Sisters

Today is my sister’s birthday. I’m not going to tell you how old she is, and not just because I can’t remember. I’d have to start counting forward from me, which is not helpful because I can’t remember how old I am either.  And not that she should care at all if I disclose her age because she's beautiful. But there’s girl code, and above that, sister code. So you won’t hear it from me.  Unless I can figure it out by the time I’m finished writing this.

My sister is awesome, and not just as sisters go. She’s the best friend you’ll ever have. Devoted, honest, wise, funny and ever-reliable, she makes you feel special on your worst day and smart on your dumbest. She can talk you (or maybe it’s just me) into anything with three little words: “It’ll be fun!” I fall for it every time. And even if “it” wasn’t any fun at all, it was worth it just to watch her try to get me on board, arms flailing in big dramatic motions in an attempt to glamorize this monstrous activity I want nothing to do with.  In addition to being a great talker-into-er, she’s an amazing teacher and spent years of her adult life doing just that, teaching young girls, including her children, how to grow up into amazing women of God. And by the looks of my nieces, she nailed it. Now she has a heart to teach parents, and let me just say if you have half a brain, you’ll sign up for her class - whether she has one or not.  Just be her friend, watch her life, and you will learn amazing things. She has also spent her life singing. And by life I mean, since birth. (Our daddy is a music minister, so this was not an option. Good thing we love it anyway.) She has a beautiful soprano voice but always willingly sings alto when we sing together just because I ask her to. (Although I don’t get away with that much anymore. She’s on to me.)  I just can’t think of anyone who deserves honor and esteem on her birthday, and every day, more than my big sister.

Our relationship can best be summed up by a story my Aunt Karen once told us. We were somewhere around the ages of 4 and 6 and all of my Dad’s family was gathered at my aunt & uncle’s house in Houston. As was typical of my parents, their siblings and in-laws, they were gathered around the kitchen table playing a board game, probably “Careers”, which was way better than Monopoly but for some reason we were the only ones who knew that.  All the kids were upstairs taking baths, when, as Aunt Karen tells it, there came a blood-curdling scream from on high. My mom and aunts shoved chairs away from the table and headed for the stairs, taking them two and three at a time. When they reached the bathroom door they found Lauri and I in the tub, me standing, screaming at the top of my lungs, and her just staring at me. “What in the world is wrong?” asked about 7 breathless adults, to which Lauri replied, “Nothing. She always does that when the water goes down the drain.”

And there you have it. That’s pretty much how it’s been all our lives. I’m in full panic mode and she’s sitting down next to me, explaining to the rest of the world why I’m freakin’ out.  And that’s just the way I like it.

That’s not to say that she never has moments of mania and I’m never calm. For instance, I remember when she found out that Mary Hart was issued a new pair of pantyhose every day to host Entertainment Tonight because her legs showed on camera underneath the desk. Being the smart shopper and always mindful of her money, she was somewhat incensed. "Why can't she recycle her pantyhose? Does she really need a brand new pair every day? Surely they don't have runs! All she did was sit there! She should have to wear the same pair for at least 3 days!"  It was just too much for her practical, no-nonsense mind to grasp, and I had to talk her off the ledge for once.  Actually I don’t think I talked. I think I laughed her off the ledge on that one.

But besides her occasional indignant semi-tantrums at celebrity over spending - and shouldn’t we all be appalled at that?! - she’s darn near perfect in my book. A fiery redhead with a hearty laugh that makes you want to tell another story. And her taste in clothes is impeccable. After all, I won best dressed in my 8^th grade class because of her. True, it was without her permission because I snuck into her closet after she left for cheerleading practice at the crack of dawn every morning and wore her clothes, but a win is a win. And speaking of mornings, she has greeted them with nothing less than a kick in the face and a smile into adulthood as well.  A machine when it comes to discipline, she would get up at 5:30 AM when her babies were still babies and work out.  I know because I was there. Usually. OK, just sometimes when I didn’t call at 5:15 and whisper “I’m going back to bed.” So I was rarely there, but still. And now that her girls are older, she gets to sleep a little later, but you can bet she’s gonna be throwing some weights around the living room at some point in the day, every day. And there is no greater model, save our parents, for a true, authentic, sold out follower of Jesus Christ.  While the rest of us say we struggle to have a solid, consistent relationship with God every day, she just does it, and makes it look simple. She listens to God, spends time in His Word and applies it to her life. Period.  All of it. Not just the parts she likes. Not just the parts that are warm & fuzzy. She does the hard stuff. The unpopular-even-in-church-cuz-it-makes-the-less-dedicated-uncomfortable stuff.  And she does it with an incredible combination of boldness and grace. And if you’re lucky, as I have been, she’ll rub off on you. She has always been a great source of wisdom and insight for me. As a young married woman I remember calling her about the crazy and infuriating things my husband did, like leave his underwear in the floor. "Who does that?" I asked. "Am I a maid? Is he 5?" And then she would explain to me that this is something pretty much all men do and this is when you have to employ that whole “choose your battles” thing. And dirty underwear wasn’t worth the fit I’d thrown.

But sometimes she would surprise me on the spiritual front. These are my favorite talks! Because it’s really annoying to have a best friend who’s always right. Like, not just kinda right, but it’s-in-the-Bible right. How do you counter that? You don’t. You hang up the phone and have no choice but to go on with your life having full knowledge that throwing dishes is not allowed. So the days when I get to find out she’s human after all are downright delightful.  Like when I left the house in bare feet, no money and no place to go and just got in my car and started driving, all because my husband had been operating in his own time zone. Again. So I decided to not be available or on time and see how he liked it. She happened to call as I was driving around and asked what I was doing. “Running away from home,” I said. “I’m gonna make him worry for a change. I’ll call and say I’m on my way and then not show up for another two hours.” I thought I knew what was coming. Something like, “Do you want to be right or do you want to be right with God?” I braced myself for the onslaught of correctness.  But to my surprise, all I heard was, “OK. Call me later and lemme know you’re all right.”  I had never been prouder. I think I might’ve wept with glee.

So happiest of birthdays to you, my beautiful, brave and bold to the core big sister. Thank you for all the times you gave me sound advice, and for the all the times you just let me get away with being mad.  For the closet full of awesome clothes you never knew I wore. (And there were shoes, too). For all the “it’ll be funs!” and always being the first one I call after I’ve eaten pavement in public because I know nobody will laugh with me as hard as you.  Thank you for being my wingman when people say clueless things. Thank you for calling me when I was 20 and saying you were sorry you didn’t let me sleep with you when we were little and I was scared. And thank you for always, always, always being there when I’m scared now. I love you more today than I did in that bathtub. And that, my redheaded hero, is quite immeasurable.

Rules Girl

My mom made the best pumpkin bread in the history of pumpkin bread. Ever. Now when I was 12, I'll admit I didn't see the value. It was just something she did every holiday season.  Sure it smelled good, but it wasn't nearly as delectable as her cherry o'cream pie, which I asked for on more than one birthday instead of cake. But as I got older, got married and she passed away, I started to realize how much I missed that smell. It was the definitive "it's Christmas" odor. And I wanted it to fill my house. So, I called my big sister who inherited our mom's knack for cooking, hosting, and all things holiday and asked her for the recipe. I started to just listen (who does that when it comes to a recipe?!) But I soon realized I was going to need a list. So I wrote down the ingredients as she told them to me. Nutmeg and all. I felt like such a grown-up. Surely they're the only ones who use nutmeg. 


I went to the store and bought all my ingredients and began the process of infusing my house with the smell I'd come to miss so much. I was pumped. I was even going to make loaves for the neighbors. This was big. But my completed product seemed to be lacking something, and my husband - the same one who cut me out of the duct tape - had not become quite so sensitive at this point in our marriage and was not afraid to point out said lacking. "What is that?" His tone was accusatory. As if I'd offended the whole culinary world. 


"It's pumpkin bread!"


"No it's not."


"Excuse me? Then what is it? What do you mean?"


"I'm not sure. Maybe that's spice bread. That's all I'm sayin'."


I was livid. What did he know? Did he grow up in my house? Never mind the fact that my concoction tasted nothing like it was supposed to and that the smell was no where near right. He was crazy. It doesn't matter if he's right. When I say he's wrong, he's wrong.


Those loaves ended up in the trash that year, but I hadn't given up. The next year I tried again. Only to get the same result. Again, my husband, who was still not sensitive and clearly was not afraid to have any kitchen utensil hurled at him at warp speed, insisted that I had not made pumpkin bread. "Stop saying that!" I demanded. "It's....it.....it is so."  This time he was so wrong there weren't even words to tell him how wrong he was.  


Year three rolled around and I thought I'd better do some investigating before mister rain-on-my-pumpkin-bread-parade reared his ugly head again. I called Lauri. 


"This pumpkin bread thing has been a disaster and you've got to tell me what I'm doing wrong! What are the ingredients again?"


"OK, let's see, flour, sugar, baking soda, 1 can of pumpkin..."


"WHAT?"


"Baking soda, 1 can of pum--"


--"YOU NEVER TOLD ME I HAD TO USE A CAN OF PUMPKIN!!"


"I -- in the pumpkin bre--?"  (she senses I'm losing it. The water is swirling the drain and we are all. going. down.)


Trying to calm me, she uses her most soothing, big sisterly voice. "OK, I'm pretty sure I did. But, honey, even if I didn't -- did I really need to tell you that you need pumpkin for the pumpkin bread?"


"Yes! Clearly! Apparently! Absolutely!"


As I hung up the phone I realized the unthinkable was true. I HAD been making spice bread. He'd been right all along. Oh the humanity.

My man loves to recount this story. And I don't mind telling it either. It's a good one. Yes, it seems unthinkable that I wouldn't realize you need pumpkin for pumpkin bread. It's taken me this many years to realize why in the world it never occurred to me that something was missing.


I'm a rules girl. I asked for specific instructions. I made a list. I followed the list. Maybe she said one can of pumpkin and I missed it, maybe she didn't. (This is still a point of contention in an otherwise perfect sibling relationship). The fact is, it wasn't on my list. It wasn't in the rules. And I was just following the rules.


I like instructions. And I LOVE lists. Maybe that makes me a visual learner. I don't know. I just know I need you to keep it simple and let me write it down. One step at a time. I'm convinced that if someone had only known this about me when I was a teenager, my math tests would have been a lot less terrifying. This particular trait of mine frustrates my youngest daughter to no end. She likes to read things to me. Things I can't see. She'll be in the midst of a project, read instructions to me from another room, and I'm supposed to know what to do. This makes me insane. I can't think. Have you seen the movie 'Clue?' It sends me into Madeline Kahn's flames, flames on the sides of my face speech. Anyway, not too long ago when she was rattling off words and I could not discern any of them to be English, I stopped her. She hasn't seen Clue, so I had to go with something relatable. "Honey, you know when Charlie Brown talks to an adult on the phone and all they let you hear is 'wau wau-wau wau-wauh wau-wauaaaa?' That's what I hear when you talk to me about instructions and I can't see it. I need to see the list. Show me the rules."


Sometimes when I feel like life has thrown me some non-English wauh wauh-wauh wauh wauh stuff, I throw my hands up and say, "Lord you know what I need. I need a list. I need to see it. You explain it, and I'll write it down." The funny thing is, He all ready has. I just wasn't looking at the list. He absolutely does know what I need, what with Him being the One who made me and all, and I usually find that He's been whispering "Look at the instructions and just follow them" for quite some time. Pray without ceasing...Our Lord God is near to us whenever we pray to Him...but in everything, by prayer and petition...But the human brain is a funny thing, not nearly as miraculous for what it can remember as for what it can forget. (Like maybe there should be something with the word pumpkin in it on a list of things for pumpkin bread). In any crisis or time of questioning, I know my first line of defense needs to be prayer. And yet I forget. I might even be reading my Bible thoroughly and relentlessly. But I forget to pray. Even though I've experienced revelation and peace from those precious conversations, I manage to forget to have them. How utterly insane. You would think I would never want to come out from under the cover of that glorious place of rest and protection.  But how quickly I run to any and all other solutions first. I keep making the same recipe with disastrous outcome. Never remembering to just follow the instructions that produced such an incredible concoction of calm, understanding and the blessing of His presence in countless other instances. How tragic to forget. How tragic not to notice what's missing. It completely changes the result. I have got to write this stuff down. 

Timing is Everything

Every good and perfect gift is from above. Got it. Wonderful marriage, check. Beautiful kids, check. Amazing family, great friends, great church, check, check and check. I appreciate what I have. I get it. I know what gifts are.

Joy comes in the morning. Yep, got that one too. Everything will look better after a good night's sleep. The pain will lessen when you can see the sun again. Jesus rose from His grave in the morning. Check. I know what joy is. And I know what gifts have been given to me.

At least I thought I did.

I was recently reading about the word anguish and how it can co-exist with joy. Synonyms are mental distress. Not just pain, but pain and anxiety. Not just suffering, but suffering and dread. The origin of anguish includes the meaning "to choke." Reading these words took me back 14 years to a place in time that I thought would do me in for sure.

The year I was pregnant with Tristan, our first-born daughter, was madness. I had suffered two miscarriages just months before and was not emotionally ready to be pregnant again. In the first 8 weeks, I showed indications of another unsustainable pregnancy, but 2 weeks of bed rest, my God in Heaven and a stubborn and strong little girl held us all together. But those few days were the easy part. This was the year that my husband would lose his business, and I would lose my mom. I didn't know it at the time, but four years later, Greg would lose his Dad and we would also lose our home. Our first home. I loved that house. It didn't have much curb appeal, but my husband, carpenter extraordinaire, had made it Builder's Magazine worthy on the inside. It was less than 5 minutes away from my parents' home and less than 60 seconds away from my sister's. By this time we had lived there 3 1/2 years and I was pretty sure we'd be buried in the back yard some day. But God was moving in a different direction. If I'd been paying closer attention, I might have been able to see my hand in front of my face in the midst of those winds of change, but I wasn't looking. I was reeling. I couldn't fathom why God would choose this time to bring a child into our world. Into our mess.

During that year we were in & out of endless meetings trying to save our business. I remember hoping people would take pity on us once I began to show. We had no income. The weight of the world was on my husband's shoulders. No work. Pregnant wife. I look back and I honestly don't remember how we ate. Our families must have literally kept us alive, but it's really all a blur. I think if either Greg or I had had any money at all, we'd have called a cab and told the driver to go as far as he could, as fast as he could, and we'd walk the rest of the way to anywhere but here.

Mom died in late summer, and 4 weeks later her granddaughter came. I'd love to say I lay in that hospital bed and all the troubles of the world went away at the sight of her face, but that wasn't our reality. I was still trying to deal with loss on so many levels, and it was about to get worse with a little something called postpartum depression. We took our daughter home in Greg's truck, now the only vehicle we and the bank owned, and had to borrow $20 from his parents to pick up diapers on the way. We had nothing that had not been given to us. And I mean nothing. My husband had not worked in months. It was oppressive, and seemed so wrong to me that we should be under this cloud when we'd just had a child. My mom was gone, and I had no idea what I was doing as a mom myself. I couldn't even form the thought "I don't understand" because my mind was so shrouded and angry and in what I now can recognize as anguish. Mental distress. Pain and anxiety. Suffering and dread. And all the while people were sending me congratulatory messages and cards and bringing me gifts and asking to see this beautiful new little life, while I was dying inside. My very existence was one big contradiction. And I was choking on it.

We muddled through the first few months of her life, although I'm not really sure how. Did I mention we had nothing? Tristan was a delightful baby. Her only flaw was that during the day, she would only sleep 45 minutes at a time, when I could have used 3 hours! But as babies go, that's pretty remarkable. I remember walking into her room at night and thinking, "I get it Lord. I know why you sent her now. Because we never would have held on for ourselves. But we did for her." I thought I'd tied up all the crises in a neat little bow with that theory. Every good and perfect gift is from above. Yep, I get it. There she is, and she's perfect. Check.

Chris had come to live with us when Tristan was 10 months old, having no idea the landmine of financial distress and emotional depression he was coming into, so we put on our best brave faces and had some good times. He was and still is an amazing big brother. I regret terribly the fog I was in during his young years. He has a fantastic sense of humor and completely charmed his little sister with it. No one could make her laugh like Chris. Lacie came along two years later and, as funny and delightful as Chris and Tristan were, Lacie was that sweet. She just melted me. But I had never healed or recovered from the depression I went through with Tristan, and her little entrance only made it worse. We lost Greg's Dad that year, too, just one week after his sister's wedding. Again, I couldn't understand God's plan. Why could there not be lasting joy? Why were the good moments so fleeting? Still hanging by a thread to that house, we lived there the first 18 months of Lacie's life, and then the very thin thread had to be cut. Once again, and still, I was in anguish. Loss. Anxiety.

I look back at pictures of those times and I'm amazed that we're smiling. I've said to Greg, "Why in the heck were we smiling?! We were miserable! And exhausted!" As I said before, some of those years are truly a blur. I don't know how we made it. Financially, emotionally, and every other -ly, we shouldn't have.

Fast forward a little over a decade, and here I sit reading about anguish, what it means and how it can coexist with joy. So that's what that was, I thought. Huh. And then it hit me. As I was mulling over those years and the tornado of emotions I was caught up in, and wondering how there could be any good in the midst of so much bad, I realized that, up to that moment, I had realized absolutely nothing! Those few simple moments over my child’s crib, moments thinking I was recognizing the gifts that had been given to me, were so brief and sped by me so fast that I didn't hold on. I couldn't. But with a clearer picture, I see that those years of mourning were immediately turned to joy. Lasting joy. I just didn't know it. A death, and then, a life. My mother gone and then a delightful child. God doesn’t always give and take away. Sometimes He takes away, and then He gives. He took my mother from hell on earth and gave her ultimate healing. Then He sent this beautiful baby who, thirteen years later, is the most exuberant young lady I've ever known. Just watching her love and zeal makes me tired, but marvelously tired! In the midst of great loss and sorrow and anxiety, joy was growing up right before my very eyes. In the midst of pain and fear and dread, I had been given a son. A beautiful, gifted, witty blue-eyed son, the spitting image of his father, who just wanted to be loved and enjoy life with us. In the midst of choking on everything dark and oppressive, I was given another daughter who has wanted nothing for every day of her life but to spend time in my lap, draw me a picture, and tell me she loves me. Joy. Times three. Right in my own house. Right in every house I've ever lived in since then that isn't my own. And my husband. The man who stayed. The man who could have thrown up his hands and said he couldn't handle the mess, the spider-webbed dungeon that was my mind. He could have said it's too hard. I can't take care of you. Being on my own would be easier. But he kept getting up every morning to provide for us. And coming home to me every night. And miraculously, at some point, he made me smile. And I have the pictures to prove it. Such good gifts. Perfect gifts. Not just perfect in their creation, but in their timing. They were given to me at precisely the moment I needed them. There would be many, many mornings before I could recognize them in all their goodness and perfection. But thank God I have finally opened my eyes. Thank You for opening them for me, and thank You for the anguish. I don't believe I could ever have recognized perfect joy without it.

What Is That To You?

I need bricks to fall to learn something. And not just once. I should keep a mason on hand. And an ambulance for the trauma to my head, because I keep hitting it against this same wall.

I have these great light bulb moments and I think I've got something conquered. And for a while, I do. But there is one thing. One besetting sin that has had a hold on me for as long as I can remember, only I didn't know it. And it has affected everything I do. Colored the way I see the world, and I just realized that most of the time, I'm seeing red.

I've always thought of myself as a mature Christian. I know God's Word. I've hidden some of it in my heart and can quote it to you. I've been through painful situations, and although I may have stumbled through them with about as much grace as a bull in a china cabinet, I came to the other side with my faith intact. But a daily, moment by moment maturity is a whole different animal.  A heart of real faith is always growing and strengthening, not just surviving on what it learned from yesterday's pain. And lately, I've been one aorta short of a heart of faith. 

This, in itself, is a dandy epiphany, but without putting my finger on the cause of it, I'm doomed to short-lived victory again. So God, being God and all, sent me something last night, in the quiet of my room.

It was a brick.

Actually, it was several.

"Lord, I am tired of this. I feel so insignificant. So disregarded. I know in my head these things aren't true, but they FEEL true, so how do I deal with that? Why have you let this happen? Why won't you do something? Why don't you take away the pain? Or the people who cause the pain? See, then I could press through this because they wouldn't be around to make me feel bad. I'll even give up television, cause Lord knows -- I mean YOU know -- how bad that can make me feel. One hour of viewing and I'm mad cause my husband doesn't act like that, my body doesn't look like that, my tan - the one that magically made me 5 lbs lighter -  has faded, and there's no halo-like light around my face every time people look at me. So I can live without that. But would You just take care of the other stuff? The REAL people? Then I know I could get stronger and stop getting knocked down. And if I stop getting knocked down then I'd grow and mature and life would be better and that's what You want for me, right? Consistent maturity. Not this stop & start stuff but real growth. So yea. That's a superb plan. Move 'em out and I'll be great."

"Well, I could to that. But what are you doing about you?"

Brick Number One.

"I...well I'm right here, reading Your Word. See I'm right here in the Beatitudes. Sermon on the Mount stuff. It says you'll bless if I'm more merciful. And meek. I can do meek."

"Uh-huh. So You want my blessing?"

"I do! I NEED it! I'm drowning!"

"In what?"

"In weakness. In the world's opinions of me."

"I see. And, what is that to you?"

Brick Number Two.

"Well I know I'm not supposed to care, but..."

"But what? What is that to you?"

"I see where this is going. Peter, right? You said 'follow Me' to him and he asked You about the other guy. I remember. We've been down this line of questioning before."

"Yes, we have. My question is how did we get here again?"

"All righty. You asked for it. It's because You keep leaving me out! You're ignoring me! God, you are not paying attention."

"I see."

"Do You? Do you really? Cuz I'm not kidding! You keep taking me into these hard seasons, and not only that, but while I'm here in the dark of this winter, everybody else is singin' summertime! What is UP with that? What have I done? Why are You mad at me?!"

"You think I'm mad at you?"

YES! And You know what? It makes me mad right back! I don't deserve this! I've served you all my life!"

"Have you?"

"Don't do that. Don't keep answering my questions with questions."

"I'm sorry. What would you have Me say?"

"You're doing it again! Can we get back to me here?"

"No problem. Let's get back to you. I'm not mad at you."

"Then why? Why are You blessing everybody else except me? Why aren't you answering ME? My prayers? My PLEADINGS?"

"Have you pleaded? Because I don't recall that. I recall a lot of judging others on why they shouldn't be receiving blessing. I recall you taking up an offense for others whom you feel have been slighted and asking Me why I haven't fixed it. You've yelled at me for not healing you. I don't mind that, but I don't remember any pleading. I don't remember you admitting you needed Me. "

Brick Number Three.

"I....pft....I have it written right here in my journal. My prayers, right next to where I wrote scriptures. Where I wrote Your Word!"

"I see that, and I remember when You wrote it. I watched. But your mind was not on the right thing then. It was not on Me, or what you needed. It was on them."

"....sigh.....ok, but......"

"I was asking then, but you weren't listening."

"YOU were asking? It thought we were talking about me asking! What were you asking?"

"The same thing I'm asking now. What is that to you?"

"............I...I ... God, you don't know...there are so many other things You could allow, but why this?"

"You've claimed Me omniscient. Omnipotent. All knowing, all powerful. You even wrote it down, right there."

"But I'm so wounded. I can't get past it. Things have been so unfair. And this sickness. Unbearable."

"I see. And you think I wouldn't know about that."

"...I have no response to that."

"Well that's a start. You've had a lot of answers for how I should handle things of late. Not having one is a nice change."

"That hurt."

"I know, but it has to be said. You've been angry, and I don't mind. Things have been hard. Bad things have happened to you while good things have happened to others. You've tried to retreat because being around those good things when you're hurting is painful. You're tired, I know. I've allowed you some time for that. For grief and sorrow. But you haven't come to Me, really come to Me, in a long time."

"I read Your Word almost every day..."

"I know. But it hasn't helped. And I know why."

"Why?"

"Because you weren't reading with your heart open. You weren't really seeking Me, or listening to Me. You were focused on everything and everyone else. What they said. What they didn't say. What I was doing in someone else's life. What I wasn't doing in yours. I've been trying to talk to you. To comfort you and encourage you. To show you what comes next. But you just wouldn't listen."

"I....I was looking on someone else's paper."

"Yes."

Brick Number Four.

"I was looking at someone else's paper and trying to take their test instead of my own. And the Teacher gives us each a different test, so looking at their paper is...pointless...ludicrous...meaningless..."

"Now you remember. We have been here before."

Silence.

"It's ok."

"I'm so sorry. For not listening. For being so selfish. For self-righteousness. For not focusing on You. Your plan. Your heart for me. For not looking for You in every circumstance. For trying to apply Your Word to everyone else's life but mine. For looking at their test papers. For being Peter again."

"It really is OK. You can see from my Word how much I loved him. And how much I love you. I'm not mad at you. I have not forgotten you. You and your life are special. Precious. Purposed. Meaningful. Sometimes people will disregard you. Sometimes I will not give you what you think you want. But that doesn't mean you are insignificant. You are never insignificant to Me. I want you to remember this. Remember. Remember that waiting on Me brings strength. Growth. Maturity.

Since ancient times no one has heard, no ear has perceived, no eye has seen any God besides Me who acts on behalf of those who wait for Me."

"Thank You isn't enough but it's all I can find. Thank You for loving me. For having purpose for me. For always bringing me back, even when I don't know I've left."

"I love you, Tamara. I know your name. The number of hairs on your head. The words you're unable to speak. I know it all. And I love you."

Less than 24 hours after this conversation with my Father, I received a card in the mail from a precious friend. She told me how much she loved me. And she reminded me how many other people I have in my life who do, too. 

Brick Number Five.  

God is not just good. He's very thorough.


(I'd like to thank my former pastor Gary Miller for teaching me that looking on someone else's test paper is a sure way to hit a brick wall of discouragement, doubt and fear. I'm praying to hold on to that lesson once and for all.)

"You Staying Busy?"

I have a friend, a stay home mom who home schools her children like myself, who said people keep asking her this question as an opener. Like, "Hi! How are you? You staying busy?"

Hmmm.  Am I supposed to??

Now if you ask my husband this question with regard to his work, I know you're asking out of genuine concern, 'cause he needs to be busy or we don't eat! But that's not what I'm talking about. I think we've become confused about the difference between busy and productive. The former doesn't necessarily mean the latter. Is it really a badge of honor if I say I haven't seen my house since last Tuesday?

Rest. Repose. We need it. And not just when the sun goes down. If my days are so full of activity that I don't connect with my children, who benefits? If my evenings and weekends are so packed that I don't have any alone time with my husband, how does my marriage survive?

A few weeks ago I woke up feeling anxious. I was so stressed about my day's schedule, and the fact that it was going to be repeating itself every week until Christmas, that I could hardly function! I was overwhelmed and asking myself, "What have I done? What have I committed myself to and why did I do it?" My man, sensing my anxiety, suggested I was overbooked and asked me to look at what could be excluded from my week. Now I hate to admit this, but I don't always think his ideas are brilliant and worth an immediate, "Yep, gettin' right on that." But once I did figure out that I was over-extended and decided what I could and should give up, and I actually did it, my lungs involuntarily let out the biggest sigh of relief I had heard from myself in quite a while! He was right. Bless his man heart that's always trying to fix something when I just need him to listen, he was absolutely right.  And there was nothing in my weekly schedule that you'd look at and say was frivolous. It was all pretty good stuff, weekly Bible study and all. But I didn't have a week night at home from Sunday through Thursday. And my husband usually has to work late on Fridays. Something had to go, and when it did, my family had a new woman in the house. And thankfully it was me.

I don't think we're supposed to just "stay busy" for the sake of saying we are. What's wrong with answering, "Not a thing!" when someone asks what you did last night? "I rested! I recuperated from the previous non-stop 24 hours that couldn't be extracted from my schedule and it. was. great."

I grew up with two of those people who can't sit still. One of them raised me and the other one always talked me into doing something I didn't really want to. My Daddy is not a work aholic. He was very available to us growing up, and still is, but he does love his projects. He's always got something going. But he'll be the first one to tell you that when he tells himself to rest (and he has to tell himself because the idea doesn't come naturally) he always feels better and gets more accomplished after a little down time. The other "let's DO something!" red-head who shall remain nameless has crossed to the dark side in recent years. She still wants to do stuff and be where the people are, but she's all about the rest, too. You can even find her home on a Friday night every once in a while.

So, feel no guilt over those free evenings! You don't have to fill them up! Enjoy them! If something gets cancelled, leave the spot on the calendar blank! Take a breather! Buy a t-shirt that says, "I'm NOT staying busy. And I'm awesome."

"Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest."
Matthew 11:28

"I will refresh the weary and satisfy the faint."
Jeremiah 31:25

The Point System

Miles. Discounts. Cash Back. There's something Dave Ramsey doesn't teach you. How to deal with point system envy.

There needs to be a point system for not having a credit card and never flying anywhere. I could clean up on that. The last time I was on a plane was....Christmas 2008? Or was it summer 2007? Yea, I got miles. Miles on the flip flops I wear to the mail box. But that's only when I realize I haven't seen any mail in a while cause my husband's been storing it in the black whole of his white truck. Things go in there, but they don't come out. "Honey do you have the receipt for the (fill-in-the-blank-here but whatever it is, it's broken but hopefully still under warranty if we can just find the receipt)?"

"Yea, I think so. It's in my truck............Where are you going?"

"To buy a new one."

I used to struggle with self worth because I didn't go to college. I don't have a degree. But now I have a new trigger. I have no miles. I'm delighted to be on the all cash system, and no credit card bills coming in is wonderful. But have you seen those commercials? Those shiny blue and silver cards are beautiful. And do you have those friends who fly everywhere free? I want to stow away in their bags. Just once. Even if it's a business trip to Arkansas, just so I can participate in those "I used my miles" conversations.

And those discount hotel search ads with the happy people lying on the beach in serenity. Who are they kidding? We used one of them once. There was no serenity. We got stuck in Cincinnati, something wrong with the plane, and they wouldn't put us on another flight. "Yes sir, how can we help you? Of course! There's another flight going out in 2 hours. Oh, wait...You purchased with Expedia/Orbit/Priceline. I'm sorry. You're at the bottom of the customer totem pole. What does that mean? Well basically it means we gave you our left overs because you tried to get something cheaper and consequently we have nothing left to give. No, no, we're not punishing you for using a discount service. We're just treating you, your wife and your 2 small children as the grand losers of travel. But thank you for calling. And Happy New Year!"

That was the same trip on which we tried to rent a car with a debit card. If you're feeling good about your financial choices, just give that a whirl. Nothing can shoot your self-esteem into the death spiral like a smiling customer service agent's rejection. I have no idea why I care what this stranger on the other side of the counter thinks, but I do. And she's entirely too happy about telling me no.

So Dave, I'm a little miffed. Not at you. It's not your fault. Your program is fantastic and it works. It's the system. It's all upside down. Where are the points for cutting up the cards? For drving by Taco Bueno instead of driving thru? But I guess in everything good and worth waiting for, there are growing pains and discipline to get through. So I won't bend. No sir. I'll just keep staying home and wait for the point system on most pajama changes in a week. My notice on that should be coming any day now. In the mail. I've got my flip flops by the door.

Legacy

Grandchildren are the crown of grandparents, and parents are the glory of their children.
Proverbs 17:6

I am so in awe of God's sweet timing right now I can hardly stand it. Today marks the 13 year anniversary of my Mom's last day on this earth, and of course my mind is flooded with memories. I see it as no accident that right now, in my continuing Bible study on Ruth, the author is talking about the incredible legacy her grandfather left her. "At its simplest, I've been given a stunning heritage I did nothing to earn, and that's the beauty of legacy. It's a gift we leave for others."

My Mom was amazing. Ask anybody who knew her! There is not enough paper, no lap top large enough, to write about all that she left me. Stricken with Multiple Sclerosis in her mid 30's, Jeanne Louise Lee, former school teacher, could have been anything but gracious. Anything but a prayer warrior. Anything but a quick-witted conversationalist. Anything but merciful. Anything but completely confident that God had not abandoned her. Anything but faithful. But she was all these with a thousand etceteras.

As strange as it sounds, the fact that she had this dreaded disease did not make her "sick" in our eyes. On the contrary, she was healthy as a horse. She just couldn't walk. It was chronic progressive MS. It started in one leg and she only needed one crutch. Then two. Then a wheelchair sometimes. Then a wheelchair all the time. By my senior year in high school, she was completely bed ridden. It was a debilitating, awful disease and it put her body, heart and soul through agonizing, grueling effects that would make the strongest of men buckle. In fact, most men would have left at the sight of their tennis playing, long-legged beauty being robbed of her body little by little. But she and my Daddy were not most people. And still, my Mom was not sick. Our lives were just a little different. She couldn't be left alone for long periods of time, and eventually not at all. So I wasn't allowed to have a job during my teens. Not a problem! Our dinnertime meals went from her delicious four course cuisine to Steak Umm sandwiches and tater tots. I love tater tots! We had major family meetings in her bathroom rather than at the kitchen table, but that was just because it was so difficult to pick up a 130 lb woman and get her muscle-spasming body into the sitting position on the toilet. Once we got her there, she preferred staying a while! So we'd all hang out in the bathroom. That's not so weird. Nor is the fact that sometimes, when trying to get her back into bed, we would get the giggles at the crazy things her legs were doing and we'd completely miss. And no one was laughing harder than Mom.

The last year of her life was very different and traumatic for our family. It wasn't marked by laughter and was anything but what we had become accustomed to. She contracted pneumonia, and after several trips to the ER and 3 hospital stays, a very wise and merciful doctor finally caught on to what was happening. The MS had made it's way into her lungs and throat. She could hardly breathe and she could no longer swallow. She needed oxygen, a feeding tube and a tracheostomy. As my Daddy, sister and I stood reeling from this news, the doctor explained she simply couldn't survive any other way and asked us to make a decision. In just a matter of hours, after over 25 years of "only" having lost the use of her limbs but still plenty able to holler from the bathroom when she was ready to get up, my mother lay in ICU unable to speak because of the hole cut in her throat and the tube inserted into it, forcing air into her lungs. After several days of just accepting, dealing, comforting and accepting again, we slowly got the hang of things and adapted to our new normal. Mom got great at mouthing slowly, and we became excellent lip readers and learned all the literal ins & outs of a ventilator.  Her condition would both improve and decline several times over those fall and winter months. We even got to bring her home for Christmas, at which time I discovered I was expecting my first baby. But her time at home was short, and things only became worse. Finally, on August 5, 1998, with our precious family of four there in her room at the long term care facility, her heart quietly stopped. Within a few moments all the machines were silent, and we had a funeral to plan.

As I said earlier, MS is a debilitating disease. If there's a more descriptive word for not only steals your physical health but all your dignity as well, feel free to put it in place of debilitating. But as unusual as our usual was, and as painful as those last weeks and months were, they could not rob me of the mother I had for the first 30 years of my life. There had been laughter. And I hold it close as one of the most precious gifts my parents gave me. I remember her teaching me how to fold my socks together and put them in my antique white dresser drawer when I was 5. I remember her using those same socks to roll my hair on Saturday night. I remember how she would frost her hair and let me pull it through the holes in that crazy cap that made her look like an alien. I hold dear how much she loved Fritos and Coke and said that Pepsi was made and consumed by communists. I'm proud to be an OU football fan simply because she was, and I'm proud of the fact that she was a Dallas Cowboys fan when no one else was. I remember her Bible in her lap every day, her adorable red reading glasses on her face. I remember turning the pages for her when she couldn't. I loved putting her make-up on while my sister did her hair and hearing her say, as if I hadn't heard it before, "Make my eyebrows look like commas." I remember her impeccable taste in clothes. The smell of her perfume. How she taught us that beige is a real color. I love that everytime my parents would go somewhere, my dad would come home, smiling, and say, "Girls, your mom was the belle of the ball as always." I remember how much she loved him. How fervently she would pray for me. For all of us. I remember the sound of her voice. I remember walking the halls of hospitals and nursing homes and hearing sweet people call out, "You must be Jeanne's daughter! You look just like your momma!" I see her in her granddaughter's face. I love that I bear her name. I remember the masses of people who came to her funeral. How we celebrated an incredible life that day, and how proud I was. And so grateful that God would choose her, a woman of noble character, as my mother. As the wonderful grandma I would tell this baby about. I remember that just 4 weeks after that glorious celebration of a life lived with faith and grace, I would welcome Tristan Nicole to the world and speak of the Grandma she never met. I remember the precious moments I've had with both my daughters as I tell them how countless people said to my sister and I that day in August, and many times since, "I know we've never met, but I knew your mother. And her faith and her testimony changed my life."

Legacy. A stunning heritage I did nothing to earn. What a gift.