Low Carb Pumpkin Bread

After a few tries, I finally came up with my own version of a low-carb pumpkin bread. With pumpkin everything hitting the coffee shops, fast food joints, and grocery stores--well, let's just say I wasn't a very happy camper. In fact, I felt deprived, very deprived. And left out--that too! So, I tried a few recipes, was completely disappointed, and came up with one of my own. I hope that you enjoy it. May it satisfy your sweet tooth as much as it does mine.


Low Carb Pumpkin Bread

6 eggs
1/4 cup coconut oil
1/2 cup sugar-free syrup (I use Log Cabin)
1/2 cup canned pumpkin
1 T vanilla
Mix the above in a food processor, then add the rest of the ingredients and pulse a few times to mix well.
1/2 cup Splenda
1/2 cup coconut flour
1/2 t salt
1/4 t baking soda
1 T pumpkin pie spice
1/2 cup sugar-free mini chocolate chips (optional)

Pour into a greased loaf pan and bake for 1 hour at 350 degrees.

Seaside Memories

I was completely taken aback. In fact, I was shocked, blinking quickly and trying hard not to cry, but I just couldn't stop the trickle of tears. I turned and headed out the door, with my husband following me, most likely wondering what had happened.

I wrote earlier that we had gone out to California for my 40th high school reunion, and as is our usual practice, we tacked on a boondoggle. I'm using that word because I love saying it. It's so much fun to say out loud.  Boondoggle.  I'm using the word incorrectly, though. We didn't go on a boondoggle, but I want to use that word.  For even though what we did was not a waste of time or money--it wasn't exactly a necessary excursion either. Well, I guess that's a matter of opinion. My husband and I thought it was important. And that's all the reason we needed.

We flew in a couple of days early and booked a room over near the coast. It was awesome--driving along Highway 1, listening to our favorite music, singing loudly, and stopping for lunch. We had a blast.   We decided to drive into Sonoma Dunes, where we used to take our 3 children camping. I should have stopped the reminiscing then. I should have listened to that little voice in my head that said--whoa, danger, stop now! But, I didn't. We kept on. Driving by all the little restaurants and shops, all of our old haunts, all of our memories stretching out there before me. Only this time, we were all alone. Our kids weren't with us. They were no longer 8, 10, or 12 years old. Nope, now they're old married people with little ones of their own. Now they're making their own memories without us.

I was actually doing pretty well--just waxing a little nostalgic here and there--and then we did something that I wish we hadn't, but you know what they say about hindsight. We parked in front of this beat-up little shack of a store and went inside. I had no intention of buying anything, but I just wanted to go in and see what they now carried in souvenirs. And that's when it happened--I began to feel tears spring to my eyes, I gulped a big gulp of air, tried to clear my throat, and then realized that I needed to get out of that store as quickly as possible.

So this is what truly happened, and yes, I already know that I am going to sound weird, but seriously, it felt so real at the time. As I was walking through that little store, it felt as though I had gone back in time with my kids--shopping for seashells, rocks, and plastic toys. I could hear them asking for things--" Mom, can I have this? Mom, I need a new hoodie, oh look mom, how cute, can I have it? Each aisle I went down, I could hear them. Their little voices so very long ago echoed through that room. Mom, mom, mom.  

I had to leave. I had to get out of there fast. I sat in our car, looking for a napkin to wipe my eyes, only to find an empty glovebox--as we were in a rental car. My husband jumped in beside me and wondered what had happened — had the lady been rude? Was I feeling OK? And how was I supposed to answer his questions? No, I'm not OK. I miss my kids; I miss our vacations; I miss them being little; I miss buying the seashells and t-shirts, and I wish I had bought them more! Is that what I was supposed to say? Well, whether I should have said it or not, I did say that. All of it. And I think he understood, because he just sat there and listened to me, and he let me cry.

A few minutes later, he started up the car, and we just drove along the coast. I told him that I never wanted to do that again — go into the little shops where we used to take our kids. I told him that we were going to have to make some new memories — new places to visit, shop, and eat. Talk about an emotional day. I'll have to be more careful next time. I've learned a very valuable lesson and also something important concerning my own personality.

Yes, it was an unsettling day. Hearing their voices, remembering the things we bought, seeing where we used to camp, the beaches we used to play on, the walks we used to take. It was hard. And I'm not sure I liked it at all.  It's something, though, that I'll have to process.  Others might bury it, but I'm not like that. One day, I will lay all those emotions out on the table and look them over, examining them one by one. I have to make sure that the timing is just right, though. Not too soon, not too late--just right. I'll lay them out and pray over them, and I'll know that as I look, God will heal my heart.

                                                             California Coastline

                                                                     Near Jenner

                                                                     Bodega Bay

                                                           Remnants of an old boat

                                                             We walked by it all the time.

                                                            Mr. Seagull at the Tides

                                                                Jawbone at the Tides

                                                              We loved eating her.e

                                                            Every trip to Bodega

My 40th High School Reunion

Last week, my husband and I flew to California. I feel comfortable there. It's home. We stayed at a hotel pretty close to where I grew up. Everything was familiar; I knew the neighborhood, could point out the houses where my old friends had lived, and even where certain businesses used to be — old coffee shops, theaters, and grocery stores that no longer existed, except in my memories.

I woke up that morning feeling giddy, yes, giddy. My first thought was that today was the day. The day of my 40th high school reunion. True, I had seen a lot of the girls just a mere 16 months ago, but this was different. This was the real deal. 40 years!  I lay there in my hotel bed, completely amazed.  Yes, I thought, I am that old. Old enough to have a 40th high school reunion.

There is no way that way back then, as a senior in high school, I could have even imagined what my future self would look like.  Oh, I figured I'd be about the same height, but what I couldn't envision was my face, or skin, or shape.  It's probably a good thing, though. I would have collapsed in sheer terror had I known!

So, on the morning of my reunion, as I looked into the mirror, I found I was not happy with the person who looked back at me. There she stood--fat, middle-aged, and frumpy looking--yep, I felt frumpy, lumpy, ugly, and not one bit 17.  I looked over at my husband and said — I feel puffy. To which he replied--You look kind of puffy. I then sat down on the end of the bed to see if I'd pass out from the tightness of the waistband on my pants. Almost.  Not comfy, that's for sure. But man, these new pants of mine sure were cute, kind of Aztec-looking.  I wanted to wear them so badly, but I knew I'd feel like a sausage, so I decided to just (once again) be myself. Jeans, a cotton shirt, and flip flops--the real me. Who cares!

I wonder now: if I had worn the sausage pants, would I have fooled anyone? I don't think so. We all know each other too well. Which is kind of comforting if I think about it. They didn't care what I wore, any more than I cared about what they wore. I just wanted them there — at our reunion. I, in fact, felt that I needed to be there.  I needed to reconnect with my old friends with whom I had spent my high school years.  I needed to see them, hear their laughter, and know that they were OK.

We had a great turnout. Not as many as I would have liked (which means every single person), but enough so that we all, and I do mean all, had a wonderful time.  Once again, though, I hid behind my camera. It's my way of connecting. I'll smile and take a picture of you, you smile back, and I'll feel accepted. That's just how I am. It's a safe place for me to be--behind the camera. I know myself. I'm just that way.

However, I did ask my husband for one favor.  I asked him to come back later in the afternoon, take my camera, and get a few shots of me--for I was there too, you know! So he did. He came, took some pictures, and also helped with the party teardown. He's good at that. He's a helper through and through.

It's taken me a week to come to terms with what exactly I experienced during those few short hours with my old high school buddies. I think I've come to a conclusion. I think I'm now able to put into words what I've been processing. I feel kind of sad — writing about it. And yet, I also feel that I should share it. Oh, these deep thoughts of mine. The thoughts, feelings, and emotions of one who feels that somehow, way back then, all those many years ago, I missed it. I failed them. Yes, I know that I was just a teenager, wrapped up in my own little life. However, I still hold myself accountable. And I am now wondering — why didn't I know?

I know I am sounding vague. A little crazier than usual, and yes, this will be very hard for me to explain, but it's truly what is rattling around in this atrophied brain of mine. This is my question — why didn't I know way back then that some of my friends lived in very unacceptable, dire circumstances? Dysfunctional homes, divorce situations, sexual abuse--the list goes on and on. Oh, I was clued into some of it. Certainly, though not most of it. I was too selfish. Or maybe they just hid it too well. I did. I hid it. No one truly knew what type of childhood I had. And what I wanted hidden--I hid well. I was good at that. Hiding. I still am.

There we were that afternoon in little clusters — gabbing away. We were excited to see one another; we asked the appropriate questions — where are you living now, any children? But never the deep questions--the how are you really? But then--something happened. Someone spoke up, someone shared the truth, someone came out of hiding, and as she and I sat outside in that beautiful backyard, with all our high school friends around us, she shared her heart with me. She shared the secrets of her childhood, and I was stunned. I didn't know. How would I have ever known? And that is what made me sad. Sad that 40 years ago, I was a typical teenager caught up in myself, trying hard to keep my secrets hidden and not even thinking about helping them with theirs. I found myself looking out over that sea of women, thinking, what else don't I know? And then, is there any way I can help?  And that, my friends, is why I went into psychology. That is why I have always been involved in crisis counseling. We need each other. We are told to bear one another's burdens. But do we? Do I?  

I spent more than a few moments swallowing back tears. I found myself more than once making my way back into the restroom where I would compose myself and head out into the crowd again with my camera in tow. You see, with my years of training, I could easily spot the hurting ones, the ones that said--I still have secrets. Won't anybody listen? I stood there, camera ready, but secretly praying over each and every woman there. I prayed that God would heal their broken hearts, that I would be a good friend, and I prayed that over the next several years, well, maybe we could share our needs, our secrets, our hurts, and our hearts with each other.  We have a history. We have a past. And we are friends. I don't know about you, but I am the type of person who makes a friend for life. That means you'll never be able to shake me. I'll always be here for you. You call, I listen. You ask--I pray. I won't judge you. I am your friend.

As I mentioned earlier, I have secrets too. I've shared many of them on this blog. Over the last couple of years, I have cried rivers of tears and spent many hours praying over just what to share. When God shows something to me — when He exposes my heart —I feel the need, not the responsibility, to share.  For I also lived in a dysfunctional home, with a bipolar father, an enabling mother, and a heart full of childhood fears. Yes, I had secrets too. I think I hid them pretty well, though. For example — when we were all gathering in groups to take pictures of our elementary and jr. high school years — that was hard for me. I went to 8 elementary schools, 3 junior high schools, and 2 high schools, so which group should I have stood with? I felt uncomfortable,  to say the least. I wanted that time to be over quickly. Really, I wanted to crawl under a rock. It might seem silly, but it brought up issues from my childhood due to my father's illness, which I still deal with to this day. That old feeling of not truly belonging in one specific group--it's a lonely place to be. Secrets. Did you know that about me? Probably not. I hid it well. However, I'm done hiding now. I want to share my stories so that I can help others share theirs. Why? So that we can begin the healing process, the healing of our hearts. And because that's how God made me. For me, that's what life is all about: helping others, not judging them. Listening, loving, accepting, teaching, and just plain old being a friend.

So that was how my 40th high school reunion went. It was awesome, fantastic, and fun, and I loved it. It was also a time when I finally felt that I could just relax and be myself. I don't care how much money you have or what kind of car you drive. I don't care about college degrees or world travels, I don't care. I just want all of us to be ourselves —women who feel safe, loved, and accepted — even when we feel puffy.

My Giant

I can't get him off my mind. Since yesterday morning, he's all I can think about. When this happens (and yes, it does happen often), I pray. I sit back and listen to the still voice of God. And then I ask questions. Lots of questions.

What is it about him that you want me to notice? What did he do, and why did he do it? Yes, I am sitting here in my family room, in my brown leather rocker, praying, typing, and rocking away.  Who am I talking/thinking about? I'm talking about David. You know, the guy in the Bible. The David and Goliath David. I just can't stop thinking about him.

He was just a teenager, you know--when he went up against Goliath. It struck me again this morning--he was just a teenager! I am wondering--would he have been so quick to volunteer to go up against Goliath had he been older and wiser and more knowledgeable, or maybe better educated, or steeped in tradition? Had he been 40 or 50, would he have volunteered? I'm not so sure. In fact, I don't think he would have. Why not? Well, now that's a good question. And that's what I'm pondering.

I believe the question God is asking me right now, right this very minute, is--what are the giants in your life? Yep, that's what He's saying to me, alright. He wants me to list the giants, the things deep down in my heart that look too big for me to go up against. And, I don't want to, I don't want to list them, or say them out loud, or even acknowledge them. Or maybe I should just say it. I don't want to acknowledge that giant of mine because if I do, it becomes real. And real giants are scary. And I'm not David. And I'm not young. And I'm afraid of my giant.

My giant happens to be a person, too. Not like Goliath. Not that type of person. However, the metaphor is much the same. I am thinking that if I were younger, I'd have a more invincible attitude, I'd be fearless. But I'm not younger. I'm older. I'm jaded. And now I'm sad. Saddened that this jaded heart of mine has given up. Why am I so afraid to confront my giant? And just when did that fear creep in? I didn't even know it was there! And yet--there it is. Fear. I am afraid of my giant. It's right there in front of me, looking at me and daring me to come and slay it. Metaphorically, of course.

I know that God is with me--however, my educated, mature mind is telling me to back off, to be careful, to not say a wrong word, or do the wrong thing. I can hear that inner voice--be careful, you just might offend someone, you might make them mad, you might lose them forever. That's really what I'm afraid of--losing them forever. When I deeply love someone, the last thing I want to do is lose them forever, right?

So, I'm careful, so very, very careful. I tell myself--don't say the wrong thing, don't dare slip up or take a stand or do anything that might push them away. Be careful. Be careful. Be careful.

And then there's God's voice. Be bold, be strong, for the Lord your God is with you!

Today, I must be a David. I must take a stand, I must say and do the hard thing. That is God's challenge for me. Am I willing? Can I do it? I hope so. Because right now, today, I feel stuck. I read about the Davids of the Bible, and I realize that I am no David. Not by a long shot. I do not have that feeling of invincibility or faith for that matter--where I can face the giants in my life and trust that God will be with me.

I do not want to be stuck, I do not want to walk a faithless walk. Remember, I was the one who wanted to live a fearless life. So what has happened to paralyze me with fear? I think I know, no, I know I know. It's just admitting it. It boils down to saying it out loud, confessing it, asking God to forgive me, changing my attitude, and walking in His true calling of my life. It boils down to obedience.

What if David had said to the Lord--no God, I am afraid, I will not go up against Goliath. We wouldn't have a story of faith now, would we? No, we'd have a story of defeat. And honestly, I can not handle the thought of my life being a story of defeat. So I will pray, ask for strength, and I will know that God is present (and always will be) with me as I face the giant in my life. This person, whom I love with all my heart, must be challenged.

Pray for me, as I summon up the courage to face my giant. I desperately need God's wisdom and His words. I need His guidance, His love, and His timing, for it has to be precise. Just like David's rock--it must land in the nick of time. This person, this giant, is walking on very shaky ground. And if this person takes one more step away from God, I fear there will be no going back. I fear for them and their children. Their very souls are in God's hands. Please God, give me the courage to speak out for you.

Just Kidding

Something kind of unbelievable just happened. However, first off, before I share this little story, please understand that I was just joking around. I wasn't serious, and I know for certain that God didn't take me too seriously either, or did He?

A few days ago, I lost part of an earring. It was a little blue glass bead about half the size of a pea. These were not expensive earrings; in fact, to be honest, I rarely wore them. They were pretty and dainty, though, and I did really like them. We had gone to church that morning and had just come home from having lunch with friends. We were relaxing on the sofa, and as usual, I was playing with my hair--when I noticed the missing earring piece. I was so sad because I just knew I'd never find it. I had been at church, in a restaurant, at a large department store, in my car (which is a convertible), and all over my house. Did I mention that my house has carpet? No, I had no hope of ever finding that little tiny piece to my earring, ever. I looked everywhere but could not find it.

The next morning, while spending some time praying, I jokingly said--You know, God, if you found that little earring for me, I'd know that my husband was supposed to go back to Congo.  I laughed--really, I did. I was not serious at all. Or was I? Oh, the Congo thing was real enough. You see, my husband had been praying about returning. Yes, I just said returning to Congo!

And me? Well, I was praying too. Praying that he did not go back — not so soon, anyway. It is very dangerous over there, and he wouldn't be going with the same church group. This time, it was pure water and electrical stuff. Instead of missional, it would be mechanical. Instead of having the backing and protection of our church, it would be backed and funded by a different group. And honestly, it scared me a little (ok, a lot.)  So he asked me to pray with him — and I did. I prayed that he wouldn't go.
No, I didn't. I prayed and asked God to give him a clear word of direction — to go or stay. Secretly, though--I didn't want him going back so soon. He had only been home a couple of months. And hadn't I just wiped the sweat from my brow, and hadn't I just swallowed a huge sigh of relief upon his return? The thought of him going back so soon was a little too much for me. Hey, I'm just being real here!

Thus, the earring incident. If you help me find that tiny little earring piece, Lord, then I'll know it's your will that he go back. Clever. Until I found it. Yes, I found the stupid little earring, lying at my feet as I was sitting on the sofa watching TV a couple of nights later, hand draped over petting my dog. I looked down and saw something shiny--as soon as I saw it, I knew what it was. My heart stopped for a minute.  I reached down to pick it up, and yep, it was my earring all right.  I sat there rather dumbfounded. Well, Lord, I said--I guess he's going to Congo. And that's when I heard it. Deep down in my heart, I heard it--a chuckle. He spoke so clearly to me right then--you are the one who started this silly game, and I don't play games, remember?  
I knew then that if God wanted my husband back in Congo, He would send him there. And he would not have to use an earring to convince me.

I am so thankful that God is patient with me. He uses silly little things to teach me great big life lessons. I'm thankful that He has given my husband a heart for the people of Congo. And yes, I'm thankful that one day, he'll be going back. Probably a lot sooner than I even realize. When he does return to Congo, God will have His hand of protection on him; God will always be able to find him--even amongst the restaurants, the convertibles, and the carpeting--because He sees everything. He knows exactly, at all times, just where everything and everybody are located. If he can find a little earring, He can find my husband. He can and will protect him.

And guess what? I don't think I was just kidding at all. I think that somewhere deep down there was some truth to my joking. God saw through my fears, though. He met me right where I was, and He used my little lost earring as a lesson. He's always been like that with me. Teaching me, loving me, and protecting my heart. And I'm not kidding about that.

Garage Sale

I've always thought that God has a great sense of humor. After all--he made me, didn't he? I'm pretty sure that I, at times, amuse him. I like that I amuse him, and I also like that I am amazed by his timing and his orchestration of our lives. My life anyway. Always my life. I gave it to him when I was 6 years old. Do what you want with me, I said. And he did, and he does--every day.

On one such day, in particular, I had a garage sale. Hold on, bear with me here. This really is a relevant story. I promise. You see, I needed to get rid of some junk. My home didn't have a basement, and we were a family of 5 living in 2000 square feet. So every few years, I needed to purge. We collected way too much in the way of treasures and goodies. I can admit it now-I am a collector. I had extra kitchen appliances, china, and dishes left over from an old antique business, various toys and sports equipment, and the usual garage junk. I probably had at least 5 years' worth of extra stuff to get rid of.

What was different about that day was who came to my garage sale. At some point during the morning, I noticed a little family looking through my stuff. Small appliances seemed to be their thing. And I was curious — why did they need so many? Not one to be shy about asking questions (I'm the curious type), I asked them — why all the appliances? They explained that they were looking for their church kitchen. After talking for a bit, I learned that they were the new pastors of a small Covenant church just a couple of miles from my home, and they needed some supplies.  Being that it was a small church with limited funds, they were hitting up the local yard sales. After they finished collecting all their new finds, I bagged them up — we are Christians, I said, and you aren't paying for a thing — we are donating this to your church. 

Funny how God works. They stayed for a long time, chatting and laughing, their kids playing with our dogs — it seemed we were in the process of making new friends. Funny how God works. They asked if they could come back that evening, just for a visit over some coffee. Of course, I said, we'd love to have you! And that night marked the beginning of a Saturday-night prayer time for this pastor, his wife, and us.  We became friends, and although we did not attend their church (not right then anyway), we prayed for them and their little church every Saturday night for the next year and a half.  Towards the end of that time, my husband and I felt we should leave our present church and start attending the little Covenant church they were pastoring. We stayed with them until we moved to the Midwest.  Funny how God works.

Fast forward almost 15 years — all of our children are now grown and married, our friends moved up north to pastor another church, and we moved to the Midwest.  And only because of Facebook have we been able to keep up with each other's lives, pray for one another, and share pictures, etc. I disagree with those who bash technology — I love it.

I look back now over the last 20-plus years, and I can see the threads of God's timing throughout my life.  People, places, circumstances--all planned.  I had a garage sale, and I met lifelong friends. I met lifelong friends, and I started going to a Covenant church. I started attending a Covenant church, where I have made many more lifelong friends. Funny how God works. Even at garage sales.

I've decided that rather than collect things, I want to collect people. Wherever God sends me, however, he uses me, I'll be ready. Whether I'm having a garage sale or going to one--I'll be ready. Because I never know who I'll meet. I never know how God will use me. I never know who my next lifelong friend will be.

I see God in the little everyday things. Even garage sales. I see him working, and moving, and ministering to me and others everywhere I go. So I'll be ready, no matter where I am, I'll be ready. To be used by him, and for him.

I'm His Favorite

Most Friday mornings, you can find me sitting with several friends having coffee. We meet, drink coffee, and solve the world's problems.  I (being the techie that I am) take my iPad. That way, when we have questions without answers, I can Google them and voilà! We have instant answers to our many inquiries about life. We meet early and stay late--laughing, talking, and sometimes even crying. Well. Usually, that's just me, but whatever!

One morning during said coffee time, my friend chuckled as she remembered a t-shirt she had recently seen. The front of the T-shirt had this quote on it--Jesus loves you, but I'm his favorite. She said that she immediately thought of me. We all had a good laugh over that t-shirt. Of course, I was sitting there thinking — I so want that shirt! Why? Because I am his favorite.

I knew that I would have to process what God was saying to me later, through our conversation about the t-shirt. You see, that quote began to roll around in my brain, and God wasn't (no matter how hard I tried) going to let me forget about it. So, I just prayed and asked God to show me what he wanted me to know. Over the next few weeks, he did. Slowly. I'm thinking it was slow so that I'd never forget it. By the time he was done with the lesson on that little quote--well, I'd be sure, I'd know for certainty--I was his favorite.

And while praying one morning, he began to show me all the times he had gone after me. As in--the shepherd going after that one lost, wandering lamb. His favorite. I cried and thanked him for going after me. He is always faithful, even when I am not.

Thinking about the quote on that t-shirt and thinking about Jesus, my shepherd, always finding me, well,  it made me feel safe. It made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I was loved, cared for, and protected. And then I thought--if he always goes after me and finds me--why don't I trust him with my loved ones? Won't he also go after the ones I love so much and pray for daily? Aren't they his favorites, too?

If you think I cried before, you should have seen me that morning. There I was sitting in my rocking chair, crying, praying, and asking God to bring these people whom I love so much--bring them back to you, God, show yourself to them, please God. I was begging him. And then he spoke to my heart and said--they're my favorites too. I'm going after them--don't you worry. I'll never leave them or forsake them; I'll draw them back to me. I promise.

That was a great morning, just having the assurance that my God, my savior, would go after them just like he always does for me. He'll rescue them, he'll protect them, he'll find them--because they're his favorites. And I am too. Jesus loves us, and we're his favorites!

Soul Sister

I have been extremely blessed in my life with lots of friends and a huge extended family. However, there is one standout person in my life that I'd like to write about today. And she happens to be my cousin. Yes, she is one of many, however, this particular cousin is more like a sister to me, in fact, she's my soul sister. At least that's how I think of her. She's the one to have my back, to pray for me, and she listens to me--she's good at that.

We weren't close growing up, though. She's a couple of years younger than I am, and she hung out with my little sister. In fact, as much as I hate to admit it, I was a little (just a little) bit mean to her. OK, a lot mean. You see, she was a little tattletale.  You remember those types — mom, so-and-so is doing such-and-such.  So much so, that I found myself looking for things to do so that she'd tattle on me, and then I'd bat my innocent little eyes at my mother and say--who me? I didn't do that, Mom.  She's lying. And of course, my mom would believe me. Yes, I was an ornery little booger. My poor little cousin would get so exasperated with me, but it was worth it just to put that little tattletale in her place. What a little brat I was!

Fast forward several years, and we were married and starting our own families. We'd just had our first babies, and I found out she was moving to the town where I was living.  I wondered how that would go down — would we hang out? Would she want to go to my church? Would our little girls play together? I wanted us to be friends; we were grown-ups now, we were moms — so I tried hard to welcome her, and I introduced her to some of my friends.  And I invited her to church, which she declined. It's interesting now that I think back on that conversation--I knew she was going through a rough time, but I also knew that I was supposed to invite her to my church. At that time of her life, she wasn't walking with God; she was pretty much doing her own thing, and yet...I knew in my heart I just had to invite her. What I said to her was this — I'm only going to ask you once; I'm not going to bug you. When you're ready, call me, and I'll come pick you up, and we'll go together. But I'm not going to ask you again, so it's up to you. Honestly, I didn't think she'd call, not for a long time. However, 3 weeks later, she did. She came to church with me that Sunday and never looked back. Yes, she's gone through many trials and tribulations just like the rest of us, and she has worked out her stuff with God. And, we've always given each other space, and we've always prayed for each other.

We became best friends over the next few years. We had so much in common--we each had a daughter and then 2 sons, we went to the same church, had many of the same friends, we went camping together (yes, I used to camp), we raised our kids together, hung out, went to Bible studies, and on and on. And when I moved to the Midwest many years later, she was one of the people I hated leaving behind the most. It tore my heart out to leave her. One good thing, though, is that we've still maintained our relationship.  Maybe because we are blood — I don't know. Maybe because we have so much history, or maybe because that's how God wants it. We are still (if not more so) close; we still pray for each other, listen to each other, counsel each other, and think of each other as soul sisters. She is probably my closest friend. And without getting too mushy here--just know this, I love her very much, in fact--I admire her. And, I'm going to tell you why. This will embarrass her, however, since I don't use names and have a boatload of cousins, she will remain somewhat (not really) anonymous.

Almost 40 years ago, my cousin (and her sister) suffered a great tragedy. Their entire family was killed in a small plane crash. Their father, mother, brother, and sister — gone. Just like that, their world was interrupted and turned upside down. I can remember that night very clearly. My husband and I were in the car when a news bulletin came over the radio.  There had been a plane crash with 3 family members on board, all were killed. How sad, I thought, a whole family--gone. When we walked into our house, the phone was ringing — my sister delivered the news: it was my aunt, uncle, and 2 cousins — there were actually 4 on board.  They'd found their brother's body, too. The funeral for those 4 family members was one of the largest I'd ever been to. They were from a small town, and I think just about everybody came.  My cousin was only 18, and her sister was only 16.  As I sat there watching both of my cousins say goodbye to their families, well, it just broke my heart. I believe that it was at that time, God began to put that soul sister love and that protective big sister heart--into me. Because within just a couple of short years, our deep friendship began.

You might wonder why I admire my cousin so much, well, in all these years she's never played the victim. She doesn't talk about her loss. She is strong in her faith, and she loves and trusts her God. She knows he is in control, and although I am sure she misses her parents and siblings every day, she doesn't dwell on it. Her loss has never defined her. She is a survivor. I have such great respect for her and her relationship with God. She knows that one day she'll be reunited with her family, and she's more than willing to let go of the past and get on with God.

Last week, God gave each of us a gift. He allowed us to go to the Triennial together. And boy did we have fun. Not only was I there with 15 others from my church, but my soul sister was there! We were able to stand side by side and worship God together for the first time in 14 years. And it was awesome. We cried, we prayed, we talked, we worshiped, and we sang--together. My cousin/best friend/soul sister. I'll never forget that week in San Diego. Soul sisters were reunited. And I thank our awesome and mighty God for such a wonderful time.

Now, I have one more thing to say--something grandiose--something kind of crazy sounding. I have a prayer request. My cousin and I —no, wait, now that I think about it, I have several cousins with daughters — anyway, wouldn't it be the coolest thing ever if, in 3 years, at the next Triennial, well, we could all go again, only next time with our daughters? I wonder — if I start praying now — how many would go? Cousins, and their daughters, sisters, and their daughters, the possibilities are limitless, kind of like my God. He's just so awesome like that. And now I've lots to pray about. And so does my cousin--she'll be so happy! Her bossy cousin strikes again! Soul sisters forever.

Triennial--Part 3

At the beginning of this year, our pastor asked us to pray about God giving us a "word of the year"; mine was service.  I heard God speak this word very clearly to my heart. Service. I wondered what that would look like.  I assumed I'd be pretty busy with a word like service. There were several areas of ministry I was already involved in, so I felt pretty good about it.  I was already doing service.  I thought.

However, once again, on that very last worship service at Triennial, that last Sunday morning, just when I thought I was safe, God spoke one more thing into my heart. He said to me--I want you to be available. And I quickly answered — I am available — don't you remember? My word for the year is service. I thought maybe He had forgotten. No, I didn't. I knew He hadn't forgotten.

I thought this blog would be one of the easiest to write, but now I think it might just be the hardest because I found that, before I could be available, I had to come clean before the Lord. I had to be honest. You see, I had tucked something so far deep down into my heart that I didn't even realize it was there. I was holding on to a hurt, a disappointment, and I needed that area of my life purged before I could be completely available or totally surrendered to God.

Here's what I was holding onto. Anger. I was mad at God. Want to know why? Because he moved me away from my kids and grandkids. I now live 6 hours away from my 2 sons and their families and 12 hours away from my daughter and her family, and I hate it. I tried so hard to push that anger way down deep, far away from me, and I tried hard not to dwell on something that right now I can not change.  I seriously thought I had done it, that I was managing quite well. After all, didn't I constantly talk about how much I love my home, my neighborhood, my church, and my new little town? Well, didn't I? I asked God these things as He exposed my true self to me. He told me that, try as I had, I still harbored anger. I blamed Him for ripping me away from my family. And in blaming Him, everything I did was half-hearted.  And God doesn't want half of my heart; He wants all of my heart.

So there I was, once again, tears streaming down my face, asking God to forgive me and heal my heart. And He did that day. He healed my sad little broken heart--the one that misses her kids and grandkids so much sometimes--that when I am all alone, all I do is cry. I really don't know how to explain this part, but He has put an assurance deep inside of me that He has everything under control, and that if I will just trust Him and serve Him and be available to Him--with ALL my heart, He'll bless me, and take care of me and heal those sad little parts of my heart. He'll make me whole. I just needed to hand all that over to Him, and so I did. Right there in that service, I lifted up my hands to Him and said--wherever, whatever, however God, I am yours, and I surrender it all to you.

I am now available to be used by God, for His glory, at any time. I am His, and He is mine. And I will serve Him and love Him and honor Him with all I've got. I am still walking around my house in utter amazement over all that God accomplished in my life in those few short days in San Diego. Yes, Triennial was life-changing for me. I am praying that 3 years from now, 100 women from my little church can attend. I don't know how, but that's really not my problem, now is it? God will take care of the logistics, and my job is clear. I'm going to pray. And I'll just be available.

Triennial--Part 2

There are many, many titles I could give to this blog post. One of which would be--my calling. And that is what I am going to talk about. My gift, my calling. We all have them; they are special gifts from God. Ephesians 4:11-12 discusses these specific calls or gifts from God.

So, there I was minding my own business at Triennial, thinking I had heard from God, ready to digest and mull over what he'd said to me, when lo and behold he spoke again. This time, though, it was through a memory, a flashback to a time over 30 years ago. It happened at the same time my husband had his come-to-Jesus meeting, which I've shared about in my blog titled "A Calling Fulfilled."
I shared the story about how a pastor spoke into my husband's life. Well, that same pastor spoke into my heart that night, too. I've just never shared it before. Ever. Oh, I've talked about what he said to me about being patient, kind, and understanding with my husband as God was growing him, but I've always trailed off, saying — he said a few other things too — and then I'd never finish that sentence.

Well, at Triennial, on Saturday night, he reminded me of just what that pastor had said to me. He said the strangest thing--he leaned in and whispered something into my ear so that only I could hear it. And what he said sent chills down my spine, because there was no way in the whole wide world he could have known. You see, when I pray, and when I hear God's voice deep down in my heart--he calls me daughter. I know that sounds crazy, but he does. This pastor could have started out his sentence in so many other ways, but he didn't. He said, " Daughter.  So when this pastor said, "Daughter," he caught my attention. And then he said something else--something that I already knew was real and active and working in my life, but also something that was so scary to me.  He said, " Daughter, you are God's weeping prophet. And he sees every tear you shed. Funny thing is--I wasn't crying at the time.  But the minute he said that, the tears began to flow; I couldn't have held them back if I tried.

Yes, I am a daughter of the Most High God. Yes, I cry--when I talk about God, when I pray to God, when I think about God, when I sing to God--I cry. I also have that whole prophet gifting thing going on. Oh yes, I do. I have as far back as I can remember. Dreams, visions, the whole nine yards. And, as I stood there during our worship service at Triennial, I realized that I had not been moving in my gift. Not really. Not in the way he wanted me to. Why? Because I didn't want anyone to think I was weird. I wanted to just be accepted.  I wanted people to like me.

The Holy Spirit convicted me that night. Basically, in a nutshell, he said--I've called you. Now own it. Please don't misunderstand me--I have been hearing God's voice all along, and when appropriate, I've spoken up. I just haven't been moving out in the way God wants me to. I've sought man's approval over God's, and for that I am ashamed.

I've decided to share a couple of examples as to how God speaks to me, just for clarification. I always think it helps to have something to visualize. So here's the first story.
It was a Sunday morning, and I was getting ready for church. As I was praying/singing to the Lord, I saw a picture flash through my mind of a friend of mine. She was sitting with a razor blade lying against her wrist. Fear shot through me, and as I finished up getting ready, I could not get that picture out of my head.  I prayed for her all through church, and yes, she was there. I wondered — what do I do with this information God has given me? As the service was coming to an end, our pastor asked the elders to come forward and pray for those who wanted prayer. Being an elder, I went up front. And so did my friend. She got in my line. She wanted me to pray for her. As she stood in front of me, I reached out and held her hands. I stood there quietly praying for several minutes with tears rolling down my cheeks. And then I boldly prayed over her concerning what I had seen that morning while praying at home. Yes, she said, I sat there, telling God that I was done, I had had it, I was going to kill myself because no one understood the pain I was going through. We prayed up there at that altar for a long, long time. God intervened, and she is doing great — all these many years later.

To me, that's what a prophetic call is all about--it confirms what's already in our hearts, gives us encouragement, and serves as a warning.   A word of wisdom, knowledge, or confirmation. That's the call that God has given me. I did not ask for this gift. However, I will accept it, walk in it, and share and speak out what he wants me to.

The next example might sound silly, but it really did happen just the way I'm telling you. We had just moved back to a small town we had lived in for 8 years, so I already had lots of friends in the area. As I was praying one morning, I heard God tell me to get ready and go to the mall. I know, I get the irony here!  But, I did not go into any stores; I just felt led to walk through that 2-story mall, so up and down the corridors, I went.  Up ahead of me, I heard someone almost scream out OH MY GOD, OH MY GOD. As I looked towards the woman yelling, I realized that I knew her, so I started walking towards her. She threw herself into my arms and began to tell me the story of how she had been so desperate, so despondent, so emotionally undone. She had prayed that morning and asked God to bring her someone she could trust, talk to, and pray with. Immediately, she thought of me but knew I had moved away years before; she did not know I had recently moved back into town. When she saw me, she knew that she was witnessing a miracle right before her eyes. She was so excited and thankful that God loved her so much that he told me to go to that mall, on that day, at that hour. God met us there that day, and we sat right there on a bench on the second floor of a huge mall, crying, praying, and praising God. Yep, it was nothing short of miraculous. But that's the kind of God we serve.

So, that's my calling. Prophetic and prayerful, and God wants me to move out in this gift more than I do right now. He's calling me to walk a truer walk of faith. And I will. As scary as it seems to me, as stretching and uncomfortable and disruptive as it might get--I have to be obedient. And I will. I will continue to be that weeping prophet for the rest of my life because that's what God has called me to.

Triennial--Part 1

I've just returned from several days in San Diego at an event called Triennial. It is a women's conference of the Evangelical Covenant denomination, of which I am a member. While there, God spoke to me. He said 3 things, so I have decided to write 3 separate blogs detailing what I heard from God. Some or maybe even all won't make any sense to you. It does to me, however.  He knew just what to say to get my attention, and he did.  Yes, I can say that last week God changed my life. I will break this down into three parts to explain what happened to me from start to finish. It still blows me away, so it is difficult to write about. Please know that I am crying my eyes out as I type. For God is so very real and alive.

It began something like this — I was in a bad mood. I'll call it a spiritual bad mood.  Actually, looking back, I believe that I was under attack.  I had recently crashed into the back bumper of my car while backing out of a friend's driveway. I also (unrelated to the car incident) spent some time at my doctor's office, and physical therapy, and had to go on medication. Fortunately, by the time my plane left for the West Coast, my car was in the shop, and I was off the meds.  I, however, couldn't seem to shake the mood.  I was kind of blah. Other descriptive words might include--discouraged, saddened, very much a what's the use attitude. Only I didn't know it at the time. I wasn't even aware that I was going through this spiritual bad mood, let alone that I was under attack. I'm kind of dumb that way.

I arrived in San Diego ready to have some fun. That's just what I needed, I thought--fun! My friend and I went shopping, took a trolley tour, and went out to dinner; we were having a great time.  And yet. There remained a deep sadness in my heart. And I just couldn't shake it. I wondered — why was I here?

The conference started on a Thursday night — with worship, singing, and a great message by our very own pastor's wife, who is also president of our women's ministry. It was so exciting to see 850 women praising God, hands lifted, voices joined in song — it should have been awesome. Only it wasn't. I still felt blah. I tried hard to shake it, but I couldn't. And that evening, while others stayed around afterward to chat, I went back to my room to pray. I kept asking God — What in the heck is wrong with me? Am I just tired? Am I just not feeling you here? What is up with that??? Nothing.  I heard nothing. So, I decided to just keep on keeping on.

The next morning, we headed off for another time of worship, some workshops, and another evening of worship. Nothing changed. It wasn't as though it was bad. Quite the opposite. It was great. It was just me; I wasn't feeling it. Not at all. Again that evening, rather than hang out and chit-chat with the others, I went back to my room and prayed. Please, God, I said — show yourself to me. Talk to me. Speak to me! I am desperate! I sat there cross-legged on my bed, tears rolling down my face, waiting. Nothing. I heard nothing. So, I started talking.  I began to tell God that I was kind of mad that he had brought me all the way out here, and I had spent all that money and given up quite a bit to be here, and he wasn't even showing himself to me.  I was in a bad mood, my car was crunched, my head hurt, my neck hurt, and I was so tired, and I complained and complained and complained until I fell asleep.

I guess he heard me because the next morning, as a young Mexican woman named Bianca got up to preach--well, all of a sudden God had my attention. I could hear him saying to me--Can you hear me now! Yes, I said, I can hear you. And what he said to me while she was preaching took me so by surprise that I sat there dumbfounded. It was weird--I heard every word she said, and I heard God speak at the same time. That was awesome. Anyway, this is what he said to me.

STOP IT. STOP IT. STOP IT.

I played dumb at first. Stop what? Oh, I knew. I knew. I just didn't want to admit it. But, as I sat there, right in the middle of 850 women, he spoke to me, and he said those 2 words. They brought me up short. Kind of like when you are training a dog on a choke chain. Swift, straight up, fast, and with authority.  I knew what he was talking about. Oh yes, I did. I use the analogy of dog training for a reason. I've trained several dogs, and have always used the same technique. It remains the same, even though the dog's personality might be different.  Eventually, that puppy will respond to the training; some just take longer than others.  Take the dog I now own. Teaching that dog the down command was the hardest thing I've ever done.  I've always trained my dogs not only with verbal words but also with hand signals. From 50 ft away, if I signal my dog, she had better hit the ground. Down means down. I thought of all that while God was speaking to me. Stop it means to stop it.

So, what did he want me to stop? Well, he wanted me to stop playing church. Only not in the way one might think. Nope, the opposite way. Some people play all holy, holy, churchy, churchy. I was doing the opposite, and he wanted me to stop it. This is hard to explain, but I'll try.

I was raised in the Assemblies of God denomination. Pentecostal. Loud. Pray-ers.  Hands raised. Lots of freedom in worship. Crying. Open adoration before God. Fiery. Bold. Unashamed. But a few years ago, we started going to a Covenant church. We became members, and depending on where we've lived, we've either gone to one or the other. AG or Cov.  Right now, we are at a Covenant church. It's a quiet, sweet little church, full of the most awesome people you'd ever want to meet. They have hearts of gold and would do anything for me. And because of this--for this very reason, I need to come clean before them and ask them to forgive me. I have not been real. I have not been authentic. I have been playing church. You see — I've been holding back so as not to offend them. I wanted them to like me. I wanted them to accept me. And honestly, I didn't want to come off too holy, holy. And God wants me to STOP IT.

So, as Bianca was preaching, moving out in the spirit of God, and ministering to those women, God told me that, like her, I should move in those same giftings.  Only I was hiding.  I was trying hard to be sly about being used by God. And he doesn't like that. So, I'm done being shy, I'm done hiding.

God is calling me to worship him with my whole heart. Whether it offends them or not. Whether it makes them feel uncomfortable or not. So now, instead of just slightly raising one hand while worshiping, if he says to get both those hands up there, girl! I will. If he says to me--fall on your knees and worship me, right there smack dab in the middle of church--I will. I will STOP IT, and I will praise him with all I've got. They might not like it, but I have to be obedient. I have to. So I will.

I am a Spirit-filled, Pentecostal, Charismatic, crazy church lady. That's who I really am, and I'm not going to hide it any longer. They might be kicking me out soon, but I will praise my God with my whole heart, tears running freely down my face, hands raised high, face turned towards God--for he is mighty, and I love him and I love to pray (and here I will add--I don't just love to pray a little--I love to pray a lot), and I love to sing and worship more than anything else in this entire world. And I am no longer going to hold back in church. I'm going to STOP IT.

Yes, this is part 1. Parts 2 and 3 are even crazier. Hold on to your hats. He spoke 2 more things into my heart over the next two sermons.  I'll write about them soon, I promise.  In the meantime, pray for me.  Pray that I can shed these inhibitions of mine and that I am obedient to the call on my life.

And pray for my sweet little church. I just love those people with my whole heart. And I'm not going anywhere. I'm on them like white on rice! I'm here, and I'm ready to be used by God.

Blogging Prednisone Style

I've been told that I should blog right now! While I am hopped up on medication. I think it's because I confessed through a series of Facebook posts about my recent trip to the doctor's office for my neck and hip.  I originally went for another cortisone shot in the bursa sac of my left hip, and while there, decided to mention my neck problems.  No, not my husband--a real pain in my neck. No, wait, that's still not coming out right. Oh well,  I ended up trying to explain to my doctor just what was going on, and he then had some X-rays taken.

It seems that one or two of the vertebrae in my neck aren't turning correctly, basically, one is stuck, and also, there is some deterioration.  So long story short, he put me on a few weeks of physical therapy and on a decreasing dose of Prednisone. 8 days worth of crazy. That's what I'm calling it. 8 days of very odd things going on in my head and body. For example — the first thing I noticed on day one was that my mind was racing a mile a minute. I couldn't contain my thoughts; they wanted to leap right out of my mouth! Another was hot sweats, and yet another was an increased appetite. And remember, I eat low carb! That first day almost did me in.  I only slept for 4 hours those next two nights. I had a very clean house, though, and I practiced NOT talking!  Also, I noticed something else, and I highly doubt it's in any warning label that goes along with the meds I was on--I had an increased hypersensitivity to smell. Body odor smells in department stores and especially in elevators. I thought a couple of times I just might lose my lunch. I also dealt with a very upset stomach, wondering at times if I needed to make a run for the restroom. I was nauseous and queasy after every dose. And to top it all off, in the evenings, my skin itched!

Yes, those first 4 days of meds were taking their toll on me. I was afraid to talk on the phone, meet friends for lunch, go on Facebook, and do lots of other interactive activities. I lived in fear for several days. I started to decrease the meds today, and I feel so much better. I even dozed for 10 minutes in my recliner! It's a miracle. However, I can still smell the smells. Some retail stores have just lost my business forever. I hit the internet for my shopping pleasure today--who knows what will show up in the mail while I'm out of town next week. It'll be like Christmas! Surprise!

So, this evening, I sit here on my laptop, writing away and sharing this crazy 8-day experience of mine.  I'll be boarding a plane in a couple of days, and I'm thanking God it'll be my last day of meds. Hopefully, I won't be able to smell so strongly on that plane, hopefully I'll actually sleep in the hotel, and hopefully I'll be able to keep my mouth shut around others.  Yes, this has been a very crazy 8 days.

So, on the dare of some friends, I'm writing this little blog.  Hopped up, crazy, attention veering off in every direction, mind wandering, sleep-deprived, and very hungry.  However, now that I'm thinking about it--my neck does feel better!

Yes, I'm Sure

A funny thing happened to me at a recent doctor's appointment. In fact, this wasn't the first time I have experienced this little conversation/interaction. Since I found it very humorous, I thought you might too.

I had to fill out some new paperwork, as they were updating their information. No problem I said and sat down to fill out some patient forms. As I handed in my paperwork, our conversation began.
It went something like this--
Are you Hispanic?
No
Ummmmmmm, are you sure?
Yes, I'm sure
Sooooooooooo, you're non-Hispanic?
Correct, I am not Hispanic.

She sat there looking at me as though I were outright lying to her. Guess what I did? I laughed out loud. I would think that I, more than anyone in that room, would know my ethnic makeup.  I assured her once again that I was not Latina, and that I had checked the correct box. The poor lady didn't know how to respond, so she just looked at me and said — OOOOOKKKKK.

I'm still a little stunned over this event. True, I am olive-complected, I have dark brown eyes and brown hair, but many of us fit that description and aren't Latina. Not that I'd mind it, but it just isn't true.

There was another incident a few years ago while I was still living in California.  I went into a new hair salon for a haircut, and this is what transpired--
The hairstylist asked me a question in Spanish.
I said I don't speak Spanish.
What? Your parents didn't teach you Spanish. That's terrible!
I just laughed — I'm not Mexican.
Ohhhhhhh--I thought you were. You look Mexican. Are you sure you're not Mexican?
Yes, I'm sure.

Believe it or not, this happens to me about once per year. Sometimes more, sometimes less. I've even been asked if I was half Asian. I must just have one of those faces. I can pass for a lot of things. Which is actually kind of fun. Think about it--when I'm in Italy, any Eastern European country, Central or South America, or Mexico. I'm in like Flint! I love it. My only regret is that I didn't take Spanish as a foreign language in school. No, I wasn't that smart — instead, I opted for 7 years of French!

So, just what is my ethnic background? Cherokee Indian, Scottish, English, and French. I like that combination. I feel very well-rounded for traveling the world. And yes, yes, I'm sure. I don't speak Spanish.

I enjoy things that make me laugh, that make me smile, that bring me joy. And for some silly reason, this did. I'm actually looking forward to the next encounter. Yes, I'm sure.

He Is God

Something was really bothering me this morning, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I prayed. I prayed hard. And then I prayed some more. I kept asking God — what are you trying to remind me of, what are you saying to me, what do you want me to do? After hours of pondering, praying and considering what God was doing in my heart--I finally got some answers. And with those answers, a humility like I've never known before.

I was reminded this morning of a couple of sayings that were continually said in my home while I was growing up. I wonder now if I was taught them for a reason, or if they were just used to stop the arguing between my sister and me.  What was the true intent of these quotes that were so often used in my childhood home?  

One quote went something like this--If you don't have something nice to say about someone, don't say anything at all. That sounds like good advice to me. Have I heeded that advice? Hardly.  When someone makes me mad, angry, upset, jealous, etc, well, I just might say something not very nice. I don't like that about myself. I wish I could be that person who keeps their mouth shut and just doesn't say anything at all.  I could tell you.  I could be that person--if I wanted to. I could just plain shut up and only say good things about people. My flesh gets in the way, though, and that truly bothers me. I was raised better than that.

Another quote went like this--believe half of what you see and none of what you hear. Great advice! Great! Now why, oh why, can't I abide by that wisdom? I have no excuses. I read about people--in the newspapers, on the internet, in magazines, and without even knowing them, without ever having met them, I judge them. Why do I do that?

I can honestly say that this flaw in myself is bothering me the most today. I was raised with these 2 sayings used in my home almost daily, and yet I fail to live by them in my own life. God has laid this heavily on my heart. As I sit here in my nice little home, surrounded by my nice little neighborhood, my friends, my church, etc., I sit here judging those in positions of leadership over me, people whom I have never even met! And today I have been convicted by the Holy Spirit. Judge not. That is what I am hearing from God today. Judge not.

So what do I do with this? How do I pray? What do I say to God? I have asked Him to forgive me; I have asked Him for wisdom; I have asked Him to help me speak only of the good in people, and to please help me not to judge them. I know that I live in a world where bad people are doing bad things, where there is corruption and violence, where there is evil roaming around like a lion. How then do I keep from judging that?

And then I got my answer--judge that. Not them. It was profound for me. That simple thought. Yes, I've heard the saying--judge the sin, not the sinner. But that's not what I'm talking about here. I'm talking about something that was buried deep down in my heart. I am judging everything and everyone. And God wants it to stop. He wants me to understand something that goes way beyond anything I've ever considered before. Judge the evilness in this world. Just don't dare judge His creation--He will do that. Don't judge His people. He will do that. Don't judge those He has put in authority. He will do that. For He is God. And I am not. He is the God of the universe. He has control — completely and forever.

I will heed this warning from my God. I will listen to His voice. I will not judge. I will let Him do the judging. For He is God. And I am not. And that to me is the best word of knowledge that I have received in a very long time.
Sela

Bookmobile

I was giddy with excitement in those days. The day when the bookmobile would pull up in front of the school. It was always one of my favorite days during my elementary school years. Grade by grade, class by class, we were lined up and allowed — just a few students at a time —to enter and browse.

Some of you might wonder just what in the world I am talking about. A book, what? Mobile what?  I thought they were the thing back in the 60's; however, after a discussion with friends, I soon found out that those little libraries on wheels did not exist across this nation of ours.

No, in fact, I was the only one of us who had experienced this life-changing event. I'm not exaggerating, not at all. For I truly believe that the bookmobile changed my life. I can remember climbing the steep bus stairs, holding onto the metal rail, eyes wide, trying hard to peer inside. It had been turned into a mobile library for children, and as I finally made my way onto that most wonderful of wonders, I knew, I knew that I was just where I was meant to be in a bus full of books. There were no windows in this bus--only 3 tall walls of children's books. Two very long sides and the back wall of the bus were lined with books.  Books about dogs and horses, books of mystery and travel.  I couldn't get enough of the smell and the feel of each book.  I never wanted to leave.

Yes, I loved Bookmobile Day.  I can't remember how often it came, but I do know those days were the best.  Leaving class early, standing in line, waiting my turn, and then--books, all sorts of books. Books galore!

I lived in the Los Angeles area at the time. I'm wondering if those libraries on wheels were more for inner-city kids. No matter--I still loved watching that big bus pull up alongside the school. I loved waiting in line for my turn. I loved letting my eyes wander over each and every cover. I was mostly looking for anything Lassie related. I was in love with Lassie and often pretended that she was lying right next to me while I read. I later (via one of those books) found out that there was also a dog named Laddie, another collie. I loved reading about horses, too. Black Beauty, Flicka--any kind of horse would do, I just loved reading about them all.

So just how did going into that bookmobile change my life — well, later, as a teenager, I ended up riding, showing, and owning 2 of my own horses.  I've also owned 2 collies and 3 Shelties — thus far, and my life isn't over yet. Those books from my childhood also sparked my interest in travel, as I read about Heidi and her adventures.  Books — I believe they changed my life.  I didn't become an "I can't do anything" type of person; instead, I became an "I can do anything" type of person.

If you ever want to do something really great for a child, buy them a book. It just might play a huge factor in who they one day become. You just never know.

She Calls Me Martha

My sister and I have what some might call--a complicated relationship. I am 2 years older than she. Therefore, by birthright, I am the boss. At least that's what I'd like her to think. Yes, I am the bossy older sister. And don't tell her, but I like it that way.

Really, though, just what is our relationship like? I know one thing--we are complete opposites in just about every way. I'm a brunette with brown eyes; she's a blond with green eyes. I look like our father, she looks like our mother. Our personalities are different, too.  I'm quieter; she's rather loud. Introvert, extrovert. Yes, there are so many differences between us, and yet, we are sisters.

And so our relationship is sometimes complicated by the fact that we are so very different, yet we are related. At times, it's amusing to watch her get so frustrated with me. I think she'd secretly (or not so secretly) like for me to be a little more like her. A little more bohemian, more hippyish, freer--and yet, that is not me at all. Hence, she regularly calls me Martha (as in Stewert). For me, like Martha, I am a little Suzy Homemaker. I love to cook, bake, clean, and decorate my home. I love planting little container gardens, taking pictures, and traveling.  I love to sit in quaint little cafes, ponder craft ideas, and have coffee with friends. I am the more refined of the two of us.

That's not to detract from her qualities, though--she's just different from me.  She likes many of the same things I do, only in a slightly different venue. Rather than a cafe, she prefers a hippy-style coffee house. And where I love antique dishes, she'd just as soon eat quickly via a paper plate and get on with the day. Even our shopping habits differ. I love designer anything, and she'd just as soon go to the local thrift shop. Yes, we are very different.

She was here this past week, visiting for a few days for the first time since I moved to the Midwest 14 years ago. I see her maybe once a year or so since moving. At first, it was a little hard for me to find my way around her. I didn't want her to be uncomfortable in my home, and yet, I had to be myself. So I compromised a lot. I didn't get out the fine china; I kept it casual. Martha style. Instead of using my dining room for dinner, we sat out on the deck while eating off my cute Italian patio dishes. I worked hard, and I believe it went well. I refrained from baking or cooking too much. I didn't do any crafty projects, and most of all, I didn't clean around her. I waited until she went to bed to pull out my swifter. Yes, I was quite proud of myself. I was able to contain Martha for the most part.

I'm wondering now what she thought of her visit. Will she want to come back? Did she notice my attempt to keep Martha at bay? Or, in all my efforts--did I fall flat? These are my questions. Was her trip here an epic fail, or did she enjoy her visit with Martha?   I'll wait and see. Or just ask myself one more question — what would Martha do?

Half Of Me

I did something that I rarely do, in fact, what I did is very much out of character for me. I allowed myself to imagine my life without him. Without the person that I have been married to for 2/3 of my life. I try very hard not to ever let my imagination run away with me; however, this time, for a very short time, I allowed it. It ran wild and made me cry; most of all, it made me think.  Think about life--with and without him.

He was gone--in Africa. I was home--alone. No one was around, and it was late at night. I put on some music, sat in my rocking chair, and began to ponder life--alone. Now don't get me wrong here, I don't mean life alone without God or friends or family, I just mean life alone without my spouse-- without him. We've been a couple for almost 42 years now. So, you have to agree with me that with him gone, my life would be different. Completely different. And that was the thought I pondered. What would my life be like--alone?

He had been gone for several days by then, and I had established a routine of sorts. I went through the motions of everyday life, and as I mentioned above, this time around, I actually thought about it... what if this were to become my forever routine?

I am not going to sugarcoat this for you; no, I am going to be as honest as I can be here. I do not ever want to experience what I experienced in those very few moments. I do not ever want to be without him, 2 weeks alone is one thing, but life? The rest of my life? Well, that would be quite another. As I sat there crying and allowing myself a short time of grieving for my perceived loss, I felt so incredibly lonely. So very alone that, in fact, I felt a chill descend upon me. I sat there rocking, crying, cold, and alone. I felt right then and there as though I, too, had died. And it was then that I realized that all there would be left of me if anything were to ever happen to him--is half of me.

Yes, I could go on, go on living. I am a very independent person. I am strong. I am brave--kind of. I know that God would comfort me, help me, and never leave me — I know these things. I would learn over time to go through the motions of life. However, nothing would ever be the same for me again. We've been together too long for that now. We've never been apart for more than 2 weeks at a time, and even when we're apart, we are in constant contact.  We are what some of my friends call "attached at the hip," and we are OK with that. We like being together. So, how could I possibly function without him? This is the question that I pondered that night, for just a few short minutes, for just a small increment of time--yes, I indulged myself in some pretty morbid thoughts.

That was a while ago--and I'm over it now. I won't do that again. The experience was a little too real for me. It was too hard to handle, to think about, to contemplate. However, now I know. That if or when anything ever happens to him, if or when he is taken from me--well, no matter how I look or seem or act...you will only ever really be getting half of me. That's all that will remain. Because the day he is gone, the day he dies, the day we are separated in this life together--that will be the day that there is only half of me. I see that now.  I will carry on with only half of my heart. I will always honor my husband. And I will lean hard into Christ and trust him. I will make it through the rest of my life with only half of me.

Ephesians 5:31

The Message (MSG)

^29-33 No one abuses his own body, does he? No, he feeds and pampers it. That's how Christ treats us, the church, since we are part of his body. And this is why a man leaves father and mother and cherishes his wife. No longer two, they become “one flesh.” This is a complex mystery, and I don't have a complete understanding. What is clearest to me is the way Christ treats the church. And this provides a good picture of how each husband is to treat his wife, loving himself in loving her, and how each wife is to honor her husband.

The Art of Compromise

My husband does not like to man the grill, nor does he like to dance. Me? Well, I don't do toilets or sports. We let each other in on these little secrets of ours early on in our marriage. We both agreed — let's compromise on these particular areas of our relationship and not put pressure on each other to do what we don't like doing. So far, it's worked out just fine for us. I do the grilling, and I don't bug him to take me dancing. He cleans the toilets, and he doesn't bug me to go to sports games or watch them on television.  It works--for us. We are a match made in heaven.

There have been times when some people have said to me, "You make him clean the toilets?"  That's terrible, that should be your job! Really? And, once in a while, some well-meaning visiting male will comment on me manning the grill. Really? Is it that big of a deal--these gender specific roles that have been placed upon us by society? Because they aren't that big of a deal to us. However, some areas of compromise have been a bit harder for us. And that's what I want to talk about today. Compromise.   Or lack thereof.

I am wondering if, given that we met and married young — well, maybe just maybe that fact has played such a big role in our ability to compromise. I'm not for one minute saying that it's all been easy because it hasn't. We may have learned this art a little earlier or more quickly than some.  We had no choice, really.  It was either compromise or argue, and I hate arguing, but I also hate giving in.  So, there you have problem number one. Who caves and when? For us, it was all about talking it out, giving our reasons as to why we felt a certain way, and then actually hearing each other. When we took the time to share our hearts, when we didn't ridicule each other, when we listened, really listened — we were able to come to terms with each other's requests and compromise. And yes, sometimes that took longer than at other times.  Much longer!

I have witnessed couples that do not wish to compromise at all. It is their way or the highway--so to speak. And I believe that is why the divorce rate is what it is today.  My husband and I made a promise to each other many years ago, when we were just starting out, that we would never use the D-word.  Also known as divorce. We decided that we would strike it from our vocabulary and that even if it killed us, we'd talk it out, come hell or high water. And boy did we. Some of those talks lasted until the wee hours of the morning. I think sometimes we would eventually compromise just so we could finally get some sleep! Yes, a compromise was that important to us. We have been a couple for almost 42 years now. Dated for 2, married for almost 40. Was it all easy? No. Did we always come to a place of compromise? Yes. And that is how one avoids divorce--in my humble opinion.

It is an art form; it is a marriage dance; it is letting go of "I'm always right"; and it is bending and becoming flexible. It can be something as simple as cleaning the toilets or something as life-changing as moving across the nation for your spouse's job. I remind myself daily that I love my husband, that God brought him into my life, that I have been blessed abundantly, and that by compromising just a little, I receive a lot. And that getting along makes for a better friendship. I have noticed that as we grow older together, and I see him trying hard to compromise, it makes me want to compromise right back — just to make him happy. Yes, I can see all that now. That for all these many years we have been, for the most part, dancing a dance of compromise to our own rhythm. It works for us, this art of compromise. The very idea of not being together, the idea of divorce or being separated, or not having each other is a foreign concept to us. We made a vow before God almost 40 years ago, and we will keep that vow — we will compromise.

Yes, compromise, in my opinion, is an art form--it is hard, and at times it can feel like we might be losing a part of ourselves in the process. It isn't easy giving in, not one little bit. It is give-and-take; it is putting someone else above yourself; however, I believe that is what we are supposed to be doing in the first place. Putting others above ourselves. That's the art of compromise.

Biking with Rocks

I had a dream last night —this is what I saw: a picture (mental snapshot) of me riding a bike in a foreign country. I was riding along, very happy, smiling, content. Not a care in the world. Most likely, I was in France since that's my favorite country. And then I noticed something. Others were riding with me, but they were struggling. When I looked over at them, I saw that they had big rocks tied from ropes hanging off the backs of their bikes. They weren't smiling. They looked very serious. Their foreheads were scrunched up, they were sweating, and they were tired. My first inclination was to stop them and tell them what I was seeing. Instead, I paused. I'm not here to change their culture. This is their way, this is how they do things here. And I am here to learn from them. Embrace them. Enjoy them. Be a part of them.  

However, as I was still riding my bike, my smile faded into concern. I questioned God. I asked him — What should I do? Should I stop them? Should I tell them what I am noticing? Should I show them how to cut the rope? Should I let them know how much faster, how much easier, how much more freeing it is to ride a bike without dragging rocks behind it? I began to slow down a bit — what should I do? What? For I did not want to offend them.

A conundrum for sure. This all came to me in the blink of an eye. I am still praying about this. What is God saying to me? No. The real question is — do I share what God is saying to me, or do I just wait? Do I sit back and patiently pray? That is the real question. What would you have me do? Would you want to know? If you were dragging those rocks behind your bike--would you want someone to help you cut that rope? Or would you rather continue to do it — your way?

Each person is different. I understand that. And I am not here to change your culture; however, I am here to proclaim peace. To teach, to preach, to share, to pray--to cut ropes. Yes, I am here to cut ropes. To show others how to leave those rocks behind. Am I brave enough to do that? And if I am not brave enough, then why, oh why, did God put that picture in my mind, in my heart, and in my prayers?  

This was my morning. And now for the afternoon, I think I shall go ride my bike--and pray.

The Oldest

He received his first cell phone the other day. Yes, for graduating from the 5th grade and going into "middle school," his gift from his parents (my daughter) was his very own cell phone. Not a smartphone, just a regular one, but a phone nonetheless. And I was his first call. My phone rang. I didn't recognize the number — I said hello and heard the sweetest words ever. Hi, Grandma!

He was so excited. Guess what I got? My own phone! We talked for a few minutes and then hung up. The next day, I received a text message from an unknown number. It read — hi grandma, what are you doing? And thus started our texting throughout the rest of the day, and then on to the next day. He also sent a text last night — good night, gma. And first thing this morning--good morning, gma. I have to tell you something — there is no better way to feel loved and thought about than a text from your grandson. I'll tell you that right now! Nothing can compare to the feeling of love that I feel for that boy as it floods through my heart.

He is my oldest grandchild, our very first, and he turns 12 years old this October. It is hard for me to fathom this bit of information. You see, it seems as though my own children were just this age not too long ago. And now? Well, now I am conversing with my oldest grandchild via his own cell phone! It's amazing, awesome, wonderful, and scary all at the same time. And that's just the point--time. It goes by so fast now that there is no stopping it.  One month it's Christmas, then it's summer, and then we are planning for the holidays again.  Yes, that quickly. So, it is my desire to enjoy every second of every day. Especially when it comes to taking, playing with, or visiting my grandchildren. I want them to remember me. I want them to know me. Really know me. And I want to know them; I want to understand their likes and dislikes; I want to know their hearts; I want to spend that quality time with each one of them. And if I can't live in the same cities as they do, well, I'll leave them this blog, to one day read and remember when. I'll do my best to document the fun times. I'll take lots of pictures of us together, and I'll share as many stories as I can. I don't want them to ever wonder — what was she really like? They will read this and know. They'll know me.

I want to share a cute little conversation that took place yesterday between my grandson and me via text — it went something like this.
Him--Hi, Grandma--how was grandpa's trip? Did he like it?
Me--Hi, yes he loved it, did your mom show you the pictures?
Him--Yes, she did, I loved looking at them, the kids were adorable.
Me--Yes, I thought so too. They reminded me of your cousin.
Him--Me too, she is so cute, just like them. :)

I could almost see him smiling through the phone; we were talking about his newest cousin, who was adopted from an African American family. She is part of our family now, and I knew he was probably wondering about his grandpa's trip to Congo and the resemblance between her and the children there.  I didn't want him to feel uncomfortable about it, so I thought I'd bring it up first.
It's important for me that my grandchildren learn to be accepting, kind, loving, and inclusive. Their parents are doing an awesome job of teaching them. And it's a good thing too, as I am hoping and praying for even more grandchildren. You just never know — we have 6 so far; however, I do wonder how many more we might end up with. And we never know what their heritage might be. But we know one thing for sure--the minute they become part of our family, they are ours forever.

For now, I will look forward to those little text messages, those short phone calls, and that sweet little voice. I will cherish each call and remember this time in my little grandson's life, for one day soon he'll be too busy for grandma, but right now, well — we're phone buddies, and I love it.