Red car and William

 This week is holding on to me. In some ways it was typical-busy. Since I am a planner, my calendar and my to-do list are my steady friends. I had must-attend meetings, I had routine job expectations and deadlines, not to mention a strange day off (July 4^th) thrown in the middle; it was a busy week before it even was given a fair chance. It is not the usual hectic pace that still has its grip.

Two encounters though, the red car and William, have me flipping back and forth between the pages of my week and just won’t let me rest. It’s like when you finish a good book, and you keep going back through the parts that affected you the most. The paragraphs, the thoughts - the carefully chosen words that changed you… This is where I am this morning while the rest of my house sleeps.

The red car. It is Sunday afternoon. We are on our way home from “The Walmarts” as we jokingly say. We are the first car waiting to turn left across a busy intersection on a familiar journey home. I confess my life feels rushed at the moment. When I am not at work, I am planning a wedding, selling a house, buying a house, talking about repairs and inspections, planning a move, and it goes on. It reads like a lot of work. However, at this moment we are in no particular rush. We are enjoying the afternoon together and thinking of our life ahead. It is a precious and ordinary moment.

Our light turns green. Scott begins to pull forward into the intersection. I am on the phone, talking to my daughter and paying zero attention when this red car comes blasting through the intersection from the left. We are hit! No! We brake hard! We lunge forward! I can feel the impact of the near miss as though we crashed, but we somehow escaped! We look at each other to process the event – We can’t. It was heart-stopping, unfathomable instant that was totally out of our control, and we both realize something else as we catch our breath. We were almost killed. We really almost died. Had we rushed into the intersection, had the events happened a moment in time sooner or later it would have changed everything. It would not have been just a scrape and an insurance claim. There would have been glass, the smell of air-bags and the sound of metal and sirens. We have no doubt. But we are amazingly and totally okay.

I am fine, but I am not okay. I know. I have stood at the grave enough. I know. In an instant. No more to-do lists. No more weekly meetings. No more wedding to plan. No more. We don’t realize how close we walk to the edge daily. We don’t realize the power of a random encounter.  

William. It is now Friday. I am slowing down. My daughter, Hatty, wanted to hang out and get pedicures. We meet at our favorite funny, little salon – squeezed between the sub-shop and the liquor store – it is perfect. There are no frills. There is only room for friendly banter and efficiency within this tiny entrepreneurial space, and we feel like regulars. Tony is busy, but he gives us each a chair flanking a gentleman who is soaking and waiting.

I still have one more email, and since we can’t talk across the man in the middle, I busy myself with it.  But, Hatty meets William. And, before long we are hearing his story. He speaks softly and smiles as we learn that he is a Chaplin and works on college campuses with male athletes. He teaches them many things about life that men should know. He says that many of them grew up without fathers and they just didn’t learn how to be “gentlemen”. Before that, he ran a half-way house. Before that, he was in prison. William was saved and forever changed when a stranger came to the prison and looked him in the eye and told him that Jesus loved him and he didn’t need to commit suicide (he could not have known that William was planning to end his life later that night). He spends his life impacting the lives of others because he knows. He knows how close he has walked to the edge. He knows the profound power of a random encounter.

William went on to bless us as we talked and he spoke of his love for Jesus, and his passion, and his hope of finding a good woman who was under 150 pounds.  J  As we left, he told us to pray for him. Which we did at dinner an hour later. We were both altered by our encounter with William.

Thank you for the red car that was a half-second too early. Thank you for William who was right on time.

#justwrite #choosejoy #daughtersofjoy

Grief, Growing Up, and The “Stew” of Life – Looking Back at a Hard Day with Gratitude:

Ten years ago today will mark all the days that follow… but I will not know that until late in the evening. In typical fashion, I had crowded the day with worries that would soon seem small compared to the tsunami heading toward my front door. We were facing some tough decisions about a business venture gone wrong, and we had planned to have a hard conversation when Brian came home from his trip. I dreaded it. However, we never had that talk, because Brian never came home.


 I lay in bed the night of May 3, 2008, occasionally checking the clock and waiting for the familiar keys to hit the desk in the home office a floor below. Instead of the keys-on-wood sound I expected, I eventually heard the sound of the doorbell.  In the door, dear friends stood with a police officer to announce Brian’s death earlier that evening in a plane accident shortly after takeoff on his way home.


All of the concerns of a few minutes before were cleared in a wave that blew through my heart, mind and soul. Time stopped and rushed forward simultaneously, and my life began to spin like a crazy ride in a dream. I wanted out. I wanted off. I wanted to go back to before I heard the news.

I guess I began to grow up that May. I use that phrase now because someone said it to me a few months later. Something like, “I bet you have grown up a lot since it happened.” I thought that was such an odd thing at the time. Later, however, I would find truth in the notion that such tragedies are when we truly grow up. It is when we are stripped bare, that God can begin to make us into our truest self.  When all the security of the world has let us down, and we know we are completely lost, we are ready to learn and grow. "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'" 2 Corinthians 2:9a. Wow.

I learned many truths through profound grief. I quickly discovered that suffering is everywhere. It is sort of like the experience of buying a car. You never notice how many Silver Honda Accords are on the road until you start to shop for one. It’s the same with a loss. Your grief makes you keenly aware of the pain of others. It is like a TV with only one channel; you can no longer look away or avoid the pain by flipping past it. In short, you are suddenly dialed in. 

I learned that no matter how independent and capable we believe we are, God created us for community. He intended us to travel this journey with others. Unlike my nature to handle my problems on my own, I knew I would not travel well through this valley unless I could lean in and accept assistance and tell others what they could do to help. It was my journey, but it was not just about me; God’s goodness was revealed through the love of his people toward our family. 

I realized that my journey was not the same as that of my daughters’. They also had a grief journey to travel. As a mom and a problem solver, it was hard to trust their paths to God. I could not carry the burden for them. But, God proved faithful in so many ways and provided just what they each needed. I had to trust Him. I am still learning this. Growing up is hard. 

I eventually found that Brian’s death was not an end; it was a beginning. God had many things left for me to love, learn, do and be. He would plan a move for us to Tennessee to be closer to old friends and family. The unimaginable would eventually lead to blessing upon blessing that I would have never dreamed or agreed to ahead of time.

I read somewhere that it is the “Stew of Life.” All of the good parts and the hard times are essential ingredients. We often want to undo the hard parts. But, I know that to change something now would change the whole recipe. And, I wouldn’t want to do that. Many of you are a part of this stew as well. We have been so blessed with amazing friends and family who stepped in to help in some way. I will be forever thankful for you!

What is left after ten years? The same that will be left for any of us I think. The lives we impacted, the way we loved our people, and the good we did or at least tried to do. Brian is remembered through the many ways he touched others with kindness, humor, and service. I occasionally hear from someone who will tell me of his impact in their lives when they were a teen or some good deed he did for them. Through the blue eyes and laughter of my girls, I see his spirit and feel his zest for life. I still hear my voice repeat funny things he used to say, and I can almost hear him laugh with me. He reminds me by his example to play-hard and love-hard and enjoy the precious time I have left.  On this May 3, I think of Brian and his memory reminds me to be grateful for today, and every day.

#justwrite #daughtersofjoy

The Garbage Can.

As I backed out of my driveway this morning, I was reminded that it was Wednesday. Humpday to weary 9-to-5ers, but also garbage day for those of us on the mid-week rotation with Franklin Disposal. I put the Pilot in park. As I wheeled my big blue receptacle to its resting place, I felt a sense of peace. No big deal, I know this. However, there were many Wednesday mornings at the beginning of this 9-year journey that I felt ‘not peace.’ At times I felt sad, or angry, but not usually peace. I remember that first day in May 2008 when I rolled the garbage can back down the driveway in my fuzzy pink bathrobe. It was probably the first time I had done that in 5 years. Always in divide and conquer mode, Brian did garbage can duty. I did morning routine duty. I did hair, sock searches, and refereeing of early morning squabbles over cereal and pop-tarts. Brian did garbage duty for almost 20 years. I remember looking up and seeing my neighbor, Julie, as she watched with tears in her eyes. She also knew that Brian King did garbage duty. Brian was gone.

I was not sure I could do it, not garbage-can-duty, of course. It was everything all at once and nothing would ever be the same. The garbage can became a symbol for me over the years. 

I am not sure why, but I didn’t adjust well to the garbage-can-duty-thing. I was confused about how early the garbage guys would come, and what about holidays? Seems so simple as I type this, but I often found myself trying to race, bed-head and barefoot, to get to the street before the schedule-conscious truck passed, often leaving the can at the curb past the HOA acceptable time limit. This of course causing an appointed deputy of all things Homeowner Association-like to issue me a helpful reminder delivered by personal post. It was a struggle. However, there are many things I handled with ease, much more complicated, time-sensitive, and consequential matters that others might find overwhelming, but I never quite fused the nuances of refuse disposal into my sub-conscious. When I forgot the schedule or missed the memo concerning holiday pick-up in those early days, I can remember just being angry all over again at the thought that garbage-can-duty was supposed to be Brian’s.

In case you were beginning to worry about me, I am actually quite adept at the job of Trash Captain now. I made a deal with “The Man” when I moved to let me leave my “Big-Blue” by the house so there is no remembering to put it on the curb, only to put bags in the can. Smart! This morning, though, I was reminded of all those feelings in those early days, and I realized I hadn’t felt that way in a long time. Peace.

More changes are in store and I am moving into new space again. My baby-girl is out of high school and she is not a baby. She is grown-up. She will not be living with me in just two short months, and I feel different but good. 

It is almost like reluctantly moving to a much smaller home, but then finding out that the view is more amazing.  

I am transitioning to a new place. I am going from I have to, to I get to. I no longer have to have milk in the house because I am responsible for other humans, but I get to cook dinner when everyone comes home because it brings me joy... There will be no lunches to have to pack (even though I enjoyed it) for Hatty this fall, but getting to schedule coffee or lunch with her across town when it works for both of us. She buys her own shampoo and tampons. I don’t have to check the school calendar. I don’t need to pull the parent duty.

I get to choose how I spend my free time. Weird.

 I get to check in with my older girls to see what is important and have meaningful exchanges without the need to make all the decisions for them. I am a silent investor now. I am still deeply vested, but they have their own big-blue-responsibilities and I have mine (Yay). It is the same with the garbage now. It is my big blue receptacle. Who’s else would it be? I get to roll it back to its resting place and be thankful to have a curb on which it can sit, at the corner of a yard, where the house is my own.

#justwrite

Post MBA and Finding Rest

I have been on a two-year journey to earn my MBA degree. Every Monday night for 4.5 hours plus countless hours outside of class and many more thinking about the schoolwork I should be doing just as soon as I work a little, sleep a little, cook a little, clean a little, etc. If you have been down this non-traditional-student road you know what I mean:

• It is a crazy time.
• You are not a student. 
• You know nothing about being a student anymore. 
• You work full-time. 
• You have people who depend on your paycheck.
• And, You haven’t pulled an ‘all-nighter’ in a decade (except the time everyone got a stomach bug in tandem). Or maybe that one is just me.
• You only thought you knew tired. 

But, it is over. Complete. Finished. Accomplished. Who Hoo!

If you had asked me how I felt in the first few weeks of post-grad life, I would have said, “Out-of-whack.” I am sure that two years of anything intense leaves you with an immense sense of imbalance. At first, you can handle things pretty well, but by the last half, you have stacks of neglected chores, paperwork, and relationships, which desperately need your attention, and you feel it down-deep.

And mostly, I felt out-of-whack with God. My prayer life has been stagnant, and bible study has been a joke. Honestly, it has been dry, stale and just bad. And, I know it shows. I have felt like the grocery cart that I always get stuck with (by grocery cart I really mean "buggy" - in the south we say "buggy"). I look perfectly functional and capable and steady, but I really wish someone would pull me out of the lineup before my malfunction becomes evident to the whole store and I am an embarrassment to “buggies” everywhere.

Can you relate? Do you ever need to get your spiritual act together but it is so hard to do? Life is still coming at you fast. I mean my people needed me to get finished with class and get with the program – STAT! On top of the normal chaos, we moved the weekend of my last class and there was so much work to be done. I won't even tell you about the last 8 months in an apartment crammed full of boxes and boxes and exploding with furniture. I was exhausted. 

When I was searching for a Bible study to dig into, I ran across a study on Ruth. It was recommended to me a few months ago by a woman who didn’t even know me. It was one of those casual conversations that somehow led straight to the heart of the void of my life and I think she could see it. I felt like this was something I should pay attention to, so I bought the study guide and I stacked it with the stacks of stacks that had stacks - I know you know.

I unearthed it a few weeks ago, and I began a new journey. A journey both forward and back.

It actually felt a bit awkward getting back into regular prayer and study time. It was not as awkward as becoming a college student again, thankfully. There are no log-ins, deadlines or pressures to perform. God has been patient, and good, and he smiled when he could have yelled, and he is giving me the rest I need most. Rest from measuring up. Rest from keeping up. Rest from guilt. Rest from shame. (That was it, a break from me. Me doing but not being.) Ahh.
His word is healing and it feeds my soul and it is slowly fixing my broken, "buggy" wheels.

#War Room, #Wearealldaughters #DaughtersofJoy #Justwrite

Making Your Own Footprints, and What Do Opportunities and Concrete Have in Common?

Walking along the sidewalk on my way back to my office, I noticed some concrete footprints (that is footprints made in the sidewalk as it dried). Well, they didn’t start out as concrete footprints – they started out as an opportunity. Some hardy-footed fellow happened along at the perfect time to impact this six-foot section of walkway and “made the most of his opportunity” (as they say). Others may have passed by that day and chose an altered path, but not my mystery friend with the boots. He stepped up and in and made his lasting mark. I cheer for him with a smile as I walk.

That got me to thinking about opportunities. One of my go-to life verses is in Galatians 6:10a, “Therefore, as we have opportunity, let us do good…” This verse reminds me of two things:

• We all have opportunities to make an impact.
• Opportunities come, but like drying concrete, they might not last long.

So, while we can, we should make the most of our time and use our opportunities to impact others for good. But a secondary message I understand from Galatians 6 and the stony footprints is that my opportunities are not your opportunities because your journey is not my journey. I can stand in front of the walk and wish I could have made my prints in the mud that day, but it will never change a thing. That was not my opportunity. And, if I spend my days lamenting over opportunities of others, I might just show up too late to my own.

I Corinthians 7:7 helps me here by telling me I have been given my “own gift.” And Romans 12:5 reminds me I am uniquely created and have a role to play in the body of Christ, “So we, who are many, are one body in Christ”. When I put opportunities in the context of my gifts, it makes perfect sense that I will be given unique opportunities to serve and do good so that I can use the gifts God chose for me. I play my role well when I understand this. Uniquely Gifted. Uniquely Commissioned. I get it!

One thing I know for sure, I don’t want to miss an opportunity to show up big and make an impact (however small)…if it was an opportunity meant for me. I want to be ready with my boots on to jump in with both feet!

#justwrite #opportunities #footprints

My Honduras Trip Brought Up More What-Ifs than Answers

My mind races from image to image as I mentally catalog the week in Honduras (My Global MBA experience). What an exceptional experience to come and use all our senses to learn about these, not so very, distant cousins of God’s creation in a world so removed from my daily reality.

Everyone who travels to a developing country will certainly be impacted by the contrast to our culture. My thoughts of Honduras will not only rest against the backdrop of the differences I wake to Monday morning in Brentwood, Tennessee, they will rest against extremes in life I found in the proximity of the city of Teguce itself. Yes, my memories of Tegucigalpa will come in pairs of extremes: from surplus to scarcity, from modern to ancient, from sophisticated to simplistic, from corrupt to benevolent, from whim to vision and hope to hopelessness.

As I think back on my pre-trip perceptions of Honduras, I admit I was expecting to be impressed by poverty we would encounter having experienced the culture through mission trips tales of my daughters on several occasions. I was expecting to see children whose eyes would steal your very heart because they have been so neglected and abused by conditions not of their own choosing but of hopeless circumstance. I was expecting to smell unpleasantness and taste the cruel reality of a world in malfunction. What I did not expect was to feel such a connectedness to the people we met in local businesses and the faces of mothers and children in rural locations.

We started our week with a visit to Jovenes en Camino, to tour the boy’s home and I was immediately impressed with the facility and structure and with those committed to providing for 57 boys who live in the home. I kept thinking these boys, who live in community with their playmates and share a surrogate mom and dad with 20 others, are the lucky ones. As much as I am thankful a place like Jovenes exists in Honduras, I was overwhelmed with the enormity of need for hundreds of places just like it that don’t exist. I felt a contrast of emotion, of hope for the 57 boys living within the safety and blessing of Jovenes and hopelessness for thousands who will never have a chance to be safe and blessed. I felt a connectedness with Annie Brown, our 25 year old missionary host, because I had just waved goodbye to my 18 year old daughter to begin her own missionary journey. I wondered, if in a few months she will find herself in a place that will capture her mind and heart and want to stay beyond her internship… As impressed as I am with Annie and her love for Jovenes, my soul is not settled at this thought for my middle child…and yet I know the world needs more young women and men like Annie.

Our next adventure would prove to be the most unsettling, for me at least. Just as we struggled to gain access to a community some two to three hours over nearly impassable roads, I struggle to make sense of the remote and unjust conditions of such a place. We first visited a dark room in a small house where moms, many in their teens, gathered to learn parenting skills from volunteers. Children in their arms, they sat in a circle and waited until each child was weighed and growth was recorded.

I thought to myself, this is a scene that plays out in every corner of the globe. Young moms, trying to do what is best in order to secure a sound future for their children. Do any of us really know what we are doing before we are handed such awesome responsibility in the form of our babies? Don’t we all hope someone will give us some guidance? These sweet volunteer-women were neighbors, but also pediatricians and counselors, teachers and mentors, in a community without professionals with such titles.

We then rode to the preschool and public school in the community. The preschool was run by a sweet lady, who basically worked for free because the $35 a month she was supposed to receive from government funding rarely came and never on time. Child Fund, our hosts for the visit, supported the preschool as well as many programs in the regular elementary and high school next door. I was impressed by the enthusiasm and passion in the voice of this teacher, who for 15 years had poured herself into these children so they might have a better chance.

As we walked to the high school, we could tell something exciting was happening. We would soon realize the excitement was us! The whole school and teachers were present on what was supposed to be a holiday because we were coming. We were greeted by boys on stilts and balloons and dancing and songs. Each group had projects to present and showed us their efforts. Another contrast occurred to me as I watched kids with bright faces full of excitement and potential perform for strangers. How could this be a place where most will only go to third grade? They were amazing and talented. Shouldn’t they get a chance to be just that?

In contrast to these scenes of rural life, we visited several companies and were hosted by some of Tegucigalpa’s leaders in business. What impressed me about our hosts at these companies was their willingness to speak candidly about problems and issues they faced as a nation. They spoke bluntly about crime, corruption, poverty, and perceptions of Honduras, but finished by explaining all the reasons they loved and were proud of their country. No one tried to gloss over issues we all knew existed, but all wanted to make sure we did not miss the many positives about life in such a country of beauty and history and family-culture. At University visits, we were greeted by educators eager to show us their facilities and speak of the future of Honduras through lens of educating its youth.

The remainder of our week we enjoyed some good food, local scenery, and near misses as Miguel, our guide, skillfully (though frighteningly) drove us around. One sight I will not forget will remain a symbol of challenges faced by those who wish to move the country and people of Honduras toward a new day. In the middle of the main thoroughfare is a brand new lane built for bus traffic. It was paid for with political capital and promised to provide an ease to the current traffic nightmare. Instead, it has never been opened and may not be operational for another year, if ever, due to lack of urgency in post-election time. Such a waste of effort and funds! Instead of an improvement, the infrastructure is much worse. This is a symbol in my mind of the inefficiency and lack of vision of the leaders of Honduras.

Finally, I think about the children who asked us repeatedly for money as we climbed in and out of the van. If given an opportunity for a good education, would such spunk to approach a stranger boldly translate into drive and determination in the classroom and then in the business world? I think about the men walking in-between cars at traffic stops, selling canvas prints and fruit, or the boy juggling machetes for cash. What could their lives be, in another setting? I believe at the end of the day the lesson I will hold close from this experience is how I will never know the what-ifs for those men and boys or the what-ifs for myself in their shoes. But I believe I can know for certain that I am not as smart as I am fortunate. I am not as hard-working as I am blessed with resources and opportunities. I was born into circumstances almost guaranteeing my success, if I don’t prosper in this life I have no one to blame but myself. I am so thankful, and I should be.

8/1/14

#whatif #Honduras #justwrite

Indian Corn

From 2009

Some of the best times the most golden moments are the ones that happen right before "lights out" at our house. I wonder at how quickly the bedtime routines have gone from reading the well-loved and worn story books to "just thirty more minutes on the computer, please?" But for today my youngest, Hatty, still wants to share her bedtime thoughts and prayers with me...as they say "priceless".

It was one of those nights a few months ago, Spring maybe, and I was on the ladder that leads to Hatty's loft bed where she lay. Standing on the ladder I am face to face with my sweet girl as she pours her heart out in prayer to God. Oh my, I wish you could hear the things that are on her heart, I am amazed at her tender words.

But anyway, this night as she looks me over as we are so close she plays with my hair. And after "Amen." and before "I love you." she says..."Mom your hair is so beautiful! It has so many pretty colors...just like Indian Corn!" (she should be a diplomat or at least in PR) She was right my hair has many colors (dark brown, red, gray, blonde, gray)..just like 'Indian Corn'-Priceless!

#warroom #justwrite #bedtimeprayers

Things Change

It seems I always come back from a vacation with thoughts that will not leave me alone until I sort them out. I must organize them, label them, and leave them in order so I can reference them from time to time. That’s the way it is today…as I upload pictures from our beach trip, two words keep repeating themselves “Things change.” I’ve both said and heard said hundreds of times…”Things change.” Travel down a stretch of road you’ve not visited in a year or two – Things change. bump into a friend you remember from college – Things change. Compare photos of your kids from one beach trip to the next – Things change. Our attention is diverted with tasks and obligations until getting through the day turns into years. We are reminded by the obvious of our negligence to be in the moment, and all we can offer in defense is…”Things change.”

But really that is natural-those changes we confront because time passes and progress happens. But whats washing up like waves competing for my attention against my stacks of laundry tonight are the changes I don’t make allowances for-the ones that really catch me looking the other way.

This week while on vacation, I received a phone call from a dear friend about a tragic death in her family. I also recently received other email telling of a cancer diagnosis. Both of them were a shock to me. Have I not learned my lesson yet? Guess not. Things Change. Yes, they do – but not in years or months, sometimes daily. Not in manageable doses, but in unimagined pronouncements. Its not always on the calendar what the next day will bring-we should all know this by now.

So I have to ask myself should I just live in dread? Always expecting bad news? The answer can’t believe I asked the question.

Do not live in anticipation of the next crisis – Just Live! Just Live!

But really live. I mean don’t just live hoping to survive the next unexpected phone call…Live expecting to Thrive, to Bless, to Inhale Deeply, to Love Hard, to Move Forward, to Forgive everyone, to Cherish today. Because really what is the alternative “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to your life?” (not me, not you).

I choose what to do with this day, this wild and fragile moment. Whatever I choose I can say for certain It will pass…Things change.

(Summer 2009)

#vacation #justwrite #thingschange

Lunch with Dementia

Mom paused, laying her fork in the middle of her potato salad otherwise untouched, and folded her napkin. She seemed to be looking at something out the window; maybe it was the white puppy playing at Beth’s, Mom’s neighbor and friend. Maybe it was the lilies in bloom along the property line, she planted years earlier when she and Dad first bought the place for their retirement. I looked in the direction of her stare to share in her sudden distraction but only saw the adjacent field. What was she seeing? Where was she? “Mom? You’re not hungry?” “Nothing seems to have any taste anymore,” she sighed.

Looking back, I know Mom was referring to more than the Chicken and Potato Salad. Life itself had become tasteless. Taking with it the recollections of precious, past details and recent conversations with friends and loved ones, the cruelties of dementia had stolen Mom’s joy for the day as well.

I saw across the table, a woman I’d known my whole life, and a woman I no longer knew. The expression she wore was one dimensional, much like the life-sized cutout of Dolly Parton we saw at the Tennessee State Line on our trip home from the mountains a few years ago. I feared the future for Mom and for us all at that moment. I knew there was no escaping from this fog, but yet I drove forward desperately hoping for the sun. The end would come slowly as the effects of dementia clawed its way through, shredding the essence of what used to be My Mother.

Me and Mom on her 75th Birthday Surprise Party
(She died unexpectedly 3 months later)

“What do you think I should do?” she asked, waking me from my own temporary departure from our lunch-talk. “I am sorry Mom, what were you asking?” She repeated her question about getting her dishwasher repaired or buying a new one. Suddenly we were back to Thursday on Hillside Drive at her kitchen table where we ate in familiarity as we had for years, and for the moment I am having lunch with my dear Mom. There would only be a few of those moments, I thought we would have more.

#dementia #aging #missingmom #justwrite

What Do 6 to 8 Year Olds Know, That I Forget?

When I grow up, I want to be a kid. Somewhere between 6 and 8 will do. I could spend my weekends in a princess costume (without causing the neighbors to talk), or summers pool-side perfecting my cannonball, not to mention the joy of VBS and skipping to class holding hands with my BFF. I think the ripe old age of 6 to 8 is when a person knows all he/she needs to know to be happy and well-adjusted. In fact, it is all downhill in my opinion much later than eight. Six to eight-year-olds are so much cooler than your average adult. At 6 to 8, I had never carried a sweater around just in case it was cold in the movie; I had never looked forward to ‘soup weather’; and I could not understand why parents would sit in a chair when you could lay down on the comfy floor instead.

If I grew to only 6 to 8, I could tie my shoes, and learn to read. But, I would like to stop growing up before Santa becomes just a nice idea, or I believe someone when they tell me I can’t______ – whatever it is. Yes, I would like to stop growing up before I let others' opinions darken my soul. Wouldn’t you? Would you like to go back to the day before you starting apologizing for yourself and your lack of self at every turn? The day before you became aware of every imperfection and forgot about how awesome you were just the day before. That would be just cool beans- I think my eight-year-old self might say cool beans. I mean let me show you my new yo-yo trick or look how fast I can count backward from 100. You need someone to read out loud? I might stumble over the big words, but I’m your girl!

How many times have you put on your favorite dress, and instead of feeling pretty and smart, you thought about how you will measure up to the world that day? I have, too many times. I am also in the habit of lying. I say things like, “I don’t always look like this,” or “My house is not always this messy.” Why do I say things like that? What I should really say is, “You have caught me in my usual clothes, looking about as good as I usually do, in my house which is usually just about this messy; I always love to see you, but I would rather you told me you were coming so that I could have stressed myself for hours working on my looks and my mess to make you think I am something better than this. “

And, I often don’t feel like I am the one for the job, regardless of my ability. I can usually think of another who can do it better than me even though I would do just fine. It cheats me out of joy and cheats others out of my service, and I need to be no more the eight again.

An eight-year-old would find me silly.

I was thinking about something that happened several years ago, and it made me think of one of my girls who at the time was about 6 to 8. We were on our way home from an out-of-town-family-thing, coming home ragged and dirty and tired.  And, someone called unaware of our weary state and wondered if we could rescue a young couple who had no place to stay for the night. I immediately thought of a dozen reasons why I was not up for the challenge. The house was a wreck when we left, we had no food, I didn’t know if I had clean sheets to make up a guest bed, my mind went on…but then it stopped when my daughter, who had overheard, offered her room to the couple, her twin bed with pink polka dotted sheets and Polly Pockets on the floor, ‘They can stay in my room. ‘ I knew the Holy Spirit was calling me out at that moment, and I was ashamed. Of course, they can stay at our house for the night.  They met us at our house in their ragged car, and they were tired and dirty. I manage to say hello and show them inside without apologizing for my home or its messy appearance. I realized at that moment what I should have known without our unexpected guests; it was a perfect refuge, and it was all that was needed at that moment. And, I was completely up to the task at hand. In fact if you need to be rescued, I might not be as good as I was at 6 to 8, but I am your girl!

Do I Have a Ready Answer for the Most Important Question?

I sat across from my new friend Xiaoyu ('Zow U') from China. She is my first student in my new adventure with the FriendSpeak program at church. We meet on Wednesday nights because many like Xiaoyu are new to the U.S., and want to practice their English, make a new friend, and (sometimes PTL!) study the Bible and learn more about God.

Xiaoyu sent me a picture of a church she visited in China

Her home is 7500 miles from Nashville, yet we sit just inches apart. We are alike: we are women who care about husbands, daughters and responsibilities. We laugh easily as we settle into our visit. Her dark eyes and sweet smile bolster my courage and warm my heart. I know she has been reading her Bible and wants to know more. I am so eager to dig my hands into spiritual soil with Xiaoyu that my excitement overrides any trepidation.

As we begin to read in Luke, she looks up with a question. The power of this moment was in its simplicity, and I could feel the words as much as I could hear them. A question asked by maybe millions throughout time and one that must be both asked and answered by everyone who professes Christ. I am sure it has been asked in doubt, cynicism, fear, and frustration. On the contrary, Xiaoyu's face and her tone implied a mix of hope and wonder. She waved her hand over the text and asked just three words, "Is this true?” "Is this true?" I could feel my heart in my chest as I looked into her eyes. How do I answer in a way that will make a difference? I know there is apologetic evidence that I am in no way prepared to present. But then, I realize the answer she seeks is not a tangible one. Woman-to-woman and mom-to-mom, she wonders do I believe these are more than just stories in a book? Is the Bible true to me? In my life, is this true?

I know at that moment I have exactly what I need…an authentic answer. Yes, my friend I believe this is true. In my heart, I know it is true. God had a plan for you and me from before the first sunset. Jesus was not only a man who lived; He is my God who lives still. Praise God, He is real - Everyday. Praise God for those who seek the truth with all their heart, for He will be found (Jer. 29:13). Praise God for Xiaoyu!

#Godisreal #Jesuslovesyou #justwrite