Travelin' Bug

I was bitten a long time ago, maybe 20 years or so. It wasn't a big bite at first. No, at first I was satisfied with the domestic traveling that I had done. I had gone to several other states, I had seen--sea to shining sea, I had camped near the rainforests in Washington state, and I had eaten Key Lime pie in the Florida Keys. Yes, I felt pretty darn good about my travel experiences. And then, well, then it happened.
As silly as this sounds, I went to Hawaii. Now, don't go getting all logistical on me, I know it's a state! However, it's different from the rest of our mainland states. It's a whole new ball game over there on those little islands, culturally speaking, that is.

As I boarded that plane, knowing I'd be in the air for 5 hours over water, I had to admit that, mixed with excitement and anticipation, I was sweating just a little.  It was the furthest I had ever been away from land. And when I landed? Well, when I landed, I thought it pretty much looked like heaven. Palm trees and flowers everywhere, and the bluest water I had ever seen. It was fantastic. We were there for 8 days, and when it was time to come home, I cried. I really did. I shot 8 rolls of film — yes, it was before the days of digital cameras. I think I was a photo bug even then. Who knew?

We did everything on that trip, we were the quintessential tourists, in fact, it was probably stamped across our foreheads as we tried our best to experience all things Hawaiian. And we did. We did it all, from sailing to dining on the beach, to glass bottom boats, to a pineapple plantation tour, to a submarine ride, yes, we did anything and everything that screamed Hawaii. We had a blast, and sometime, somewhere on that trip, I was bitten. I'm almost positive that's where it happened.

Over the many years that followed, we have traveled extensively. To me, this has been a blessing, an answered prayer, a dream being realized. I love traveling. And so does my husband. We are, by our own admission, somewhat crazy. We love airports, planes, taxis, large foreign cities, and all types of people and foods. The term "adrenaline rush" doesn't begin to capture the full range of emotions we feel as we travel. No, that would just be the tip of the iceberg. We are addicted to travel. Fortunately, my husband's career has taken him all over the world, which, by the way, has only fed the aforementioned addiction.  He has been to many more countries than I; however, I do plan on changing that soon.

Is there really a travelin' bug? I think so. How else would I ever be able to explain the wanderlust in my heart? It is much easier to place the blame on a bug, an insect, a tiny little defenseless thing, than to place the blame for travel love on me!  It's either the bug or my husband's fault that I buy travel magazines and pore over pictures on Pinterest, Flickr, and various other websites.  It's either their fault or mine, and I'm not quite ready to assume that responsibility yet. No, for now, I'll blame it on a bug. I'll read my magazines, surf the net, and dream. Dream big of travel--the sights, sounds, and smells, the cobbled streets and little boutiques, the beautiful buildings and kind people. I will dream. And I will not slap that little bug away, no, not at all. I've grown to love that little bug and plan to take him on all future trips to inspire me to go on many, many more adventures. And in the meantime, I'll look through my pictures, remember, and long for travel.

Eiffel Tower

Great place near my hotel

Painter on the River Seine

Notre Dame

Great coffee

Under Water

Years ago, when I was a little girl, probably around 9 years old, my mother signed my sister and me up for swimming lessons.   I'll let you in on a little secret — I don't really like the water.  Oh, I love looking at water —I love boats, oceans, seas, rivers, and lakes — but just to look at.  Not to get in. Not to swim in. I love to lie out in the sun, I love riding in slow boats, I love walking along docks or piers, but that's where water and I part ways. You see, I never know what's under there, underwater.  Are there big, ugly fish?  Are there dirty, gross, junky things?  And what about monsters? Those were the things I would think about when I was a little girl, and honestly, I still do.

I have found that there can be dark, ugly things way down under water. And once, when I was little, I got caught down there. I accidentally got a little too far out in the deep end, and panic took over. I began to tread water like never before; my chin couldn't reach the top. I was so afraid, so scared; all I could think about was making it to safety. I did, I eventually found my way to the side of the pool. I had made it, I was safe. I was also determined never to let that happen to me again. But, of course, it did. I kept trying to learn to swim. Really, I did. Years of swimming lessons--all for nothing. Water and I just don't mix. We just don't. I hate being underwater.

I guess I'm thinking about that time right now because, as an adult, I've periodically had those same feelings of fear, and yet I've been nowhere near water.  It's just that it felt that way, like the time when my nephews died. I couldn't breathe and didn't know what to do. I felt panic, fear, and yes, I felt just as if I were underwater again. I kept reaching out for the side of the pool, hoping, praying desperately that someone would rescue me. I wanted it to be over. I wanted to feel safe again. I hate being underwater.

Or like the time I had to move away from my children. Floating helplessly, deep underwater.  I needed to be rescued. I had no one to talk to, no one to share the pain with that I was going through. No one to understand--not really. My friends would tell me to just pray, to just give it to God; they would placate me with platitudes.  I hated that; it seemed to just push me further down under the deep, dark water.  And yes, what they were saying was the truth. But I didn't want them to tell me. I wanted God to tell me. I wanted Him to rescue me himself. I know that sounds strange. But the only way I can describe it is that I needed Him down there with me, underwater. I needed to see Him, to feel Him, to know that He had me and that He'd never let me go. He did — you know — have me. I just didn't realize it at the time. He had me all along.

I'm a survivor by nature. That's just how God has made my personality. I'm a tough little cookie. I might fall apart for a short time, but somehow I always manage to eventually make it over to the side of the pool, so to speak. I hold on for dear life. I grab the hand that is being held out to me, and I hang on, and I never let go.  I hate going underwater.  Sometimes, though, it's necessary. Sometimes there are lessons to be learned. Sometimes we have to learn to swim. Or at least learn that it's OK to be rescued. It's OK to depend on others, especially God. For every time I've been underwater, He's always reached His hand down and softly whispered--hang on to me. Sometimes I could not hear Him through my screaming and panic and fear. Sometimes I could not feel Him through my tough coat of protective armor, and sometimes I could not even see Him through my tightly clenched eyes. And yet, He was there, He was near, He held out his hand, He protected me while I was underwater.

Maybe I don't need to ever learn to swim--maybe I just need to learn to trust. Yes, that's my real need. I need to just trust Him.  Because when I've been down there, deep under water, God had exposed my very soul to me. He has shown me what is truly going on in the deepness of my heart. The things He wants to change in me. The things He wants to do in my life. The very thoughts He wants me to think--rest in Him, trust in Him, believe in Him, lean on Him, hold on tightly to Him, I think I get it now. I think I finally see what He's doing--He'll never let me drown, ever. Even when I'm underwater.  I think I get it now. I hope.

Publicly Speaking

I don't know what triggered this memory yesterday. I feel kind of bad — I was sitting in church. I wasn't bored or anything like that; it's just that something was said that pricked one of those long-ago locked-away times. I began to think about my speech class in college. I loved that class, and yet it was the one class that terrified me the most. The thought of getting up in front of a large crowd (let alone students) scared me to death. Oh, the terror--as I imagined myself being booed off the stage. What if they were to throw rotten fruit at me? What if I was heckled? Actually, I wasn't afraid of being heckled; I just wanted to use that word. Heckled, it cracks me up a little.

Anyway, back to speaking publicly. I think this was the class that turned this self-professed introvert into a little bit of an extrovert. I found that the more speeches I gave, the more I wanted to give. My professor was excellent. She was interesting to listen to, she spoke clearly, and she was also a fantastic listener. I wonder if that's why she taught public speaking?

We had 5 speeches to give that semester. I can't remember the types or even the correct names — it's been too long.  However, I'll give it my best shot. Let's see — we had one on a hobby or a love of something, one on trying to sell an idea or convince others, one on pet peeves, and a couple of others. This class was a real challenge for me. You see, I didn't finish college until I hit my 40's. Yep, I went back to school. So, I always felt like I had something to prove, that I had to be just a little bit better at everything because of my age. The students didn't make me feel that way, no, it was all me. The kids were great. I made awesome friends, some of whom I still keep in touch with. And, because of my age, I also made friends with my professors; it seems we had a lot in common. Age-wise, that is.  Stop laughing!

I had so much fun talking up there in front of my fellow classmates. I thought I had come up with some pretty ingenious topics, too. For example--pet peeves. Mine was on spit. Yep, spit. And how I hated to see people of any gender spit publicly. I had 5 minutes up there in front of the class to rant about spit. I had them rolling in the aisles. Fun times. And then there was the one on country cooking. I walked into class with a bucket from Kentucky Fried Chicken.  I talked on and on about my grandmother's southern cooking--from fried chicken to okra--and afterward I passed my bucket around the room; it was full of my special homemade chocolate chip cookies.  Do I know how to win over a crowd or what?   My speech on hobbies was a little difficult for me. With 3 kids at home--they were my hobby! However, after much brain racking, I thought of something. Scrap-booking, photo books, and stamping. Something I really enjoy even to this day. I brought one of my prized photo books and let them peer into my life. I think they enjoyed that day as much as I did.

The one speech that stands out in my memory the most was my persuasive speech.  Ha, I finally remembered what it was called. That speech defined me. That day, they got to know the real me. The funny me stayed away, and the serious me took over. I walked into class and handed out little packets of tissue and a business card I typed up on my very own computer. On that card were my name, phone number, and email address. As everyone sat there holding their props, I began to talk.

That day, I shared about how I became a Christian. I told it all. I knew that I'd most likely never see them again. I knew that I'd get one shot. I knew that they would be able to tell if I were a poser, so it was important to me to lay all my cards on the table and to be as truthful as possible. I talked about my childhood, my parents' conversion to Christianity, and my own.  I talked about the void in my heart before I knew who God was, and I talked about the safety and peace in my heart once I met him. I was given 10 minutes. There wasn't a dry eye in the room when I was finished, even my professor was teary-eyed.  I ended that day with this statement — if you ever need me, if you ever have any questions about life, or God, or anything — feel free to call me day or night. I will always be here for you. After a semester together, I have grown to love you as if you were my own children. I have prayed for you every single day.  

Did anyone ever call or email me? Yes, yes, they did. It was the best class, the best speech, the best time of my life. And yet--I was so afraid to take that first step. Public speaking--it wasn't so hard after all.

Goodbye Old Friend

I haven't written much lately; my blogging, Facebooking, and emailing have slowly come to a halt. I've been a little down in the dumps. I haven't had a lot to say. Truthfully, I've been a little sad. I haven't even really talked about it to anyone other than my husband for fear of crying. You see, a couple of weeks ago, an old high school friend of mine passed away. She died of a massive heart attack. 56 years old, seemingly healthy, tall and thin--so why her? Why so young? She was a wife, a mom, a grandma — she had so many years left to live. And that bothers me, that makes me sad. Why her? And then that ever-looming question--am I next? I'm not going to play games here. I did think that. That question has popped into my head several times. I can't help it, it did! I also thought about my husband — is he next? Could it happen to one of us? And frankly, these questions scare me. I'm just being honest here, please don't judge me. Those thoughts, whether good or bad, keep coming to my mind.

But getting back to my friend, she was so nice. And even though we weren't super close back in school, I always remembered her as being one of the nice ones. Actually, now that I really think about it, they were all nice. I've mentioned before that I went to an all-girls Catholic high school. Our class was small by high school standards. There were only about 100 of us. So, I guess we were closer than most girls our age. We didn't really have that mean girl factor. At least I don't remember one. Yes, we all had our own groups; there were those we gravitated toward more than others. However, we were all kind to one another. We smiled and made room for each other. That's it. We made room for each other.  We accepted each other, no matter our ethnic background, religion (I was Protestant), or sexual orientation.  Yes, we all had a good idea who was who, even way back then. But it didn't matter. We were accepting, kind, loving, and, well, maybe we were, in some small way, family.

I think I am finally coming to terms with my friend's death. It's been a couple of weeks now. I am analytical by nature, so I had to process this sadness. I've had to grapple with the fact that one of us, one of my friends/family/girls, has passed away. My memories of her are good. She was sweet. She was kind. She had a beautiful smile. And I know that she was still that way because I ran into her just a few months ago while visiting my hometown. She was sitting with her family at a local restaurant, and I looked over and thought--could that be her? So, over I went. Is that you? I asked. And sure enough, it was. She jumped up and gave me a big hug. We chatted for a few minutes, and then it was time for us to part — I had friends waiting for me; I had to leave. I thought I'd see her in a few months at a little get-together I was planning for our high school friends. I thought I'd see her later. But I never will. And that makes me so sad.

I wonder sometimes what my friends' memories of me will be when I am gone. Will they have good, fond memories? Will they remember the same things about me that I remember about my friend? Will they be sweet memories? I sure hope so. I hope that I have been a good friend. One that hasn't been judgmental or unkind, one that has been supportive and loyal.

I think this is my prayer today. Lord, make me a good friend to my good friends. Teach me through this sad time to always be a wonderful friend. One who is kind and loving, supportive and loyal. So that one day their memories of me will be sweet, just like my memories of my old friend.  

Waiting

Every so often, I feel like writing a song or a poem. I am not schooled or trained in any way to do this type of writing. Things just come to me, and I write them down. I hope they don't seem too weird to anyone; it's just stuff in my head, mainly from my heart.

How much can I handle
How much can I endure
How much pain can I take
before you come near

I wait in the darkness.
I wait through the pain
I cry to you, oh God
Can you hear me sing

How long can I hang on
without hearing you
How long can I stand
before I fall through

I hang on to you, God
You're all that I have
Without you, I can't stand
Without you, I fall

So I wait for you, God
I wait for your voice
through my hurting heart
I try to endure, and I wait

Come heal my heart, God
Come hear my voice
Come hear, your daughter
as she cries in the night

My Soul Must Sing

I think it might just be the only way I know how. It might just be the way I express my love, adoration, thoughts, emotions, and gratitude.  Yes, I'm pretty sure about this one thing. I think it might be how I do it. Let me explain.

The discussion came up among friends concerning our worship time in the church we now attend. Please understand, when I write what I am about to write, that I love the little church that God has brought us to. I believe with all my heart that this is exactly where He wants us. There is a reason that we are there. I believe that while we are attending, we will grow in our relationship with Him and with our new friends there.  We will mature, learn, and experience God in a new and exciting way.  That being said--well, that being said, they, in turn, will glean something from us. At least a little something. At my age, I have a little something to bring to the party, so to speak. I've been a Christian for 50 years, a real Christian, not a pretend one or one that only leans on God when necessary, no, I've been a real one. I do not say this with pride; I say it with truth.  I love, serve, obey, trust, live, and worship God with all my heart, soul, and mind.

So, what point am I trying to make? What subject do I really want to talk about?  What exactly is on my mind today? Worship. It's a big word, in and of itself. It means a lot to me. Some think of it as just going to church. We go to church to "worship" God. However, to me, it means so much more. It isn't a noun to me, that's for sure. It's a verb. It's a word of action. Here is Veda's definition of the word worship: singing, hands in the air (or clapping), praising my Creator, my Savior, tears of gratitude flowing, adoration, thanksgiving, gratefulness, complete humility before my God, my father.

You see, I was made to worship God. I can't not worship. I listen to worship music in my car and at home all the time. I love it. In fact, it's the only kind of music I really, truly love. And since the wonderful invention of the smartphone, I've been able to listen to Pandora radio or Amazon Music everywhere I go. I program in Praise and Worship or Contemporary Christian music, and I am transported to my own little church service in my head. It's awesome. I can be in my car, singing away, or in my house, listening to my music on my phone, or even on my TV! It's wonderful. My whole house can sound like a Christian concert. Sometimes I wonder what the neighbors think, but then I'd like to think they secretly like it. I hope so anyway. Don't worry, it's not that loud. Not really.

I keep thinking about all the places in the Bible that talk about worshiping God. We're told that if we don't do it, the rocks will cry out, and the trees will clap their hands. Some way, somehow, God's creation will worship Him. He'll make sure of that. So why aren't we doing it? Why aren't we willing to sing out to Him, hands in the air, praising Him? What are we so afraid of? Someone might see us? Someone might make fun of us? What is it that holds us back? I wonder about these things sometimes when I am standing in my little church singing worship songs to and about my God. Why aren't others joining me in worship? Do they not feel His presence? Are they just afraid? Or do they judge me as being inappropriate? Sometimes I can't help but wonder.

In our conversation that night, the definition of worship was different even among the friends we were talking with. Some like older hymns; some like contemporary music; some like slow; some like fast; some like choirs, while others don't. Me? Well, I'm not a hymn person nor a choir person; I prefer praise music that flows into worship music, fast to slow, from clapping hands to upraised hands. It's a personal preference. And that's OK. I just know one thing for sure--as long as I can sing, I will.  As long as I can clap, I will, and as long as I can raise my hands in surrender, I will.   No matter who is watching or judging me.

My soul must sing to God, it must, or I will burst! I was made to do that one thing. To worship Him.  To praise Him.  And whether I am mocked or not--I will sing. My soul must sing.  

Psalm 98

A psalm. ¹ Sing to the LORD a new song,
   for he has done marvelous things;
His right hand and his holy arm
   have worked salvation for him.
² The LORD has made his salvation known
   and revealed his righteousness to the nations.
³ He has remembered his love
   and his faithfulness to Israel;
all the ends of the earth have seen
   The salvation of our God.
 ⁴ Shout for joy to the LORD, all the earth,
   burst into jubilant song with music;
⁵ make music to the LORD with the harp,
   with the harp and the sound of singing,
⁶ with trumpets and the blast of the ram's horn—
   Shout for joy before the LORD, the King.
 ⁷ Let the sea resound, and everything in it,
   the world, and all who live in it.
⁸ Let the rivers clap their hands,
   let the mountains sing together for joy;
⁹ Let them sing before the LORD,
   for he comes to judge the earth.
He will judge the world in righteousness
   and the people with equity.

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