A life built around Him

This was stuck on the bathroom mirror. It was on a card I sent them years ago, I guess my Mom couldn’t part with it……

This is in the corner by the microwave, right by a drawing I made (also years ago). This prayer just about spells out their life. They go from dawn to dusk watching my special needs niece. They are fatigued in body and soul most every day, but their house is still a place of peace and refuge for many of their friends and family and there is always a fresh pot of coffee for whoever drops by.

A reminder on the porch of who they serve……..and what He did for us all.

My Mom’s bookshelf. My Dad has several and spilled to overflowing in several places in their house, but hers is tidy and organized.

I think it is very important to have reminders in your home. I have several pieces of art and knicknacks in my own home, but the ones that give special comfort are the ones that remind me of who He is and that He is near, always.

And the last one, written in my Dad’s own hand……posted on the kitchen cabinet.

It’s always the lone bird that gets me

This message was tacked on the cupboard in my parents’ kitchen, in my Dad’s writing. He is having a hard time right now. Macular degeneration is making reading difficult. He has always found solace in the written page, in books. It’s always been a big topic of our discussions. It’s hard trying to support your family from far away. I walk around with a certain amount of guilt on any given day. I don’t know anymore how it would be to live without it. I guess you can get used to anything, just like my Dad says you can get used to bad eyesight and hearing loss.

Vacation may be over, but I still hear the crashing of the waves, and the sound of those silly seals barking in the sun on that dock. I still feel the cool of the grass my niece insisted I lay in. I hesitated, knowing Tyler poops there, but as children will she insisted that I share the joy of the moment. And I did.

I had forgotten how the grass speaks if you listen. And it’s a language only children and God can hear and some adults who have not let go of the wonder.

I remembered how she clung to my hand during Sesame Street live, and how small my Mom felt when I hugged her, not wanting to let her go, and going to breakfast with her and sharing a plate. And I smiled when I remembered my Dad and I cleaning the fish tank, spilling water and trying to scoop fish that didn’t want to be caught. And feeding my brother ice in the emergency room.

I wonder at the strange twists and turns of life, how all of a sudden the big brother can be the weak one you be the strong one.

It’s hard to fight for your family from a distance. Hard to help when miles stretch out long, between us but I try.

But I thank God that His arms are long and they reach far and wide.

So many times it’s not the grand chorus that does me in, but the solo. The lone bird that sings, that one note ringing out when all else is silent. The one that insists that there is always hope because with God there always is. Everyone has stuff. But the key is knowing God has you and He won’t let you go.

God astounds me, because He knows when I need to know that He still has me.

He speaks in those quiet moments when we kneel in between life and everything else, when the bell tolls the hours that you may not even hear, but you can feel the weight of just the same. When we are feeling weak and crumpled and useless. And helpless.

He will never turn away from humility. “But He gives a greater grace. Therefore it says, “GOD IS OPPOSED TO THE PROUD, BUT GIVES GRACE TO THE HUMBLE.” James 4:6

For just a moment, I wanted to touch the last remaining embers of the time treasured. I wanted to hear the laughter, feel the peace, thank Him for the joy we felt, and how He was there with us all along.

As I sank to my knees, knowing there was not one thing I could do to hold time back, I touched Heaven instead.

It’s good to be home, and it will be good to go back next time. Until then, God keeps me. Keeps us all.

Another Texas Memory

For those of you who didn’t read my last one, you can read it here. I have been capturing some memories for Elaine from when she spent summers in Texas visiting her Grandparents (and other relatives). I thought it would be fun to put myself squarely in the memory myself and write it as she remembers it. I got her Grandparents mixed up last time but this one is historically accurate. So here goes.

When my Grandaddy on my Mama’s side met Granny she already had five kids. Then they had 5 together and one died so that left 9 kids all together. After that he left the family and married another woman named Lou who lived in the same town. Needless to say his leaving the family sparked some very hard feelings all around from his kids, generations on down the line.

Lou had two kids of her own when they met and they had four more after they married. Sounds kinda one of those story problems we used to get in math class.

All this happened before I was born. That’s a lot of emotional drama to be plunked down in the middle of, but the only thing I really remember about it was my Grandma telling me, “You better not be calling Lou, (or that woman) Grandma.”

To her credit, Lou accepted us Grandkids as her own and I always remember feeling welcomed at their house. She had a big square farmhouse kitchen and she really knew her way around it. We had many a meal around that big old table. Lou always fed us well.

Their house wasn’t nearly as important as what lay around it to us kids though. In fact, if they had lived next to the Land of Oz it wouldn’t have been much more impressive to us as that big green vast wonderland that was the football stadium and the adjoining baseball park outside the back door.

My Grandad managed a semi-pro team so they lived right on the stadium grounds. Think, “Field of Dreams.”

To those of you who aren’t familiar with how important sports are in Texas, especially football, let me tell you, it is everything. Small towns like San Angelo were built and centered around football and baseball games. His training methods though, were a little unconventional.

On many a bright summer day, I can still remember him saying, “C’mon Elaine, we are gonna lay some pipe today.” That meant training day for the team. I would ride on the back of the jeep while the guys he coached would run behind it. Then he would throw the pipe down as they went and they would lay it.

Sometimes they would drop from sheer exhaustion in the heat. I would say, “Grandad, he’s lying in the grass lookin’ up at the sky.” He would say, “Don’t worry, he’ll make it.” And we’d go onto the next place and drop the next guy off. On the way back around the field he’d go back and pick them up. By then they would have staggered to their feet and reconvered enough for the next challenge.

All those guys had legs like tree trunks.

In those days athletes weren’t pampered, but we did consider them the celebrities of our town. Provided they survived Granddaddy’s training practices, that is.

Photo from public domain images

Getting away……and how art can move us beyond ourselves.

Last year around this time the calendar looked like this. And those were just the highlights. There was also the new job driving a school bus, and her Dad. Now her Dad is gone and her Mom is doing well in an assisted living community where half the time she thinks she is there to help out. Which probably makes her feel better about being there which is fine. And school is out for the summer.

As she looked at that calendar, she said, “No wonder I felt stressed.” I said, “It’s amazing you didn’t have a nervous breakdown.” She said, “I think maybe I did.”

It’s hard to know what to do when you have had a million things to do all at once and all of a sudden you don’t.

On the way to work this morning, I was surprised by the emotion that surged when the first notes of Ludwig van Beethoven’s – Fur Elise were played. If you don’t know it by the title, don’t worry neither did I. But when I heard the familiar tune I wasn’t prepared for the tears that swam in my eyes as I listened.

It reminded me of the time we went to the art exhibit and I paused in front of El Greco’s St. Peter in Tears, shell-shocked with emotion. I wasn’t prepared for the depth of sorrow I saw depicted in those eyes. From then on, I totally understood that seeing a Masterpiece in person is a form of worship not to the person who painted it, but to God himself for giving a gift of that magnitude.

What is it about true art, true beauty, that brings out emotions you didn’t even know were there? It makes us think of something beyond ourselves, something bigger which is truly and wholly good.

When emotions are held at bay for so long, sometimes you forget how to let them out but they come out anyway.

In five days we will load up the motor home and drive to California, unencumbered by anything. It’s been a long time.

In five days, I will get to see my Mom and hug her and make her feel like for a few days everything will be okay. I will clean up messes for her since no one ever does that, and I will cook and clean a bit for her, and it will make me feel good to do it.

I will hug my Dad and pray for his eyes, and hug him too. And hopefully we will walk the nature trail together.

And I will eat smushed up rainbow cake that Lauryn will more than likely want me to see first thing. I will savor every bite. I will savor every minute with her, swimming, playing, and having a tea party with her babies. I will hug my brother and we will laugh together and hopefully we will all forget our collective stress for a while and just enjoy being together.

And I will, when I get there, dip my feet in the ocean no matter how cold it is and feel sand under my toes and feel ocean waves wash over my soul again. And eat lots of seafood. I will greet all these things as one greets a very old familiar friend. Elaine and I will walk on the beach and savor a victory knowing that because in Him, we have it. In Him, all things are held together.

I will try my best to put my natural state of anxiety behind me this week and look forward to the journey. Because that’s half the fun.

A Story……

My Granddaddy on my Daddy’s side was a preacher. He wasn’t a preacher in the traditional sense, like in a proper church. He did his “testifyin” as he called it in a barn and his congregation were the migrant workers. I remember seeing a hat full of money, more money than I had ever seen in one place, full and overflowing. Sometimes they even passed it twice.

They loved him, that much was clear, that barn would be full to overflowing. I don’t know if they understood every word he said, but they understood passion. That’s understood in any language.

He used to warn my cousin and I against climbing up on the roof and yet sometimes I wonder if he didn’t leave that ladder out on purpose. As soon as he left, we’d slap that ladder against the side of that old house and scramble up there and tap-dance to our heart’s content. The music the heels of our Mary Jane’s made against that tin roof was something that was worth getting in trouble over.

Grandma was the one we were concerned with. She was bigger and had a bit of a mean streak. My brother and I used to watch her kill rattlesnakes from up there with one snap of her mighty wrists. She was strong enough to kill turkeys that way too. A turkey attacked me one day, bit me under the arm. We had that turkey for dinner that night. She didn’t mess around.

If my memories of those West Texas summers were woven into anything it would come out looking like a patchwork crazy quilt. Some parts terrifying some parts wonder. The time my Grandma locked me in the dark closet with the glow in the dark Jesus would fall under the terrifying category. I don’t know if Jesus was meant to comfort me or scare me but in the end fear won out.

The other thing that would fall in that category was when Grandma told about how she danced with the devil. She said he came into her bedroom wearing a dark suit and was the most handsome man she had ever seen. They waltzed.

She and my Grandpa had their own unique blend of religion. They believed in reincarnation but also went to the tabernacle for meetings where people who were slain in the spirit would do some very unnatural things like roll around on the floor and make weird noises. To us it was part of the entertainment. We thought they looked more possessed by the devil than anything else.

The wonder part of the memories were made at Grandpa’s baseball park where I was allowed to help out in the concession stand and make snow-cones. There were hot summer nights when chiggers bit ferocious, when the air was so full of damp my hair would mildew on the pillow overnight.

And there were those afternoons when the sky was cast in yellow and the air was eerily still and we waited for the sound of the tornado siren. Times where we all hustled down to the cool of the storm cellar, and other times where we watched those monsters roar in, wide-eyed and rooted where we stood.

That old farmhouse is long gone, taking with it a way of life that will never come again. Sometimes when I least expect it, some little thing will remind me.

The crack of a bat, the smell of hay, a dapper old man with a jaunty walk.

Otherwise they are tucked away in my heart for safe keeping. We fan those flames of memory and bring them back to life with our laughter and our stories.

Once again, I’m tap-dancing on a tin-roof.

images from google

Sometimes you just have to throw stones

If you’ve seen Forrest Gump you remember the scene where Jenny comes back home and faces the house where she suffered so much abuse as a little girl. It is one of my favorite scenes. She starts throwing stones at the house and you wish you could pick one up and throw one with her. Scenes like that are why I love movies.

Abuse holds a family hostage like a sleeping dragon. You never know what may make it stir so you walk quietly around it. Try to stay out of sight. When you are a kid you look to your parents for protection but when they are part of the equation and not the answer you have no where else to go. And when you are told things like “Emotion is useless” “You might as well quit crying because tears are useless too.” You learn early on there is only you. You try to shoulder all that dysfunctional mess yourself. Especially when you know others will get in trouble for trying to help you.

As the next generation of the abuse, you have a choice. You do one of two things, you go along with the charade and perpetuate the culture of negativity by painting a rosy picture that’s false or you get really honest with yourself and start dealing with it, realizing you can be the one to turn the tide. It takes true courage not only to step out of it, but do a 360 and break the pattern yourself. You also have to be ready when the abuser turns around and labels you as the problem.

It starts by replacing denial with the truth and facing some facts about yourself, that’s painful. It’s about stopping the blame on others and beginning to see your part in it. It’s about refusing to go along with all the negativity that breeds like a cesspool. It’s about letting it all go so you can start the healing process and making sure you don’t carry on the legacy. And it’s about recognizing that painting a rosy picture doesn’t change the situation, it only masks it to the outside world.

I think the letting go happens differently for everyone. Sometimes it takes a whole lifetime. Sometimes the final healing doesn’t take place until they die, or go into a place where you can leave the barbs and negativity behind after you walk out the door. It’s then that you realize you have been given back the reins to your own life. It’s much like being born again. And with every load you take out to the curb, you realize your mind is a little bit clearer. Lighter.

This abuse has not been my experience, but it has been played out over and over for many people, some I care about very much including my own Dad. So today, I dedicate this post to all people everywhere who have walked out, who have made a difference, who have been courageous enough to not only do an about-face, but be a light to others who need to get out of that dark tunnel, some of whom by so doing have put themselves in danger.

You died on a Saturday morning. And I had you placed here under our tree. And I had that house of your father’s bulldozed to the ground. Momma always said dyin’ was a part of life. I sure wish it wasn’t. Little Forrest, he’s doing just fine. About to start school again soon. I make his breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day. I make sure he combs his hair and brushes his teeth every day. Teaching him how to play ping-pong. He’s really good. We fish a lot. And every night, we read a book. He’s so smart, Jenny. You’d be so proud of him. I am. He, uh, wrote a letter, and he says I can’t read it. I’m not supposed to, so I’ll just leave it here for you. Jenny, I don’t know if Momma was right or if, if it’s Lieutenant Dan. I don’t know if we each have a destiny, or if we’re all just floating around accidental-like on a breeze, but I, I think maybe it’s both. Maybe both is happening at the same time. I miss you, Jenny. If there’s anything you need, I won’t be far away. Forrest Gump 1994

I dedicate this also to my best friend Elaine, who has not been afraid to stand alone. To lead others out. To make a difference. To start her own legacy of hope. If there is anything you need, I will be happy to stand in for “Forrest” and throw some stones with you.

I have a pretty good aim.

The Sacredness of Sunday mornings

I pulled my sweats on and went out in the dark and it was cold so I needed an extra layer. I went back inside and got my no fail LL Bean terry cloth robe and carried my steaming cup out to the shop, the candle in my little lantern already flickering a soft glow.

A bird was singing its heart out and against the backdrop of that song, a dove cooed an accompaniment from a neighboring rooftop.

There is something sacred about this……reflecting on the week. Thanking God for how He got me through, how He got us through. I think of God pausing after the sixth day, looking out over creation, a Holy pause and here in the dark, I feel an echo of that same pause.

It’s good and right to do this.

Sometimes, activity has to stop in order for the appreciation to be fully felt, and standing on the other side of the events lets them breathe freely and take on new life.

This morning, I let it all wash over me. The events of the trip back home, getting my brother in and out of the hospital, the car almost conking out and Dad, a nervous wreck in the driver’s seat but holding it together and getting them back home. Me getting lost and nice people with directions. Mom and I sweeping my brother’s porch together.

Watching my Mom place her hands on Lauryn’s head giving her a blessing before school from my place in the driver’s seat; seeing her mouth the words I knew she was saying…….”The Lord bless you and keep you, the Lord make His face to shine upon you and give you peace.” I pray that is one memory of her Grandma that Lauryn will always carry with her.

And even after a week, I still hear the praise song Mom played from her old boombox in the corner of the kitchen.

My life is in You Lord, my strength is in You Lord, my hope is in You Lord, in You, in You………

Yes indeed. It is. And thank you also, Lord for the little light that dawned while I was training yesterday at work. I really needed that.

When it just flows

Sometimes you hit a sweet spot with blogging, or any kind of writing for that matter. You stop wrestling and trying to figure out what you should write, or what people want to hear, or what you want to hear from yourself. It doesn’t always happen this way, but when it does?

It becomes not something you do, but something you release as a free expression of the worship that naturally flows out of your heart and soul. It’s gratitude and nothing more…..

Just now, I was heading back up the stairs here at work. I had a spring in my step because I am on break and I knew I had an hour or so to do this post. I simply couldn’t wait, not because I have anything of much importance or earth shattering to say, be because I serve a very good God and I am so glad He is walking with me on this earth, because the more I see in the news?

The more hopeless it seems to get. The bleaker the outlook, the more I cling to my God and the more the gratitude spills out. And the more I want to share that with everyone else.

As I spent time with my family just this past week, I learned to cherish them all over again.

When I was unpacking my suitcase last night, I came across the hand drawn map my Dad made me, the directions to the hospital. I couldn’t bear to throw it away. I tucked it into my keepsake box, which is fairly bursting at the seams with each passing year.

Looking at that map, I wondered how in the world I have been so blessed. I have had people drawing maps for me my whole life. At every turn.

And when I took that wrong turn on the freeway just recently? I got a call from Elaine who was watching me via the “Find friends” app on my iPhone. She called to tell me how to get back on but I had already stopped and asked directions.

Friends and family that have your back. When it all comes down to it, that is what matters most. In the hospital room beside my brother there was a man who had no visitors. He was awaiting his heart surgery and he had no company.

He has no hope of any face to greet him when he comes out. No hand to grasp except the medical staff. No loving eyes that meet his, and no one to wipe his brow with a cool cloth. My brother felt so bad he said he might even go visit him afterwards.

Yes, I am extremely grateful these days. For people who love me, and for a loving God who gave me the best road map and the only one I will ever need.

His word and His love.

Where almost everybody knows your name

I have been on a whirlwind trip back home and awash with thoughts and no time to capture them. For a blogger/writer this is almost like looking for a restroom when you really need one and find they are all closed for cleaning. There is no satisfaction until relief comes.

Also, no WIFI stations seemed to work and I think that was exactly what God in His wisdom intended for me and for everyone else.

My brother’s procedure went well. It took four hours for the Catheter Ablation and he came through with flying colors. I think I was helpful and that gives me a sense of satisfaction. There is something about pulling together as a family and making it all work that is good and right. The fruit trees were in bloom and yet we were alll moving so fast there was no time to “stop and smell the roses” or any other kind of flower for that matter, although we did manage to snatch some golden moments along the way.

It’s not too often we all hold hands and pray together, but we did before Dad and Ron left for the hospital.

Later, driving my Mom there I missed a turn and rediscovered how good and helpful strangers can still be when I pulled over to ask directions. I knew I had a local boy because he led me back on the right track and we were never so relieved to see “H” street. I had this proven twice in one day when I took another wrong turn at night and another very nice guy got me back on 50 and then South 99.

I hope God blessed them both for being so helpful.

Later, as we all sat in the waiting room watching old “Maude” reruns from the 1970’s, I asked my Mom if she remembered the long dresses I wore in High School when our singing group gave concerts. She said she didn’t but my Dad piped up and said he did. In fact, he remembered one specific dress I wore with blue puffy sleeves that tied in the back. I was touched by that.

After the hospital ordeal was over, I was doing an errand downtown for Mom and passed a friend walking down the street. I yelled out the window and asked if she needed a ride, and she was dumbfounded to see me. She didn’t know I was in town. That’s another thing that’s nice about small town life, you can still run into people you know everywhere.

The next day I went into the local Bible bookstore and ran into another friend who knew my folks. We had in fact, just been talking about her because she used to live a few doors down. She didn’t have the Newboys CD I was looking for so she actually burned me a copy while we talked.

And of course, there was the joy of seeing a little girl who was turned almost inside out she was so excited to see me. We did all kinds of things together. Saying goodbye is very hard for her, she takes after her Auntie that way, so I just squeezed her tight and told her I would be back very soon.

There is always a flip side to the joy of being there, since it brings to mind all the things I am not there for the rest of the time, yet I am so grateful I have a job that allows me to leave as much as I do, and it makes the time we do have all the more valuable.

I was so touched and grateful for all the prayers via family, friends, email, this blog and Facebook. I humbly thank each and every one of you. And thank you Elaine, for all you did in my absence and for making home a wonderful place to come back to.

I wish this were a longer post, but time is pressing and my break is almost up.

God is good, all the time.

Choosing the Scars

If you asked me for proof of whether God exists and whether He works in the lives of people, I would ask you to peer into my life; for I believe its in the story of our lives where He does His best work. If you could have been watching, you would have seen a girl kneeling by her bed, the one with the ruffly pink chenille bedspread, the one our dog always peed on when it was fresh from the laundry, knowing even then that God was listening.

God has His fingerprint on us from the start, and either we are born with someone in our lives who confirms that or denies it. One thing I know, throughout our lives God keeps tapping us on the shoulder, trying to remind us He’s still there.

My life has been shot through with miracle after miracle, and so has yours. I was born 3 months early in a time when that was a real emergency. If we hadn’t been visiting my Aunt, who lived very close to Stanford Hospital when my Mom went into labor, I may have been returned to sender even before I took a breath.

Flash forward to aged 12 where I sat in the dermatologist office for the first time, a curtain of hair hanging in front of a face marred with early onset adult cystic acne. Around that same time, I walked down the church aisle and gave my life to the Lord, because I knew I needed saving in more ways than one.

If you took a slice out of my life during the ensuing years, you would see many good times doing things together as a family, but you would also see hard days when my Dad hated his job, and mornings when my Mom had to literally pray me out the door before the onslaught of the school day.

And even all these years later I can still feel her hand in mine and hear her voice when she prayed those prayers in the mornings by the light of the fire.

Those prayers carried me through High School where I so much wanted to belong but remained locked inside myself because I didn’t know how to be friends with myself let alone anyone else. Every now and then the acne was not as bad, and I almost felt free, but then it would come back and I would retreat again, inside my music and the dark scrawling in the notebook I carried wherever I went.

All those years the Spirit held me close, but those years also left scars that I didn’t let Him heal and because the mirror I used to view myself was a distorted one, I never saw the beauty that others saw, I just saw the scars.

Then, I went on a diet and lost a few pounds and got a few compliments. I became intoxicated with something I could actually control and I found that when I refused food that I really liked I felt a power I had never felt before.

I became my own superhero and 83 pounds was still not thin enough.

But God still held me fast. He heard the tearful prayers of my parents. One night I had a dream that was suffused with a golden light and when I awoke the next morning I knew that the demon had lost and God had won. I ate forbidden scrambled eggs and then the real work started.

In the dark mornings, God and I would get up and run when no one else could see me. Later, my Dad and I (and God) ran together. Rain or shine, we were out there. In the eighties, I joined the throng of women wearing “Flashdance” sweatshirts and leg warmers and traded one addiction for another.

And all these years later when I hear that song on the radio? I smile and remember those days when I got my health back and felt beautiful for the first time in my life ever.

And knowing God was with me all along.

Today, if you’ve ever wondered if there was a God I challenge you to look at your own life and count up all the things you’ve come through.

You are here friend, because He wanted you here.

Right now today where you stand, wherever you stand, He loves you. He has already partnered with you, all you have to do is accept His invitation to partner with Him. Years later, when you are looking back at your life the way I am looking at mine now, and trust me on this, it is the one thing you will never, ever regret.

And if my scars made the difference between knowing Him and not knowing Him? I would choose the scars every single time.

Lori's Prayer Closet

"And when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done is secret, will reward you……"Matthew 6:6

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