jesus is compares to a child, then as the Bible instructs, we have to get off the bottle and chew some spiritual meat to gain a deeper knowledge of this unfathomable God. As you study encounters with God through visions in the scriptures, you find... holy. Those who “saw” him in these visions didn’t approach him and ask “What’s up? Wanna go hang out?” They fell on their face and some went into a coma! An angel had to wake them up and give them strength to stand. Best friend? Yes, definitely. I AM. Yes- and all that the name implies. And we’d better start realizing that so we can grow in our faith and not remain babes.

Once we revere him and respect him, we can begin to gain wisdom. We can look at things from a holier perspective and then decide what to do. As we study God and his teachings designed just for us, we’ll change our ideas of how to handle things. Of what’s truly important. Psalm 128:1 tells us “Blessed are all who fear the LORD, who walk in obedience to him.”

Priscilla said that as a child, her parents often said, “You must not respect me or else you would obey me.” She had us list areas where we’d like to improve on obeying. Take a moment and list a few. Got those down?

Then, she popped the question. Based on practical obedience, (how you’re doing with those areas) - where would you fall on the “respect scale” with God? If you’re doing pretty well, maybe you’re on one end of the scale enjoying a close respectful fellowship with Him. If you’re falling in the middle, you’re still missing out on the benefits of walking in obedience. If you find yourself, like I did this morning, realizing that you’ve ignored his command and kept right on heading down your own road, you are not respecting Him. God. The “I AM” who is the only one. The “put-you-in-a-coma because I’m Holy” God. How are you doing with that respect thing?

Ouch. No wonder I’m feeling empty. I’m ignoring my creator. My strength, shield, encourager, comforter, Rock, lifter of my head, lover of my soul and patient Father. Why does the idea of obeying feel negative as if it will take away my joy? Am I thinking my joy comes from...what I want? I’m afraid I have been. Seeking satisfaction from idols. I will only feel satisfied when I’m obedient and walking hand in hand with him.

My resolution isn’t for the New Year but for each day ahead. I will seek to revere my God and walk in obedience to honor him and live each moment in fullness. And, in order to do that, I have to spend time with him. I have a feeling he’s waiting.