Where does my soul stop?

Her soul apparently stops at white cabinets. She's shopping for her first home with her fiancé on cable television and she says her dislike for white cabinets goes to the depth of her soul.

I scoff and make an immediate judgement. It's wrong of me and unfair to her. I've said many comments that were dumber than this. Still, I can't let it go. As I watch her explore and then choose between the three large houses that her generous budget can buy her, I see she means it. Girl really does not like white cabinets.

"To the depth of her soul."

After today for just a quick moment, I wish my soul stopped at cabinets. Truth be told, my soul is hurting deeply for the woman who was just told she has 3 different types of cancer in her chest.

My soul longs for the chance, the strength, and the grace to hold his hand once more as his time here narrows. To be physically close enough to yell in his deafened ears, "I love you, Papa." To hear his patented response, "Same to you."  Just once more.

My soul is discouraged when I watch her struggle with the anger, the pride, and the stubbornness she unfairly inherited from me, from Eve. Her voice is loud and argues truth;  "I know I need to do the right thing. It's just hard!"

It is hard. This life, this world, this struggle.  She's 4, but she's right. "It's just hard!"

No, my soul does not stop at cabinets. Surely I would feel less pain if it did.  Instead, the layers of my soul have been pierced, and He continues to dig deeper. It is a painful unearthing. He tills and I am like the red Alabama clay I was born on. Difficult, but not impossible.

Why I ask Him?  Why must it be so deep?

The answer is odd, but clear. Seeds don't grow on cabinets.

"Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown." ~Matthew 13:8

The cancer, the dying, the sin, all of it breaks through to the muddy layer of my soul. It's a layer watered by my tears, cold and messy but now soft and ready. Ready to nurture seeds. Seeds that will sprout compassion, comfort, and character. Seeds that by His grace will one day produce a crop.

Searching for ~ Part 2

If I write anything, it's because my family is asleep. For example, my children are currently tucked in their beds and my husband has been asleep on the couch for an hour now.  Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives just wasn't captivating enough to keep his weary eyelids open.  However, my mouth is watering for those Thai chicken wings Guy is chomping.

I wrote about the great key loss and my frantic search, on my iPhone from my bed with my beloved snoring beside me. As a story will do to its writer, it changed me first. I was ready to wake up early and begin searching for my Jesus. I planned to get up 30 minutes earlier than usual. I would shower and grab my coffee and Bible long before the children were calling from their beds.

I nudged my man, and told him my plan. I was setting my alarm, but if I wasn't up when he got up, then he needed to wake me. He chuckled and said with sarcasm, "OK, sure." Before, I would have been bummed at his unbelief in me. But this time I was confident I didn't need his help. After reflecting on my frantic search, I knew I would prove my doubting husband wrong. He would wake to find me sitting in the sun room, coffee in hand, scouring my Bible for my Jesus.

I knew just what I wanted to find. The parable of the the woman tossing her house upside down for a lost coin. It was a coin right? I couldn't remember the exact details, but I would discover them in the morning.

The only thing I've forgotten to mention is that I'm not a morning girl.  Unless there's a beach and a sun rising over it, I'm in my bed until the last possible second.  So when the alarm went off half an hour early, I did what I was highly motivated to do.  I pressed snooze. When my phone chimed 9 minutes later, my husband nudged me and mumbled, "You wanted to get up." I quickly thanked him for helping me said, "I lied, let me sleep." He laughed, and I slept.

I finally made my way to the coffee pot an hour after I'd sent my love off to work, and finished eating breakfast with my children. I tried not to be too hard on myself. I remembered His grace abounds, and I should offer it to myself. The smell of  that precious black liquid woke me from my sleepy fog, and I realized my longing was still there. I still wanted to search for my Jesus.  I quickly jumped to plan B.

"PBS kids, anyone?" Of course they both agreed.  Within minutes I was in the sun room with my coffee and my Bible. I was ready to search while listening to the sweet sounds of Curious George.  Unlike yesterday I was not giving up on my search. I was eager to relate my experience to that parable Jesus spoke so many years ago.

I looked in the first gospel of Matthew. No parable of a lost coin. The search continued to Mark. I checked all the subtitles. Again, no parable of a lost coin. I was really hoping I hadn't imagined its existence, when I finally found it in Luke.

"Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn't she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, 'Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.' In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents." ~Luke 15:8-10

His red words stared at me. He is not the lost key. He is not the lost coin. Jesus is God. He is never lost.

I am. I am the lost one.

He came looking for me, He tore through the house, and motivated by love He did the unthinkable.

For me; the sinner, the girl who can't wake up early, but does think she can control her life.

His words humbled me, and I had found my Jesus again.

The Jesus who had found me, rejoiced over me, and reminded me again to repent of my self reliance, and rest in His grace.

A Frantic Search ~ Part One

All day I reminded myself I would leave at 4:00. We stayed at my in-laws for naps, so we would only be 15 minutes away from the dance studio. The girls' class starts at 4:30, and I teach a ballet class in the room next door at 5:00. My sleeping beauties were awake by 3:30, dressed in their pretty pink leotards and tights, and after the usual squirming, their soft curls were pulled into sweet ponytails. 

I even remembered to grab some fall clothes that had been stashed away in a closet there. I tossed them in the back of that mini van so proud I was not only on time, but also remembering things on my mental checklist!

I summoned those girls. Had my sweet ballerina's buckled in their seats and went to grab the keys. 

Keys, where are the keys? 

Come on, I don't have time for this. Where are you keys? 

A very loud silence came when I shook my messy purse. The absence of that saving jingle, was like a tornado siren. The storm is coming... Take cover, Mama's gonna blow!

I'd love to report that I remained calm. That I remembered the verses given to me that morning, Come to me and rest, Do everything without complaining or arguing, but once I had finished digging through my dance bag, the lunch cooler, and the girls' dance bags, my huffing and puffing began.

"Mommy, I need to go potty," my 2 year old whines. 

"Can you hold it? You have to hold it. Until we get to the dance studio. Stay buckled!"

I ran back into my in-laws, hollered to my father in-law that I was back and looking for my keys. I briskly started the retrace your steps act, which is always so demeaning. They were no where. 

"What is this day?" The complaint came quick and easy.

The clock on the oven read 4:20. Ugh, I'm done. I ran back to the car scanning the grass in case I had somehow dropped them. My children are now screaming, "Your phone's ringing!" Like that's of importance? 

I see it's Miss Charlene, their dance teacher, my amazing colleague and sweet friend. I'm listening to her message warning me about traffic on the way to the studio, she's hoping I'm there already, but no I am not.  I knew then I had to do the unthinkable. 

Dump my purse. 

There's a really good reason my husband calls my purse a trash can. Even my two year old gasped when she saw the litter of coins, receipts and crumby Ziploc bags falling from my "looks really cute on the outside" purse. 

No keys.  Just a mess. A really big mess to scoop off of the floorboard. I scoop, and tell myself, "Don't cry, there are worse things," but in this moment I can think of nothing else but melting into a puddle of tears. 

There is a shred of perseverance left in me, and I don't! I unbuckle the very intelligent 4 year old and tell her to look under all the seats, search everywhere for Mommy's keys. I am texting, "Sorry we will be late," to Miss Charlene as I run back inside. My dutiful father in-law has a flashlight in hand looking under beds and behind trashcans, but still nothing.

I call my husband, explain how I am doomed. The girls will have to miss their class. I will borrow his Dad's truck, and no I'm not sure how I'll get home tonight?!

It's 4:39.  My class of 12 young ballerinas starts at 5:00. I break the news to the girls that they will have to miss dance class, and try to tune out their cries of disappointment. Instead I am listening and officially agreeing with the voice in my head telling me, "You are a horrible, unorganized mom." 

I have no other option. I GIVE UP! I unbuckle the now screaming two year old. And there, under her bottom draped in pink chiffon,  in the raisin stained crack of her car seat are my keys.

I am out of breath from reliving this as I type. What's the take away? I can't decide?

1. Listen to your children. If I'd let her go potty I would have found them 20 minutes sooner. Ah yes, but she is also the one who wants to eat chips for breakfast, and dips her PBJ in ketchup.  So no, I don't think listening to her is wise.

2. I know, Give up sooner! Stop trying to make it all happen. Just give up. As soon as you do, the key is revealed. Ha! How about that pun? No, too cheesy.

Or

3. Look for something different.  

You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart.  ~Jeremiah 29:13 

I seriously looked like a madwoman for those keys. In my mind, everything depended on the outcome of my search. My career, my motherhood, and most of all my pride.  Finding the keys would be my saving grace.

Hmm, Saving Grace...

How often do I seek His face this way? When was the last time I was out of breath from tearing through the pages of my Bible? When was the last time I did the unthinkable and dumped the dirty contents of my heart in an effort to find Him? 

Somehow the ways of this world lull me into a soft leather seat, inside a gray minivan. A parked minivan, that is going nowhere. 

Quick!  Everyone, out of the car. We have to find Mommy's Jesus!

Treating Myself

Lately I've been treating myself to a break. Not a vacation, not a lapse from responsibility, just a break from trying to capture every moment, emotion or good thought in the most perfect words. Hence why I haven't posted in a while.

Instead, I have been trying to live in the moments granted me and enjoy them. I've tried to resist the urge to manufacture them or over analyze each one.

This is no easy task for me. I am often moving too fast. My brain is a lot like the energizer bunny. It just keeps going and going and going, until my husband rolls over and says, "turn it off." It's often in overdrive trying to find, understand, or create meaning for whatever the day brings.

The funny thing is that after years of over thinking...I'm learning it gets me nowhere. Actually, that's not true. It usually puts me behind, in a place where I've missed my chance to enjoy, experience and give thanks. Thanks for the child wearing on my patience or the shelter I'm trying to keep clean or the mere breath I am breathing.

A few thoughts that have spurred me on to treat myself:

This is what the Sovereign Lord, the Holy One of Israel, says:
"In repentance and rest is your salvation,
in quietness and trust is your strength,
but you would have none of it. ~Isaiah 30:15

"Sometimes attentiveness may feel like letting go — more like being
captured by the grace of the moment than trying to capture the grace
of the moment." Ann Voskampf

I remain confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living. ~Psalm 27:13

In my attempts to rest, I have not gone to a spa or on a shopping spree. I've just been trying to taste the goodness of the Lord.

I've opened the blinds and watched the sunrise from my bed over the field of green behind our new house. I told myself it was OK to relax and spend another minute snuggled under the covers in the morning light. The soaked pull ups needing to be removed, and the growling tummies wanting to be fed can actually wait one minute. I don't think God minds if I linger in my room another minute in order to let my heart whisper its thanks to Him.

I've also enjoyed more time at night with my hubby. Instead of busying myself by adding more pins to the boards I'll never get around to, I've just sat with him and watched The Voice. Man can those people sing!

I've even said, "Yeah, why not?" when my girls ask to walk to the park even though the set in stone nap time is quickly approaching. And don't tell, but I even let them play 20 minutes longer in their new backyard before calling them in for bed. I'll admit this is in part because it gives me another chance to whisper thanks as the sun
sets through the trees, but I also don't want to stop my girls' living either.

Tasting these new little treats I've been allowing myself, I've realized two things.

1. They aren't really new. They have always been available to me, but my striving, my haste, and my self imposed structure or let's face it my need to control things have been robbing me of real living.

2. They are moments that are good and perfect. They come from God alone. And the most astonishing part of all... He loves me enough to grant them, each new morning, each hour of quiet after the little ones are fast asleep, each sunset. No matter how I choose to spend them, self absorbed or humbled and thankful, He keeps giving them. Each one a treat. Each one GRACE.

A Time to Fear

“The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a Ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning. The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring, and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn, but the first week of August is motionless, and hot. It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.”  Natalie Babbitt's first line of Tuck Everlasting.

All my life I have loved these summer days she's referring to. I should have been a lizard. I relish the long hot and humid days with more hours of light to laugh, dance, and live. Summer really is my favorite time of the year, especially when I'm at my happiest place, the beach. If all of that wasn't great enough, the end of the week, the 5th to be exact, brings my birthday!

The  past three years have threatened to steal my joy of this favorite week.

Three years ago to this day, a call came. It brought news of my sweet sister in the hospital giving birth to her second son at 36 weeks. He was already with my Jesus.  I fell immediately onto the stairs where I was standing, stunned. I would somehow pick myself up off the steps, make my way to the hospital with a close group of other sisters. We would surround her, hold hands, and pray. In the dog days to follow we would bring meals, assist with funeral arrangements, and mostly cry.

Two years ago as sisters we remembered the  anniversary of that sad day.  August 4th came and brought my husband home early. I remember smiling in the kitchen when I heard his key in the front door. I loved that he was surprising me, maybe for my birthday?! I rounded the corner and knew immediately by the look on his face that was not the surprise. He would take the next few minutes and tell me some of the hardest news a loving provider will ever have to tell his wife. He'd lost his job. "Happy Birthday," we would joke through our sobs.

I so wish the run of bad summers ended there, but that wasn't God's story.

It's July 29th again. I pray and wait all afternoon for the call. My sister is at the Breast Center hearing her plan of treatment for the cancer we learned about only a few days ago. The call comes from her husband. He tells me it's worse than we thought. The treatment will most likely be a double mastectomy, and harsh chemo. I again fall to the ground. I'm out front where I've gone to escape from the noise inside. I finish the conversation, promising to call our other sisters who are also waiting by their phones, but first I throw my phone in the grass, bury my head in my hands, and weep.

Many years before this the three of us sat with our husbands and other friends as a group and studied the book of Ecclesiastes. We were young, not a gray hair on our heads. Probably too young to appreciate the truth of chapter 3:

There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born
and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a
time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to
search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

The days, weeks, and months have passed again. Today is July 29th.  I don't really wish to look back, but it's impossible not to. These moments have left cracks in my soul too deep to ignore, and they leave me with a question my flesh can't help but ask. What next, God? What anvil will fall from the sky this week? My precious week of summer has become a time to fear.

This year, during this time I fear, God has placed me at my happy place, the beach.  Have I mentioned I love the beach? I am with my family. My petite four year old has taken a love to the ocean. She rides the waves with my strong husband. I watch and wonder will the sea suddenly rip her from his hands? Is that what's next? We plan to drive home late. Will we find ourselves in a ditch bloody because a driver fell asleep?  Will a call come in the middle of the night about my grandfather? It's clear the potential for another stroke is high. I hear thunder from a far off storm, will one of us be struck by lightning?

No joke. These are the thoughts that race through my mind. The ones my husband says makes him never want to see what really goes on in this head of mine.

Thankfully, my onslaught of horrible thoughts is interrupted. I recall the verse He gave me yesterday as I watched the sun faithfully rise over the ocean once again.

1 John 4:18
There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because
fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect
in love.

I breathe again. His whispers of love begin to softly soothe the aching cracks.

A whisper comes in my oldest's eyes as she runs to me wet and out of breath, exhilarated from riding the waves with her Daddy. I know that feeling. My Abba never let go.

His whisper comes from my youngest heavy in my arms who stares at the waves crashing one after another at my feet. She sighs, puts her head on my shoulder and softly sings, "Jesus, I adore thee..." Yes the act of singing has provided much comfort.

He whispers to my eyes and my soul as I watch a sunset splashed with too much color on the drive home. When we safely pull in and open the doors I am greeted by a chorus of crickets very much alive.

No where in Ecclesiastes chapter 3 does my God tell me there is a time to fear. Read it again.  It's not there. Verse 11 does cause me to pause though;

He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity
in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from
beginning to end.

The first sister I mentioned is pregnant with what will be her second child since that horrific July 29th. She is nauseous and tired, but she bears something beautiful.

My husband continues to enjoy his new job, and after many months of uncertainty we are humbled beyond words at how Our Father has beautifully provided our daily bread.

My sister posts a picture of herself and her husband on a date celebrating the fact that she is alive a year later. Her words come across the screen and  interrupt as I write this. They tell of a heart forever changed. One that is left only to tell her story of how God showed up. She desires to bring hope to others, the beautiful hope that never fails.

According to Ecclesiastes there is not a time to fear.  There is however, a God who can't be fathomed. One I am to hold in reverence.  After listening to His whispers of love and seeing His beauty displayed, how can I not stand in awe of Him?

This first week of August I desperately want to hear His whispers of perfect love drive out my fear. I want to sing or write of His wonderful deeds. My eyes will often be looking to the sky. Not for falling anvils, but for his Glory.

Psalm 19:1
The heavens declare the glory of God;
the skies proclaim the work of his hands.

This Green Love Seat

We sat here about nine years ago, and after I finished a long story about nothing, he turned to me and changed my life for the better.  It's here where he took a knee and asked me if I'd let him love me forever.

Thankfully, I was smart enough to say yes.

In the nine years that would follow we would fall into a daily routine.  We would travel. We would celebrate and love two precious gifts of life. We would mourn the loss of loved ones. We would be ungrateful in times of plenty, and learn to be thankful in times need.

More recently we would take to the uncharted waters of unemployment for 15 months, sell our first home, accept a gracious offer and move into my in law's house.

So back on the green love seat I sit. Today I sat here and worked on a reading lesson with my oldest, cuddled my youngest, and stole a kiss with my love when he returned home from the good job God provided.

I sit here again my mind consumed with a to do list before bed. He gets a text, pauses the show we are watching and says, "It's the realtor. The seller's appraisal came through, and we are good."

My breath catches in my throat. Our eyes meet, we silently smile at each other the same knowing smile we smiled nine years ago, and he presses play.

The show continues and here I sit on this green love seat. I am caught off guard again by the idea that my God would choose to love me so. To allow our next dream, buying our own house to raise our girls in, to come true. I am filled with a scary and wondrous sense of awe.

I could allow doubts and fears to steal this moment from me, or I could remember that He came to give life, and give it to the full.

So I do what I've been doing a lot lately. I pull out my iPhone and start typing feverishly. I write and remember His faithfulness. I remember the verse He's sewn into my heart over the past two years. 


Philippians 4:4 ~ Rejoice in the Lord always, I will say it again Rejoice!

Rejoicing tonight not in the fact that we are steps closer to an earthly dream, but that I am only one thankful thought away from my heavenly King.

Thank you Jesus for meeting me again on this green love seat.

Newness

I sit in the dark hospital room. The light from the muted TV is enough to read from Sarah Young's Jesus Calling.  "As you follow me I lead you along paths of newness: ways you have never imagined. Don't worry about what is on the road up ahead. I want you to find your security in knowing me, the one who set you free."


Paths of newness.


Yes, it's new here holding a left arm that reaches uncontrollably and shakes when you squeeze it tight. His energy making ripples up the muscles of my right arm. He's still fitful although a little less than yesterday.

He's lost in the fog of the past, unaware of the room he's in or the fact that it is his 30 year old granddaughter sitting next to him at 4:30 in the morning.

But he's always loved someone to talk to. So we talk and my arm shakes from holding his. I try to remind him of where he is. I wonder if it will make any difference? The rule follower in me does it anyway.

That's a trait I received from my Granny, who taught me if we're going to do something, whatever it is, we should do it just right. "Just perfect!"

My Papa is not as much the rule follower. His eye's always twinkled when he'd bite into that fried chicken he knew he wasn't supposed to have. The same twinkle was there when he'd nudge me in my bed on Christmas morning. He has a hard time waiting to open his presents so he'd always sneak in, wake me first, and make me wake the others.  His face still smiles when he feeds his great granddaughters too much popcorn from the Christmas tin. He has a laugh and a happiness that draws you in. Even if he mumbles sometimes and the story is way too long.

He has a fight too. One that most likely began as a kid surviving the Great Depression and only grew stronger on a PT boat in the South Pacific during WWII. The fight remains this morning. He tries to use my nearness as leverage to pull up and escape from this bed. Escape from this body that is limiting him. Escape from this life that has been full and 90 years long. Wanting to go home and with a robustness the stroke has not killed, he says, "Go Gator Go!"

We have little idea of what the next few days will look like. Oh how I want to tell him to keep fighting to keep on trying. I know that's not for me to decide. God's ways are higher than my ways. So I sit here as he finally sleeps, silently cheering Him on toward whatever is next on this new path. 


The Seminole fan in me can't believe I'm actually going to say this but, "Go Gator Go!"


Blessed to love and be loved by this cattle rancher, gardener, American hero, Florida Gator, and my forever Papa.