Author Archives: Lorraine Reep

Jan10

The Lie that Says “You Can’t”

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Marathon

When I read this Annual Report provided by Word Press, I literally caught my breath. A year ago this blog was a secret little dream, one that I thought would stay hidden in my heart.

It wasn’t until our small group leader introduced me to a book by Bruce Wilkinson called “The Dream Giver” (Thanks , Josh Grosshans!) that I began to consider the possibility. I was inspired by the book; I was encouraged by my hubby, whose confidence in me is epic; and I was terrified by the voice that said “You can’t”.

It’s been just over six months. I remember sitting in our favorite coffee shop with my sweet, patient niece. Armed with nothing more than a laptop and a name for the blog, Annie walked me through setting up the page. Since, then I’ve pretty much flown by the seat of my pants.  Jesus, take the wheel because WordPress isn’t exactly babysitting bloggers!  As I write I am so thankful that I didn’t wait until I had it all figured out to start. I wish I knew more about web design and had a bigger budget but one thing I know: this undertaking is a marathon, not a sprint.

This morning my grandson and I drove out to Epcot to watch his mom, MY daughter, cross the finish line at the Disney marathon.  She didn’t train as much as she’d hoped and I’m sure that at 2:00 this morning when she ate a bowl of cheerios, hoping they would digest before race time, she heard that same terrifying voice saying “You can’t” This wasn’t her first marathon; she’s run a Goofy (that ‘s a half marathon on Saturday, followed by the marathon on Sunday – she’s her father’s child) a couple of times and she knew exactly what she was about to undertake.

C and I worked our way up to a barricade near the finish and stood anxiously on tiptoes, surveying wave after wave of finishers. That boy never looked away, his gaze intent for the face of his mom.  As runners passed, the crowd cheered and shouted out names.  In the hour that we stood there, I wept for those who obviously were overcoming more than 26.2 miles.

Before I could spot her, in spite of my height advantage, he shouted “There she is!” Her eyes lit when she saw him and she blew a kiss, then crossed the finish and collected the prize that finishers earn.

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DSC_0005As we walked to the car, she talked about the tough miles and moments when she fought hard against the voice that continued to tell her “You can’t”. She chose the only way to overcome the lying voice; keep moving forward.

This writing journey has been an emotional roller coaster, but I’ve kept my head up and my eyes forward.

I cannot begin to express how encouraged I’ve been by friends and family who have faithfully read every post. You are part of the analytics that follow.  I love you all.

Along this journey, my most faithful encourager has been my hubby.  He proofreads my posts and cries with me over the words every week. I can’t imagine any journey without him. I love you, baby!

As we stood near the finish this morning, I witnessed the joy of a stronger, more seasoned runner reaching back to cross the finish line with a novice.

One of the greatest blessings of writing has been in the encouragement from other writers. One precious momma in particular has reached back and taken my hand. The unselfish sharing of her reputation and influence in the blogging world has been refreshing and life-changing. Thank you, Jami Amerine, for your friendship!

It is with humility and great awe that I share what HE has done with the dream that he placed in my heart.  Take a few minutes to read the report. You will be amazed, as I was.  Your dream is safe with him, but you have to take the first step, my friend. The only answer to the lying voice that says “You can’t” is “Watch me!”

 

To Him alone be the glory!

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 3,900 times in 2015. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 3 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

Jan4

More Pie in My Face

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“Grandma, have you made any new year’s resolutions?” The question came from J, my eleven and a half year old grandson. His younger brother G, nearly eight, chimed in “I haven’t made any revolutions. I don’t really know much about that.” I smiled and ignored the wrong word and explained that I don’t make resolutions. The truth is, I only know one thing about them – they have never led me anywhere but to failure. However, I was curious. So I asked J if he had any. His answer set me back.

“I want to devote my life to Christ.” Alrighty then.

A couple of nights later I woke from a sound sleep. The family had returned home and the nest was once again empty. Among hundreds of other thoughts during the hours of sleeplessness that ensued, I revisited the conversation about resolutions. My grandmotherly advice to J had been to set some tangible, practical goals that would in turn bring him closer to that devotion he wanted. While I don’t believe in resolutions, I believe attainable goals are a sure way to make incremental steps.

Well, then, Grandma. Have you set any goals? They had been simmering in my heart for days so I grabbed my phone, opened the Notes app and made a list.

  • Stay to the end of the party. Dance the last dance; have one more piece of cake.
  • Never miss a chance to get pie on your face. Whatever the game is, play it; don’t worry about looking foolish.
  • Listen more, talk less. Plan to learn something new about every person you know.
  • Hold every baby. Every time. Except at Publix. Don’t take babies from strangers at Publix.
  • Cook more. Take meals to new mommas and the widow down the street.
  • Spend less time wringing hands and more time folding them.

In that quiet night, I replayed the high and low points of the past year.

A boy left us and the grief was palpable, even under the best possible circumstances.

Months later I stood at the front of a military chapel and tried to make words do justice to the life of a dear friend, shortened far too soon by cancer.

Our family grew through adoption and we learned that children who enter foster care often have lots of special needs.

In some, God’s plan has been made clear but in others there are still so many questions.

This Jesus that I work for? He calls me to lay down my safe, comfy life. Pain is what we risk in relationship, but he is right there with us. No fear.

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I’m beginning to see the relationship between joy and sorrow. It’s all bubbling up from the same spring. The sorrow was great because of my love for each of those precious souls – the heart connection was so real that there was physical pain. There is great risk in love and he has called us to risky lives. He also promised to be close to us in the sorrow.

Honestly, 2016 will likely look much like last year. There will be gain and loss, joy and sorrow.

I’m looking forward to this year; I will take risks for my Jesus and it will be good. I can’t wait to see where He leads!

Pie Face

I pray that I will have the courage to live each day courageously, loving people and serving my Jesus. And if I get pie in my face, I’ll just have to deal.

 

 

Dec28

Not so Fast…We aren’t Finished!

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Perhaps you have already “put Christmas away” for the year. For many, the season started before Thanksgiving and they were done before the wrapping paper was at the curb on Christmas day. I understand…sometimes there is an overwhelming need to return to normal. For others, the next thing is right around the corner and it’s time to refocus. I have a friend who will be starting a new job on New Year’s Eve and she is ready to prepare for a new beginning. New job, new year, new opportunities…how exciting!

XmasTreeI’m not there yet. We haven’t had family Christmas. It’s the one where paper flies and one kid accidentally opens another kid’s gifts and someone is young enough that they embarrass their parents by saying “I want more!” (If you’ve ever had a three or four year old you know what I mean. They just like ripping paper off packages with no particular interest or appreciation for the contents.)

One of our sons-in-law is chief officer in charge of collecting the discarded wrapping paper and reminding kids to be careful so nothing gets thrown away. He’s really good at this job; he is tenured and valuable and secure in this position. Since our family continues to grow this scene has become more and more chaotic. We think you people who sit in a circle and orderly open gifts, one person at a time, carols softly playing in the background are so cute. In my idealistic, Hallmark/Publix commercial moments, I want to be like that. And then I get real and I’m thankful that we are all together and assure my anxious heart that we will sort it all out later and not throw one single scrap of paper away until everything is accounted for. I want joy and family; order and ceremony are overrated! And I want to be right in the middle of the happy chaos.

Vintage Cello Tree

This is similar to the tree we had in the ’60’s.

When I was a child the Christmas season lasted about two weeks. In my younger years our family had a short cellophane tree, just about three feet tall. It was placed on a high table a few days before Christmas, with my mom supervising the placement of the precious ornaments and bead garland and then six children proceeded to pelt it with tinsel. As I think about it today, it was meager, pitiful….and absolutely beautiful.

I loved Christmas because of the anticipation and the joy that I saw in my parent’s eyes as they watched all six of their offspring open gifts. They didn’t have the means for extravagance, but they always gifted toys and things we truly wanted rather than essential items that we needed. One gift in particular does seem odd as I look back. I mean, really…how many of you received a nun doll? My sister and I did! They were dressed in full habit, but had the faces of children. We were Catholics, but I don’t think my parents had plans to send either of us to a convent.Exif_JPEG_PICTURE

I recall vividly the year that I ruined Christmas, at least for myself. My parents had wrapped all of the gifts and placed them in the bottom of their closet. One day when they were away, I peeked. I knew EVERY gift, even my Simon and Garfunkel “Bridge Over Troubled Water” album…no surprises. I remember being ashamed and sad that there would be no surprises on Christmas morning. It was one of my last Christmases at home. TO. THIS. DAY. I NEVER peek. My hubby cleverly hides things under the bed in our room. Apparently he thinks that I won’t be cleaning the floors the weeks leading up to Christmas! But it’s all good, because I’m never again going to peek. Lesson learned.

I have another Christmas memory that has disposed me great determination to immerse myself in the crazy that ensues with a house filled with children. I was a preteen – I have no idea the year, but we had guests from Indiana for Christmas. It was my mother’s uncle and his family, and I know she must have been thrilled to have them with us. It was also one of the few years that I recall her buying a gift for my dad, a watch. With so many in the house, she was busy in the kitchen and even starting a load of laundry. I can still see her face when she returned to the living room and realized that my dad had already opened and set the precious watch aside. The moment was lost – she missed that special connection between giver and recipient when the surprise is revealed and joy bubbles up. I saw it in her face and though I didn’t fully understand, I could feel her disappointment.

I want to be present; I want to experience the joy and even the occasional disappointment that is hard to hide, because all of it is real life and it has an expiration date.

There will be eight grandchildren around our tree this Thursday…from the ten month old baby celebrating his very first Christmas to the eighteen year old who reminded me again Christmas day that he “is a man now”. No matter. We will gather, and I could not have imagined the mix when I was a young mother of two girls. Our family. An incredible blend of souls; by God’s grace, I am the mom. And I don’t want to miss a thing.

And so, we light the tree every evening and we wait. Christmas Eve was excellent; Christmas day was wonderful, but Family Christmas will be joy. There will be no perfection; I am certain that someone will poop at the most inopportune time; there will be tears (hopefully only from a little one) and there might even be some attitude, but it will be us just as we are. And I am sure of this more this year than ever; that “us” is a gift to anticipate, unwrap together and enjoy.

Happy Christmas, my friends. Happy New Year, too!

Dec22

What Your Mother Really Wants for Christmas

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edit Door Prize WrapI write one post a week and the most difficult words to write are the four to six in the title. Last weekend, while enjoying a rare theme park date with my husband, the title came first.

I’ve been a mom for more than forty-two years.  Motherhood was my first job with benefits and it’s a great gig. I’m quite sure that I’m not the first woman to say that it is the most difficult, yet most rewarding thing I’ve ever done.

I love that God saw fit to give me girls.  (Without them, I would have zero fashion sense.) Now that they have children and we have mothering in common and I think they even get me sometimes. At my age, when I look into a mirror I see my mother’s face…and I am shocked! But I look into the faces of my daughters and they reflect my life.

The Osborne family of Arkansas donated a bunch of lights to Walt Disney World after their neighbors got in an uproar over the display at their home.  Disney took those lights to Hollywood Studios and in true form turned them into something magical. The magic happens when you turn the corner from the back lot onto the Streets of America and see millions of dancing lights, Christmas music filling the air and a mass of people absolutely in awe and full of Christmas cheer.  I’ve taken that walk with my children and grandchildren. We’ve danced together in the streets to “Rockin’ Around the Christmas tree” and I’ve kissed my sweet husband as we sang “I’ll Be Home for Christmas”. I’ve stood in awe of the beauty of the nativity. If that display were Sodom and Gomorrah I would be a pillar of salt because I can never just walk away without glancing back and wishing I could stay a little longer.

edit Osborne Peace

 

They claim this is the last year – I doubt it. They may relocate it, but I digress. Just in case, I desperately wanted walk under those lights one more time, to relive the memories my heart cherishes; the selective memories that don’t include the tired children, the grumpy parents and the complete absence of any place to stop and rest.

How do you feel about questions like “What do you want for Christmas?”?  I detest them. Answering always makes me feel greedy, and typically I can’t think of a thing. To be honest, I’ve been in a bit of a funk this Christmas season and what I secretly want is Christmas like it used to be.  Kids opening presents, food and lots of family. Waking up to an empty house and waiting until almost new years to have everyone in one place is the new normal.  And it is way better than some people’s normal…I know that well.

Because  she works for the mouse and she makes magic happen on a daily basis, but mostly because she loves me, my sister gave us tickets to see the lights one more time.

My hubby has something called severe spinal stenosis.  For a least three years, he’s had issues with standing in one spot for more than a few minutes; for the last year, the pain is excruciating when he walks even short distances.  He wanted to go with me (insert emoji of joy mixed with angst). After agreeing on the limitations his current health conditions  impose, we decided to make a day of it – a sort of mini vaca before he has spinal surgery early next year.

The inspiration for the title came as, throughout the day, text messages  from our daughters popped up on both of our phones.  “Get a wheelchair for Dad” “You don’t have to wait in line, Dad. Get a wheelchair. Do it for Mom…you want to be able to make it to see the lights – this means a lot to her!” “I hope you are taking it easy, Dad.”

My greatest gift these days is their love and care for us. They know how we love one another.  They’ve seen how we prop one another up and push through hard things for one another. In the midst of their busy days they took time to urge us to take care of each other. We didn’t get a wheelchair, but we stopped when he needed to. He carefully managed his  pain and we had a wonderful day.

The way that our children love us is touching.  I’m especially moved by how they care for their dad.  Families are dynamic and I know that God has scattered ours a bit more than this mom would like.  But the real test of family is how we care for one another. Nothing is sweeter than watching your children, though separated by 400 miles, rally a joint campaign to ensure that their sentimental fool of a mom remembers their dad’s limitations. They were with us and they were looking out for us.

This Christmas, perhaps the greatest give you can give won’t require wrapping. Who needs to know you are with them and are looking out for them as we enter the new year?

Osborne Nativity

Merry Christmas, friends! May the peace of Christ fill your hearts and homes this Christmas.

 

 

Dec14

It’s the Theater, Dahling

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homelessman2We hurried into the theater after picking up tickets at the will call window. As we made our way to the ticket taker, a line of men looking more like they were reporting for a work detail than a Sunday afternoon performance snaked in and around to the concession stand.  They  were out of place in the midst of theater goers dressed in their festive holiday attire.

We took our seats with a few minutes to spare, but not enough time to get popcorn and drinks.  Just a minute or two before curtain, the line of men from the lobby, escorted by an usher, stopped at our row.  We stood to give way to the men, and the last of them sat in the seat directly to my left, popcorn box and water bottle in hand. They reeked of cigarette smoke, but were clean and neatly dressed. I assumed they were guests of a local ministry to the homeless. Honestly, I was feeling a bit out of sorts about the whole thing, but determined to try to enjoy the performance

As the show began, there was hushed chatter between some of the men, as well as rustling of popcorn boxes. I wondered if they had any clue about  theater etiquette. What are the chances – when I bought our seats these were the only two without an obstructed view.  Just my luck!

As the lights came up for intermission, I heard a woman directly behind me speak to the gentleman on my left. She asked him to remove his hat, saying that her view was obstructed, then making the same request of the gentlemen to his left. Her tone registered negatively with me – it seemed more of a demand than a request. The men quickly and even humbly complied, even though their hats were stocking caps that didn’t add height to their profiles.

Then men stepped out of the row, presumably to go outside the theater to smoke. My date left for snacks and I was in a position to overhear the conversation that took place behind me.  “She deserves to see the show, after all. He must be eight feet tall.” The words were spoken with obvious disdain; as if he had no right to be there.  A catch in my spirit reminded me that the words were similar to the thoughts I’d had earlier.

Everyone returned to their seats and the second act began. The production of Miracle on 34th Street continued and finished strong. The crowded theater was filled with applause;  when the actor who played Santa took his bow, I heard one of the men to my left say “We’ve got to stand for this!”. People popped up around the theater in  standing ovation and then one of the actors called for quiet.

She asked everyone to take a seat in order to recognize a group in the audience.  “Please help me welcome our special guests from Veterans Outreach. Gentlemen, please stand and be recognized.

The entire row to my left stood, timid at first, but then tall and proud.  Even as I write these words, my heart is wrung right up in my chest with the thought of it.  These men, now struggling to find a life, served our country in defense of Sunday afternoons at the theater, where friends and family gather in freedom to celebrate Christmas.

I can’t say that a scripture passage flooded my memory; it was more like God quietly whispered. “I’ve called you to kindness.  When you walk with me that will be your default.”

As we walked out into the afternoon, I realized that the seats were ordained. God loves me enough to patiently arrange lessons that will lead me to truth. Kris Kringle wasn’t the only one teaching on kindness in that theater.

“Don’t neglect to show hospitality, for by doing this some have welcomed angels as guests without knowing it.” ~ Hebrews 13:2 HCSB

 

Dec9

I Just Wanted My Photobook

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The irony does not escape me.

I’d been waiting for a great coupon for weeks after deciding that I would make photo books for some of my grandkids.  Walgreens was the winner with 75% off.   I decided that the first book would be for John.  He loves to recite the names of family members and he loves books.  So, a picture book of family members?  Win/Win.

 

I badgered patiently asked his mom and Nana for pictures to supplement the 2,000+ photos currently in my iCloud account.  Finally, on Saturday afternoon, the last day of this “best coupon of the year”, I had everything I needed to start designing John’s perfect (catch that word – it matters) gift.

We had a Christmas party Saturday evening with our same age friends and although we had a great time, we were home by nine o’clock. What can I say?  Those party animals were all pretty tired. I’d enjoyed a lovely libation, a white chocolate somethin-somethin martini (or three) and I was wide awake and ready to tackle the project.

Let me tell you, this is not for the faint of heart. There are lots of design choices.  I’m a scrap booker with mildly perfectionist tendencies so it took a while to settle on one, but I was committed to the “Trucks” theme because, well, John loves trucks even more than he loves books. The next step is selecting photos and I had done my homework!  Most of them were organized into a file on a flash drive and I quickly uploaded them.  Arranging them…well, see above where I mentioned perfectionist tendencies.  Adding embellishments to personalize the pages and make the pictures pop was so much fun!

I remember looking up from the laptop that was, literally on my lap, to the alarm clock past the foot of our bed. Hubby had been softly snoring for a couple of hours and I was ready to call it.  Finished at 11:45, just under the coupon deadline.  I added my labor of love to the cart, entered my coupon code and it was a wrap!  Mark that one off your list, Lorraine.  I returned the laptop to the kitchen and slept well, dreaming about the next day’s shopping trip that would move me closer to the finish line.

Then Sunday came and in the midst of shopping the phone rang with a call from someone in the photo department at Walgreens.  A slight delay, blah, blah, paper out of stock, blah, blah.  I assured him that it was all good, ‘cause this Grandma doesn’t actually need the book in her hands today. I’m rocking this gift-giving thing.

Sunday night…another call. It was ready! I jumped in my car and drove to the store. I couldn’t wait to take a look, but my excitement quickly abated when I noticed a “smudge” on the corner of every page.  They agreed to try again.  In the meantime, I had a revision or two after seeing it in print. (See above – note word “perfectionist”) The clerk was sympathetic to my plight and agreed that was fine, especially in light of all of the inconvenience I was experiencing.  In order to do that, and with assurance that I just needed to call the customer service line to explain, she cancelled the original book.  I spent another hour making revisions and spelling my email address over and over to someone in Miami.  God bless my husband who simply watches and shakes his head. Add to revised book to cart, cross fingers and wait.

On Monday the call was from yet another tech at the second store location.  The book was ready!  I couldn’t wait to see it now that it was PERFECT, exactly how I wanted it.  The problems were a blessing, actually.  Thank you, Jesus, for problems. I raced into the store, more anxious than ever to review my masterpiece.  I opened the book and there again, a smudge on every single page.  The clerk was at a loss and suggested I call the next day to speak with the daytime person.

When I called Tuesday, this new clerk suggested I try another store (third store location in case you’ve lost count). Maybe it was a problem with the printer at their store, blah, blah, blah.  By the way, in order to do that, you’ll need to add the book to your cart and reorder. Coupon code? What coupon code?  Oh that…you’ll have to call customer service and ask them to note your account.  And perhaps, just maybe, the problem is with that design.  The truck paper – perhaps choose another design?

And I complied. By now, you may realize that this book is kind of a big deal. This little guy’s adoption will be final soon.  He’s special.  This is something that will be uniquely his in a big family.  Choosing another design meant starting over.  A complete remake.  A couple of hours later, it was done. I chose a very basic solid paper design and it was all good.  I still felt a loss over the truck paper, but I was willing to let it go. Or so I thought. The fourth call to customer service was to a very nice person who credited my account with a whole bunch of 8X10 collage prints but all I really wanted was my photo book.

The email announcing the completion came around bed time last night, so I decided to stop on my way to work this morning.  Just after the store opened at 7 a.m. I rolled into the parking lot, coffee in hand. The photo counter was still dark, but a clerk quickly arrived to assist.  I opened the book and it was…..perfect.  The colors were gorgeous and while it wasn’t trucks, it was colorful and it was filled with the faces of people John loves.  My heart leaped a little as I paged through – these were my people, ya’ll.

And then it was time to pay. I explained the situation…the problems, the multiple calls to the customer service line, the call that I made explaining it all to this store when I placed the order yesterday, the reassurance that I was given that they would honor the discount….and she looked at me like, “Sure, lady” and said there is nothing here about that.  And I lost it. I forgot all about thanking Jesus for problems.

All of the frustration over four days of calling, running to the store, redesigning (and maybe a little over the fact that I started the morning searching for a stuffed rabbit that arrived last week and now is nowhere to be found ) boiled up.  I don’t know for sure what I said, but my voice was raised and trembling as I turned and walked away from my precious book, resigned to make yet another call to wait for it….”customer service”.

Then she spoke calmly “Please, ma’am, come back.” Four words, and they started a flood.  A tear-filled apology from me and a wise decision by her.  I don’t even know her name…it’s not on the receipt and she wasn’t wearing a name tag, but she should be promoted. She handled this hot mess like a boss.

I sat in my car, taking the book from its protective sleeve.  It is lovely.  But the value is not in the paper selection or the timeliness or even in the coupon savings.  It’s the precious souls whose faces fill the layouts. As I look into the pages, I realize that this experience is a peek at my anxious heart.  So, I’ll say it once more and mean it.  Thank you, Jesus, for problems.

BookStitch

I need to make three more of these books.  Anyone have a good coupon code?

 

 

Dec7

A Flame of Hope

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MerryBrightThe weather was beautiful – perfect for an outdoor event on a December evening in Central Florida. The sun was beginning to disappear and the sky was doing that thing where the horizon glows like the edge of the earth is on fire. Early, as is often the case at this stage of our lives, we pulled into the parking lot of the big First Baptist church. It was already beginning to fill up and we paused to greet friends as we walked from the car toward the center of town. People were already gathering, claiming a spot to view the festivities.

The stage, situated opposite the Christmas tree that replaces the fountain as the centerpiece during the holidays, was already filled with singers, warming up and performing sound checks. We took time to get coffee and settled in on the street with thousands of our neighbors. It was small town America at its best.

The program began as the worship team sang the classic “Go Tell it on the Mountain”. People were sitting and standing shoulder to shoulder around the stage and looking around; you couldn’t see the end of them. They were clapping and singing the soulful spiritual. The song was first published in 1907 in a book by John Wesley Work, Jr. who was the first African-American collector of Negro spirituals. It seemed fitting that the worship leader from the Baptist church, a young African American man, led the community as we gathered and celebrated the joy of “telling the story” this Friday evening.

Local pastors, one after another, read from the Bible, sharing the account of the birth of Christ. Then, a single candle was lit and the flame was passed. It was windy, and there were thousands of people. It seemed like a nice thought but an impossible feat, to be honest. I can be pretty realistic pessimistic at times, but as in this case, I’m often wrong.

I watched the flame and the people as they handled it, shielding it from the wind and relighting it as needed. As I saw each person turning to the next, offering the light, my heart swelled with sacred realization. This was a beautiful illustration of the Gospel: every person passing the light of Christ to the next; carefully and intentionally sharing hope.

PassTheFlame

As the light traveled across and down the crowded streets, faces shone in the soft light of candles. In the midst of a great crowd of people, my heart was moved. I quietly and privately vowed to a change of heart. While I can’t escape the busier schedule or the responsibilities that come with this season, I will choose hope over stress and anxiety. These are just a few of the things that I hope for this Christmas:

  • To bless my family with the gift of a joyful wife, mother and grandma
  • To explain the concept of a budget to my “love to give” husband
  • To enjoy all things in moderation: food, drink, work and play
  • To enjoy the festivities that come once each year at Christmas
  • Comfort for my recently widowed friend and others who will have their first Christmas without a loved one
  • Peace for mommas everywhere, cause you know…momma stress

I’m relieved that my Christmas tree is decorated. I’m thrilled that we chose to spend Saturday evening with six precious friends who have been together with us through ups and downs for the last several years. I’m grateful for another Christmas shopping day with my sister, my friend.

I’m really glad that I chose to deal with the crowds last Friday evening. I was almost ready to throw in the towel and give up on the whole lot of stuff to do and places to be. I was just too tired and I didn’t have the time. But I ran across this late last week. I can’t even recall how I got to it:

“All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.”

I haven’t read the books or even seen the movies, but if you are a Lord of the Rings fan, you’ll recognize the quote is from Gandalf. His flaming words made their mark on my heart. The choices are mine.

  • On Friday night, “Light Up” was the best choice for us.
  • On Saturday afternoon, despite tradition and a multitude of other good reasons to attend our town’s Christmas parade, I chose errands and decorating. It was wonderful to prioritize and complete tasks, and now I can enjoy our home.
  • Saturday night, an intimate party with dear friends was a perfect time to relax and enter the joy of Christmas.
  • Sunday? It was the perfect day with my sister to catch up on more than just a shopping list.

The demands of the season can be overwhelming. The honest truth is that we all have the same currency of hours, and necessities of life often dictate most of the budget. Discretionary spending of time is where the difference is made. I’m vowing to consider every minute as if it were a precious gold coin. I won’t clutch it tight in my hand because thankfully, time, must be spent as it comes. It is a gift to be used and enjoyed and this Christmas season I hope to have no “spender’s remorse”.

May your Christmas be filled with the things that make your heart leap, whether the hustle and bustle of a theme park or mall, the magnificence of a production akin to the Radio City Music Hall Christmas Spectacular or the blessing of an evening at home.

ShoreNativity

 

 

 

 

 

Nov30

Hoping for More

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Ya’ll, I am tired. It’s been really good, but I am done. Except I can’t be done. We’re only getting started.

It all began on Wednesday of last week. The cooking frenzy that produced our Thanksgiving feast commenced late in the afternoon. I was supposed to have “early release” from work, but I worked from home. That means I was sitting at my laptop long after the release time, conveniently jumping up on occasion to do a little something toward meal preparation…you know, like hoisting a twenty pound bird into the brine that would transform him into a culinary masterpiece. (Alton Brown is my hero.)

As we headed to bed, I grabbed my phone to double check turkey roasting times. Our feast was set for 1:00 and I never want to relive my heritage of Thanksgiving meals not yet served well into the evening because the huge bird was still in the oven. Back in the day when we celebrated Thanksgiving at my parents’ house, by 7:00 p.m. the obligatory relish tray had been devoured and it was always closer to 9 when we finally ate. When I realized that in order to cook and carve that bird and still have time to do the last minute meal preparation I would have to be up at 6 a.m., I was mad at the turkey.

Fortunately, I woke after a good sleep with a better attitude toward the dead bird that was soaking in a salty sweet bath in the fridge. It WAS Thanksgiving after all. And as it turns out, it was a day that I won’t soon forget.

Our family, like many, has experienced divorce. It is the hardest, most gut-wrenching experience of my life. I’ve buried my parents and three siblings. I’ve been bankrupt and lost my home. I’m not speaking from a soft life.

I’ve also, through this devastation (and don’t let anyone tell you there is not physical, emotional and spiritual fallout – they lie), experienced the grace of God in ways that I cannot explain.

Thanksgiving was simply awesome and I have no idea if the food was that great. They said it was, but they are after all, my family. The best part of the day, the part that made my heart the only muscle on my body that wasn’t aching at the end of it all, was the part where two of my children – the one born to me and the one who married into this family, filled our home with grace and peace.

ChristmasTreeWhile I would have loved to just pitch a tent and bask in the glow of that all weekend, I had to move along. On Saturday I returned home after running from event to event the entire day to find that my dear hubby had unpacked the brand new Christmas tree, a floor model purchased on clearance last year after Christmas…cause that’s how I roll. There it stood, naked and with a strand of lights refusing to shine. I spent the next hour “fluffing” the branches, changing bulbs and trying to get that dark strand to shine to no avail. I fought the tree and the tree won. I bought a strand of lights. And as I write, I’m staring at that naked tree, and wondering when I will find time to decorate it. If I’m not careful, I’m already over the holidays. I am mad at the tree.

It’s November 30th, my friends. Something is wrong with me. I’m already hopelessly behind; hopelessly worn out and hopelessly insufficient.

I close my eyes. Forget the pile of pumpkins just over my shoulder, waiting to be stored away until next year. Don’t mind the naked tree or the to do lists. It’s all distraction.  This is the beginning of Advent.

Advent. And the first candle of advent? Hope. Hope moves us forward. advent-551970_1920Hope comes over anxiety like a weighted blanket, soothing and reassuring as a hug. Yet hope seems lost in the news, in the doctor’s office waiting room, in the bank balance, in sorrow, in the demands of life.

In the quiet of my mind’s eye, I try to picture the first Christmas, the beginning of hope.

Mary and Joseph no doubt encountered heavy traffic and grumpy people as they walked the dusty road to Bethlehem. Mary rode part of the way on the back of a donkey, I suppose. I’m sure that was spiffy. It was so crowded that the teen mom gave birth in an animal stall (apparently Joseph failed to reserve the birthing suite at the local inn); she wrapped her infant son in cloths. I assume no one gave her a monogramed Aden and Anais blanket, either. As I think about that night, I imagine the smells and the sounds that surrounded the birth of our savior. We like to picture an angel choir and that is glorious. The black sky was filled with tiny stars, the air in that barn was filled with the pungent odor of animals, and there was a fire burning for light and warmth. Most likely people all around were cooking meals and managing the mundane as Mary pushed the savior king into the rugged hands of Joseph. That was the first Christmas. Unpretentious, natural and even gritty, yet the heavens were filled with the songs of angels as hope entered the scene.

I open my eyes and look around again. The lights on the unfinished tree cease to mock or accuse me. Instead they remind me of the Bethlehem sky that night when in the midst of the mundane and the routine, the keeping of mandated schedules and ordinary activity, heaven opened to announce the birth of Hope.

I have a three year old grandson who always wants to share in the good stuff, and trust me, nothing gets by him. Whenever anyone has a snack or a drink he chimes in “Me-ah Too-ah!” “Me have it!” This Christmas season, I’m going to take a lesson from him. In the midst of grumpy people, well-traveled roads and mandated schedules, I’m reaching up for my share of hope. Me-ah too-ah, Jesus, Me-ah too-ah.

May your Christmas season be filled with the hope that is found in Christ alone.

canvachristmas!

 

Nov23

Earth, Wind and Fire Alarms

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alarm-304042__180The fire alarm sounded, horns blaring and strobes flashing. Thankfully I was in the ladies room when they tripped it, else I might have regretted that big mug of caramel colored yumminess I drank on my commute.

It was an alarm test – not even an evacuation drill, but it droned on forever. Just keep working. My brain knew it wasn’t an emergency, but in the instant that it sounded, the rest of my body reacted with adrenalin. There is no danger of anyone remaining unaware of an alarm in that building.

As I headed back to my seat, I noticed that everyone was at their desks, trying their best to endure the noise, going on with their work. Protect your hearing. Focus on the task at hand. It’s just noise – today it requires no response. Another day, we will quickly and efficiently exit the building and gather together, accounting for one another…but not today. Today we are aware of the alarm, we consider a response, and based on reliable information we stay the course.

Words. Everywhere. I’m being bombarded and I’m overwhelmed and I’m trying to work through and assimilate them but the assault never stops. They come at me so quickly I lose the current thought to the next and what in the world was I thinking ten minutes ago? I read them everywhere, words spoken by people I admire or at least respect. In the name of my Jesus there are at least two schools of thought on the everything. I see merit and truth in both, and then wonder what is wrong with a grown woman (me) who can’t take a stand?

I find myself responding to words just like I did to that siren. I’m in the middle of something perfectly normal,  when they come loud and insistent, startling and alarming me:

“Surgery is scheduled.”
“More tests are required.”
“Terrorists attacked Paris.”
“The teenager is in a funk.”
“You are clenching your jaw in your sleep.”
“Still no answer on that job interview.”
“The diagnosis is in – it’s cancer.”
“The deadline was just moved up.”
“Your application has been denied.”

Sometimes words are like that alarm test – loud and persistent, but no response is required other than coping with the noise. Other times, a response is not only warranted; it’s beneficial. Wisdom is knowing the difference.

Many days I drive the forty minute commute from the office to home in silence. It’s a chance to be still; it gives me time to think about and sort through the words; some that I’ve spoken and others that I’ve heard. It’s in those quiet moments that clarity and conviction come; I decide whether to respond, react or, in the words of a famous princess, let it go.

The noise has reached a crescendo recently, though. I feel like I’m surrounded by people who are zealous for the Lord. They are passionate and they are convinced that they know exactly what Jesus would do. They are often loud. And I love them. I just wish some days that they would stop talking.

Where are you in all of this, Jesus? In my earnest quest for quiet and calm, I welcome these words:

The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord,
for the Lord is about to pass by.”
Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. 12 After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper. 13 When Elijah heard it, he pulled his cloak over his face and went out and stood at the mouth of the cave.

Then a voice said to him, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”
(I Kings 19:11-13)

The law. It is a voice of terrible words – harsh and accusing, like earthquakes and fire to break the rocky hearts of sinful men. The Gospel is a still small voice, more like gentle whispering than roaring. Soft, easy and lyrical, it is a gentle voice of love, grace and mercy.

That is the voice I long to hear. That voice tells me to find a bench and sit with a widow or an overwhelmed mom. It’s the same voice that tells me to say no to the guy who approaches me for money in the parking lot but urges me to buy peanuts for the homeless man dozing against the wall by the produce market. It’s the voice that reassures me when I’m lonely. That whisper reminds me in the wee hours of the morning that his eye is on the sparrow, and that he records every tear.

bench-731193_1920

So, as I enter this week of Thanksgiving, I’m looking for a quiet place. 2015 has not been the best year for me; perhaps you’ve had your share of trials as well. Even so, when I find a quiet spot to listen and reflect, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for blessings that came as surely as the hard places, sometimes in the middle of those hard places. The only way this wounded heart can truly come to a place of gratitude is to look past the shaking earth, the heat of the flames and the ferocity of the wind to hear the still small voice of the One who is delighted with me, renewing me in his love. And there, in that place, I’m overwhelmed with gratitude.

Zeph317

 

Nov16

Tangled Love

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Thankfully, I’m pretty good at untangling things, whether fine gold chains or shoelaces. I have a good eye for it, I suppose. Once everything is laid flat in good light, patiently and methodically I look over the whole of it. It’s the reverse of the tangling, you see. Backing out every twist and turn until it is free. It’s tedious but required.

Hearts1Recently I borrowed garland for a baby shower, pink and gold hearts perfectly sewn together in long strands. During cleanup I discovered one strand, bunched in a heap rather than carefully wrapped for return.

As I surveyed the tangled mess, the complexity was obvious. Fine threads wrapped and twisted around heart shaped paper were a significant challenge, but I got right to it. For almost an hour I stood over the bar in my kitchen, at times holding all of it up to the window to get a look in better light.

The work of caring for our souls is a bit like that; it’s difficult to unwind the tangled places. As I worked, I remembered a recent tangle in my soul.

It started with a few words – exchanges via text. I have no reason to believe it was the intention behind them, but they landed hard, the wounds painful. Powerful emotion rose up in me and I felt as if my chest might burst from its incredible force. Even as I reread the words, I couldn’t put my finger on why the strong reaction.

strawberries-300913_1920The swell crested when hubby unknowingly added one more twig to the pile. Tears flowed. It was the sort of ugly cry that happens rarely, but when it does I bury my head in his chest and the words tumble out of me. (Followed by consumption of a quart of ice cream.) After all of that, I can begin to untangle the messiness of it.

My spirit was fragile because of a load of circumstances. The weeks leading up had been rough – with moments of helplessness, grief, anxiety, disappointment and exhaustion. As clarity came, I realized why rereading that conversation was fruitless; these words were not there:

“Daddy loves me more.”

A pronouncement I felt in my heart, “heard” in my mind, but it was never actually spoken. She never said that God, our father, loved her more than me.

It was days later, in Chapter 8 of Romans, that I began to understand why I bought the lie.

For weeks before the encounter, prayer was hard. There was nothing new to say, nothing that I hadn’t spoken through tears for weeks. But I had forgotten that when words won’t come, when I’m too tired and worn out from the waiting, the Holy Spirit of God takes my heavy sighs, my tears and my literal groans and He transforms them into prayers that He speaks on my behalf.

“In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans.” – Romans 8:26

There it was, the first bit untangled. It’s okay when I can’t come up with the right words; when I don’t even know what to ask anymore. He writes them for me and speaks them to “Daddy” on my behalf – just as if I had prayed them myself.

Near the end of the chapter there is an amazing promise. Check out these verses, quoted here from The Message translation:

“God knew what he was doing from the very beginning. He decided from the outset to shape the lives of those who love him along the same lines as the life of his Son. The Son stands first in the line of humanity he restored. We see the original and intended shape of our lives there in him. After God made that decision of what his children should be like, he followed it up by calling people by name. After he called them by name, he set them on a solid basis with himself. And then, after getting them established, he stayed with them to the end, gloriously completing what he had begun.” – Romans 8:29-30

He called me by name. He knows MY name, ya’ll! He has a plan and it is not random. The book goes on to say that he and I are SOLID, nothing can separate me from God’s love. What is true for me is true for all of his children. He’s on our side. Jesus is in the presence of God every minute, sticking up for us. Another tangle gone.

When I forget the truth (or don’t know it), I’m so vulnerable. But I remember now! He loves me, and he loves you. His capacity is not limited and he is working out a plan that is unique for each of us. Mine won’t look just like yours, but we can both be certain that He’s got us.

Believe in yo“And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to

I have a visual of the Spirit of God blowing the cloud of sin and condemnation away like wind sending dark clouds out to sea. What a beautiful reminder that even in our imperfect bodies of flesh, the Spirit is always at work.