Grief Sucks

I was wrenched awake at 4 this morning by an incredibly vivid dream. I found myself in London, England about to fly back to the States. But right before I boarded the plane I realized that I would have to leave my car there. I couldn't figure out a way to get it home without someone to help me. I didn't have a plan but to just leave it there. I was running from place to place trying to ask strangers what I should do but no one responded. It was like they didn't care, or even hear me as I franticly searched for anyone to help me come up with a solution. I finally ran out of time and had to head for the plane. When I got back inside the airport suddenly my mom was there and I was so relieved. She didn't say anything at all but because she was there I knew that everything was going to be ok. I was happy and peaceful, I wasn't in a frenzy anymore and I felt calm. I climbed the stairs to my plane and made my way down the aisle. I thought mom was behind me but when I sat down in my seat she wasn't there. From the window I saw her leaving the airport. I ran for her, calling her, "Mom! Mom!" I shouted. "Mom?" It went dark and I couldn't see her anymore. She was gone and I was overcome with grief. And I woke up in tears and trying to catch my breath.

My dreams have become some cruel figments of my imagination lately. So real they seem, as they taunt me with vivid images of my mom or my family. I've heard my mother calling my name so clearly that I've jumped completely out of the bed, stood upright on the floor and actually searched for her down the hallway before I realized what I heard wasn't even real. Sometimes waking up is so disappointing, shoved back into a world that my mom is no longer in. Sometimes I just want to sleep, go back to dreamland where I can visit her, see her, hear her voice. The grief counselor says this is 'normal'.

So it was 4 in the morning and I was awake. I ached all over and just rolling over onto my other side was painful. Despite taking Advil and Excedrin Migrane medicine before bed my back was in knots. I had fallen asleep watching the Olympics with a cold washcloth on my forehead. Seems like I've been nursing a 'sick headache' since sometime last week. Just a dull, aching headache that won't go away. It makes my eyes see 'sparkles' and sometimes it makes my stomach roll so much I think I might throw up. I put my cold, damp washcloth back on my head, stiffly rolled over and tried to get back to sleep. I was miserable - but no more miserable than any other night.

I woke up a few hours later feeling like I had been in an accident. Sitting up in the bed sent a shock of pain down my spine, my neck was stiff and my head was throbbing again. Oh yes, another fresh day to face. Another 24 hours to get through. I was grateful to wake up but really not down for another day filled with all this grief, worry, sickness and pain. I made my way out of bed and tripped over a laundry basket that's been sitting right there for weeks. I knew it was there, I just didn't pick my foot up enough to get around it. I nearly fell down with that stupid move. The day was getting worse by the minute.

I don't look in the mirror much anymore but made the mistake this morning. I looked exhausted. There were bags under my eyes, the lines on my forehead have deepened, my cheeks were puffy and bloated and I was pale. I looked like absolute hell this morning. I've aged, my mouth is downturned and my eyes aren't sporting the 'laugh-lines' that I used to be proud of. No, the mirror is not my friend - in fact I hate it. I don't recognize that girl. Oh grief. You've robbed me of my laugh lines.

Next up was the daily gastro-intestinal problems. Despite the doctor presribing medication for these stress-induced GI problems that have plagued me over the last few months, my stomach stays torn up and the acid burns my throat. Breakfast was Tums and coffee that didn't satisfy. I figured if I couldn't find a little happiness in coffee then this day wasn't looking any better than any other day I've had lately. I climbed in the shower and prayed. I do a lot of praying in the shower, it's quite and comfortable in there. I used to sing 'church songs' and really get my worship going first thing in the morning and I loved it. But now I pray things like "help me get through the day", "thank you for the air I breathe", "please mend my broken heart" and "tell my family I said hi."

By the time I got Matthew up and off to his camp I was already exhausted. I had to get myself together enough to get to work and get my job done. By no means is my job at all physical. The most physical thing I do is stand on my feet. Today I noticed after about an hour of standing I hurt like I'd been beat up. My back ached, my ribs hurt, I felt like I had a knot the size of a softball between my shoulder blades and my head was aching again. Even my ankle was hurting where I had tripped over the laundry basket earlier. More Advil, more coffee, whatever it takes to make it to the end of the work day and back home again. Once I got home I got Matthew fed and cleaned up, I hit the couch and that was the end of it for me today. Except for writing this blog. I should probably get up and do some laundry or wash a few dishes but even the thought is overwhelming.

According to the 'grief experts', these physical problems that I've been having lately are all part of 'stage-two' of the grieving process and all perfectly normal. Changes in sleep patterns, exhaustion, GI problems, aches and pains and headaches are just par for the course. And so are things like loss of interest in things that used to be enjoyable, isolation, avoiding people and those sorts of things. If you 'google' grief symptoms - it turns out that I have a text-book case of it. My head swirls, my thoughts race and I'm bombarded with memories. Everything I see, do, smell, think of makes me think of mom, miss her, miss my family. I even grieve for my home, my old bedroom, mama's kitchen, daddy's little building. It's all gone. Somedays I just sit at dad's piano - now in my living room - and run my fingers over the keys or pull out the drawer of mom's hutch so it'll make that familiar squeak. The rest of my family home is crammed into a 10x15 storage building and my worry over what to do with it all or how to pay for the storage fee nearly induces an anxiety attack. I can't keep it all - but I can't bear the thoughts of parting with it. I don't know what to do or how to be. And I cry. A lot.

I see little old ladies and it upsets me that my mother didn't get to be one. I see children with their grandparents and I'm so disappointed that Matthew won't get to grow up with my parents. I'm envious of people spending 'family time' together and enjoying the company of loved ones. I miss having any family or someone who loves me like a mom loves her daughter. Everything feels monumental, I can't concentrate, I'm not functioning at 100% and sometimes I feel like I'm choking. I've forgotten to do things like pay the rent, I've missed turns on my usual routes, I lose track of time or forget what day it is. I'm desperately lonely and so incredibly sad. I'm worried that eventually the people around me will not want to be around me anymore because I always talk about it or I can't "snap out of it". I worry that my Christian brothers and sisters will doubt my faith because I've been unable to "cast my worries on Him". I feel guilty, mad and frustrated. Sometimes I think I'm losing it completely. And all perfectly normal according to the grief counselor. When I say things like "I can't wait to get back to normal", this is not what I meant.

I'm so thankful for my salvation, God's love for me and His promise to never leave me or forsake me. I believe that not because I see it but because I have felt it. It has coursed through my veins and it's the foundation of my whole life, my purpose and how I try to raise my son. I know that God has a plan for me and none of this has taken Him by surprise. I'm being refined in this season of grief and I'm certain I'll come out on the other side of this process as a stronger person and hopefully a testament to just how good God really is. In no way do I ever want to minimize the importance of God in my life. (I don't even want to say the word "but" here)... But. I'm grieving. As much as I believe that He's "got this" and I need to trust that, turn my eyes upon Jesus and carry on, I am physically struggling to put one foot in front of the other. I'm glad in that I don't "grieve like those who have no hope", according to the Apostle Paul in the Book of 1 Thessalonians. If I didn't at least have that, I don't think I would have made it out of bed this morning. I know I'll see my mom again - my whole sweet family who are all there together. And until then I'll be here... waking up on this side of the grass and trying to adjust to my new "normal".

I'm compelled to apologize to the people in my life. I'm sorry if I've dropped the ball or lost interest in stuff. I apologize for looking like hell, spending the last 3 months on my couch, avoiding everything, slumping my shoulders when I walk or crying at lunch. Bear with me as I muddle through this 'process' - according to the experts I have one more stage to go.

Broken Seashells

You might not know this - but Matthew and I go places for fun. It's just what we do. I started taking him on these little road trips since before he could walk. I believe I've taken a million pictures! Maybe more. We've been everywhere from the mountains to the sea, collecting little things and making memories. And filling up photo albums. Lots and lots of photo albums.

The first time we took Matthew to the beach he had just turned 3. He was so excited to play in the sand. Dressed in a red bathing suit, sweet little sandals and a plastic back pack filled with sand toys. He paused at the bottom step, unsure of the sand and if he should step on it. He finally jumped down - both feet firmly in the hot, soft sand and carefully tip-toed his way down to the water. It was cute - and of course I was there to take the picture...

As long as I've been taking pictures of Matthew on the beach, I've had in mind an arts-and-crafts project. I've wanted to collect seashells, glue them onto some kind of picture frame and then frame the best 'beach-picture' of Matthew I could take. Maybe I would then give the whole thing to mom or someone as a gift. Maybe if I ever did a beach-themed room in my house it would be the perfect, personalized decor. I got the idea from a very crafty ex-sister-in-law of mine who framed my niece's baby picture in this pink satin with pearly-looking beads and pink flowers she glued all around the edges. So that was my plan. And I wanted it to be perfect! (That ex-sister-in-law wasn't the only crafty one in the family!)

A day or two into our first beach trip, we grabbed Matthew's little sand pail and set off down the shore line in search of the perfect seashell. In my mind they had to be just the right size, smallish and thin, in order to properly stick to the picture frame. I wanted them to be that iconic shaped, scallop shell and preferrably sand-colored with the right grooves and edges. I didn't want any cracked shells, no chips and none with that little hole in the back of it. It was going to be a beautiful frame! I figured I'd break out my glue gun as soon as we got home. We just had to find the perfect shells.

We walked along combing the beach for the different seashells. I inspected each one I picked up for color, size, damage, perfection. Only the best of the best would go into the bucket. Matthew, on the other hand, would pick up dirty, broken shells, shells with holes in them or covered in barnacles. And his favorite ones seemed to be the ugly step-sisters of the shell world, the oyster shells. "Matthew, that one is an oyster shell, honey. Let's find some like these", I said as I showed him the sweet little shells that I had collected.

But he liked the oyster shells and the holey shells, chipped and broken and ugly shells. He continued to put them in the bucket while I secretly removed them. When he caught me tossing out his shells he got mad. Ultimately we came home from our first beach trip with a sack full of mixed shells. Ugly oyster shells and perfect, sweet scallop shells. Not enough of either kind to make a respectable beach-themed frame. My arts-and-crafts project would have to wait for another time...

From that time till the very last beach trip we took it's been the same thing. I set out to find the perfect seashells and Matthew invades my bucket with busted up, ugly shells. My project is still undone. I could have done the whole thing on my own but really I've always wanted him to help. I wanted him to search for the perfect shells with me and he and I could glue the shells to the frame together. Each year as he grew older I hoped that he was finally able to understand the importance of finding the flawless shells, so my - our - picture frame would be beautiful. Nope. Nothing but barnicle encrusted, broke down oyster shells.

A few weekends ago Matthew and I took a little trip down to Atlantic Beach. I had been there before and remembered the amounts of shells on the shoreline. The sand was covered with thousands of them, all different kinds of shells, sand dollars and sea rocks. You didn't have to look long before finding the perfect, little scallop shells in just the right size, shape and color. Maybe this time Matthew and I would collect a bucket-full of the little shells to finally finish the project.

So early that morning we picked up the sand bucket and headed down the beach on a seashell hunt. And then, just like I hoped he wouldn't, Matthew bent down and grabbed up the first broken shell he came to. "I knew you would pick that one, Matthew", I said smiling. "Why do you always pick up the broken shells?"

"They're still shells, even though some of them are broken. And I think this one is pretty", he answered, putting the damaged find into the bucket. He walked along, picking up one imperfect shell after another. He never overly-inspected a single one, he didn't scrutinize the seafood housing for a sratch or dent, didn't judge its color or size or shape. He just picked them up, liked them and kept them. And then I realized that what he was doing was one of the things I love most about him. He sees the best in people, why wouldn't he see the best in the shells as well? He doesn't judge, he doesn't discriminate, he doesn't pick and choose. He has a heart for the picked-on kids with no friends, homeless people and folks down on their luck. He loves people for the simple fact that we're called to love - even imperfect people ... and evidently he does the same with seashells. And because he's done this as long as he's been going to the beach - I know that's how his heart works. Not because he's supposed to, but because he can't help it! It's an overflow of God's love for him!

Tumbling along the sea bottom for miles and miles at the mercy of the tide until finally landing on the sand being washed ashore by a wave, it's a wonder any shells at all end up on the coastline whole. Then the shells are picked clean by seagulls, trampled over by the beach combers, picked up and discarded by people looking for just the right shape, size, color, perfection. It would be very hard to make the entire journey from once being the housing for some sea-creature to possibly becoming one in someone's collection of beach-trinkets without getting broken, discolored or growing barnicles. If I were a shell, I would be left behind.

Lucky for the actual seashells there are people like Matthew. Because Matthew overlooks flaws and imperfections, the broken shells and ugly oyster shells get a chance to go home in a sand pail and be apart of a kid's collection. And lucky for me there's Jesus. Jesus picked me out of a pile of broken and imperfect people and loved me despite my flaws. He picked me up, dusted the sand off of me and put me in his bucket - to take me home with Him to be a part of his collection! How lucky a shell I am! Despite my barnicles and brokeness, no matter what kind of rough, damaging seas I rode in on, He loved me anyway. And He saved me from being trampled and completely destroyed by the sunbathers and seagulls!

After that, I found myself looking for the "perfect broken shell", even taking pictures of the best of them. I don't guess I'll ever finish my beachy picture frame - and that's going to be ok. I learned a lesson that day while looking for the perfect seashells. No one's perfect - and Jesus loves us anyway. So I shouldn't expect to find perfection in others (shells included) and overlook what is not. Maybe I'll make that picture frame afterall. But I'll make it with broken, ugly oyster shells! Sounds perfect!

The Sand Pail and Malaria Adventure

Last weekend Matthew and I were down at Atlantic Beach, the southern-most part of North Carolina's Outer Banks in a place they call the Crystal Coast. Working within our budget, I booked us some pretty "old school", oceanfront accomodations with cinder block walls in the rooms and concrete patio furniture. The "Tropical Breakfast" was Fruit Loops and bananas - but it was by the ocean, and really more than we usually eat for breakfast so it was fine! Some 'resorts' have state-of-the-art gyms, water parks and gamerooms. Ours had shuffleboard and tetherball, half of a basketball court and some swings. The pool was nice and the lifeguards carried our chairs for us down to the beach. There was nothing at all modern about the place - it was a throw-back to a different time, simple, friendly and truly family-oriented. Exactly the kind of thing I look for when we head out to somewhere!

Actually, I found the whole town to have that same sort of flavor - not overly commercialized, it seemed under-developed and older. It wasn't crowded or loud with drunks. Being a little on the nostalgic side - I just loved the feel of the whole place. And what wasn't built up with retro-structures or diner-like restaurants was still wild with wind-blown trees, sea oats and grasses, marshes and narrow waterways. Everywhere you looked was interesting and different. I'm used to Myrtle Beach and all that goes with it - but I could really get used to Atlantic Beach and its quiet-ness! Matthew, on the other hand, appreciates something a little less 'quiet'. He wasn't exactly bored but I could tell he was getting in the mood for something a little more adventurous!

Absent from this beach-side town were any arcades, waterslides or go-carts. No amusement rides, henna tattoo shops or anything with "Ripley's" in the name. We were going to have to look a little harder for something to do other than hanging out in the surf. I jumped on the internet to find our next adventure. I wasn't long into my search before I realized we were very close to an island inhabited by herds of wild horses! Legend has it that these ponies are the descendants of ponies coming to America on Spanish ships as early as the 1500's. The ships wrecked off the coast and the horses swam for the shores. They made their way to this little Shackleford Island - and have been living there ever since! Looks like I found our adventure!



We drove down to Beaufort, NC to the Outer Banks Ferry Company. I didn't really know what to expect but I felt prepared. I had a bottled water, the sunscreen, my camera and some extra batteries - everything we should need for our sight-seeing island expedition! Matthew was dressed in his bathing suit and I was in a pink, flowery tank top, shorts and flip-flops. When I think "island" it's the attire that comes to mind. But while standing on the dock I started to feel a little underdressed and grossly unprepared. The other people waiting on the ferry looked more like they were about to hike the Appalachian Trail with their hiker-ish shoes, long sleeve shirts and fully-loaded backpacks. Oh well, we were the only ones with a sand pail for collecing shells. So who was going to be the sorry one, really?

The captain of our ferry lead us down the dock to our boat and directed us to our seats. He seemed like the real deal, this captain, with his leathery, sun-darkened skin, weathered-looking appearance and dressed in dockside casual. I imagine he spent much of the night before at some bar listening to Buffett songs on a jukebox, drinking rum and smoking too much. But here we were about to be taxied across the Atlantic Intercoastal Waterway by this unfriendly, possibly hungover guy. I just hoped he had enough time to sleep off his party. We slowly made our way through the "No Wake Zone" and then he hit the gas, speeding along the waves, bumping our butts on the seats with every white cap we jumped over. Water was coming up over the sides of our smallish boat, ocean spray showering us with every crash over a wave. Trying to not be scared, I was hoping he would slow down a little and tell us what we were looking at as we zoomed past sights on either side of us - you know, like a tour guide. No luck. He quietly stayed the course and none of us dared to ask.

And just when I was starting to second guess my breakfast, mercifully Captain NoNonsense slowed down the boat. Our island was just to the right of us! We made it! He navigated the boat along the shoreline. I assumed he was going around to the back side of the island towards the dock. I looked and looked but I couldn't see a dock at all; there was no dock. But that didn't stop the captain. He was heading straight for the land mass. And the next thing you know he drove the boat straight onto the sand. Our forward momentum was abruptly halted and we all lurched forward. No one seemed panicked about this so I figured this was part of the plan. It was almost like in the movies when the boat comes up to the shore. The passenger grabs his bag and easily jumps off the side, lightly landing in ankle-deep water and splashes up to the beach. Almost, but not quite. The gruff captain never left his perch. We lined up without his help and made our way off the boat one by one. I was the last to exit. I grabbed my pink backpack, stepped to the edge, jumped off the boat and onto the hard, compacted sand. I didn't splash, frolic or any other way of happily arriving. I hit the sand with a thud and it hurt. But anyway, we made it and I was ready to go find the famed Shackleford Ponies!





The two other parties that shared the ferry ride with us both set off in their own directions, the boat captain pulled away and left the island as quickly as he arrived and just like that Matthew and I were standing on the point of a deserted island alone. It was weird. Creepy even. Creepy, weird and HOT. With no shade to be found and the sun already starting to beat down on us, I slathered us up in the sunscreen. A hat would have been nice, I thought. Or an umbrella. Maybe the other explorers were on to something with their giant bags of gear. Didn't matter, we were on our island adventure and we were going to have fun! Matthew started picking up broken seashells right away. And I found some perfectly whole shells, enormous shells, all different shapes and sizes! It was a good thing I brought our bucket! We walked along the shore for a good while, never seeing another person. We just picked up shells and took in the view. It was peaceful and beautiful.



We found crabs, broken sand dollars and conch shells. Seaweed, sea rocks and sharks teeth. Then as we started to climb up over the dunes I noticed some fresh hoof-prints in the sand! This meant to me that we were about to find the ponies! I turned on my camera and peered in every direction. Nothing. We tip-toed along the trail of prints expecting to run right into a herd of horses at any moment. Still, nothing. The prints led inland towards the high grasses and trees. Along the trail we started to notice fresh piles of poop - the horse's "calling cards", inviting us to follow along. We felt for sure if we stayed on the path we were going to see the horses. The sand was getting farther and farther behind us. We walked along, deeper and deeper into the brush on the crushed grasses, watching our step as not to stumble into the poo-piles. We really were in the wild - and it was exciting!

And then I heard buzzing in my ear. I shooed the bug away from my head. And then I felt a sting on my arm and I brushed my arm. I heard more buzzing and I felt more stinging and I brushed my other arm. I looked down and both of my arms were covered in large, I mean GIANT mosquitoes! Mosquitoes as large as my head were diving into me, I could feel them landing on my neck, back, legs. They were everywhere! "I'm covered in mosquitoes!" I yelled to Matthew. "They're on me too!" he yelled back, frantically waving them away from himself as well. We were being attacked by a swarm of blood-sucking devils! Thousands of them relentlessly biting us from head to toe. And it didn't help that we both smelled like sweat and freshly applied 30 SPF Pina Colada Sunscreen. "RUN FOR IT!" I screamed to Matthew and he took off back the way we came. I ran along behind him as fast as my bedazzled flip flops could carry me shooing, swatting and fanning and dodging piles of poop all along our densely covered trail. We must've looked crazy tap-dancing around the dung and trying to ward off the hellish invaders of our personal space! Luckily there was no one around to see!

We burst out of the grassy trail and back onto the sand. My whole body shook and jerked and jumped, making sure I had rid myself from the nasty insects. I shook out my hair, slapped myself all over. My skin crawled at the thoughts! Matthew was dancing around too asking me to check him. I tossled his hair and dusted off his neck and looked him over as we quickly made our way to the sand dune. It was my plan to run straight from there and into the water to wash the buggers away! We rounded the corner and ran straight into a group of campers. It nearly scared me to death as they were the only humans we had seen since our boat left the island. Matthew, who isn't shy at all, loudly exclaimed to the group "We were eaten alive in there!!" With that the campers were also caught off guard.

"Are you ok?" one of them asked? "Fine", I said laughingly, trying not to sound stupid and be embarrassed. "He's talking about mosquitoes". The camper, dressed in a long sleeve shirt, a wide-brimmed straw hat, thick socks and hiking boots, told me all about the mosquitoes and how bad they were here on the island and how we shouldn't be in the grasses without bug spray, or dressed in tank tops and flip flops. That was nice to know. It would have been nicer coming from the people who sold me our tickets to get out to that God-forsaken island.

One of the campers reached into his 40 pound backpack and grabbed a bottle of bug spray. "We have extra. Take this", he said as he handed me the bottle. It was a little after the fact but I started spraying Matthew down with the spray. And then I sprayed myself. Another valuable lesson I learned that day is that spraying bug spray on sunburn burns. A lot. My good-feelings were quickly going away. Wild horses or no wild horses, I was ready to get off the island.

The boat came every hour on the hour but we weren't scheduled to leave for another hour and 10 minutes. I didn't care - we were going to run to the other side of the island and beg the mean captain to take us with him!! I could see the boat coming and we took off in a sprint. The boat landed in the sand and that gang of campers we had met earlier were piling their stuff onto the deck. Waving frantically I caught the attention of the captain. He threw up his hand - barely - at least acknowleging me. We made it to the sandbar just as the last of the campers were climbing aboard. Breathlessly I asked if we could squeeze in. I didn't care what his answer was - we were getting in that boat. I was hot, sun-burned, itching all over and swelling up from insect bites, dehydrated and dare I say possibly anemic. Matthew was already finding a seat on the ferry by the time the captain gave us permission to come aboard!

Happily speeding back to civilization we decided that despite nearly contracting Malaria we had fun! It wasn't an arcade, had no go-carts or interactive museum exhibits but it really was an adventure - at least unforgettable! We didn't get any pictures of the Shackleford Ponies but we did come away with a little more experience and a bucket full of broken seashells! (More on broken seashells in the next blogpost...)

In The Garden

I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses. And the voice I hear falling on my ear the Son of God discloses. And He walks with me, and He talks with me, and He tells me I am His own; and the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known. ~ Charles A. Miles, 1913

I've probably heard that song a hundred times - maybe more. An old-fashioned little hymn, much like the rest of the songs in the Baptist Hymnal, it fits with the 'style' of my church, linking the old with the new. As a child I heard my dad play it on his piano - and he played it because his dad did. I've even heard it from Elvis Presley in his Gospel Collection CD's. I've heard that song, I easily recognize it. But I've never paid attention to it, really 'listened' to the words until very recently.....

When I moved into this house four years ago, Mom took one look at the back yard and said "This would be a great place for a garden!" Mom was still grieving from the loss of her son two years earlier and it was rare for her to get excited about much. So right away I said "Well let's do it!" That was in February - and by March half the back yard was plowed up and the vegetable garden was in the ground. She was just as pleased as she could be. She liked digging in the soil and she said she loved getting her hands dirty. She said it reminded her of her mom. I didn't get the dirt part and really tending to the garden, I thought, was just too hard on the back. But she loved it - and it made her happy. I think that garden helped her with her grief.

I was out of work for a couple months that Spring recovering from surgery, so she and I used that time to talk all things Gardening, Canning, Miracle Grow, Weeding, etc. She wanted me to know how to do all that stuff. And I halfway paid attention. What I was mostly glad about was all the time that mom and I had to spend together. She spent lots of nights here, getting up early in the morning, making coffee and heading out in the yard. She would sit under the carport and "watch my garden grow", she said. She let Matthew help her and she made sure to pay extra attention to anything he planted. She made such a fuss over him when his veggies started to grow! She just loved that little garden. She's had one out in my back yard every year since. And now, after all these years and thanks to finally paying close attention to the words of Charles A. Miles precious little song "In The Garden", I think I know why she loved it so much.

He speaks, and the sound of His voice is so sweet the birds hush their singing, and the melody that He gave to me within my heart is ringing. And He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own; And the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known.

I imagine now that mom was out in her garden talking to God. It was where she felt the most comfortable. It was quiet and she could hear Him as she weeded, watered, fussed over her little patch of ground. She probably thought fondly of her sisters and her mom cooking their own vegetables and canning food to feed our families. She probably remembered the gardens of her past. She was in His presence there, she felt Him as they "tarried there" together in her little garden.

One of the last conversations mom and I had before we went to the hospital was about her garden. Springtime came early this year - it was early March and it was already hot outside. That kind of weather, even in her sickness, would wake her inner gardner. She had been sick for awhile, no energy to do anything. She was resting in Matthew's bed one afternoon and said, "The thing I'm most upset about is that I can't get out in my garden. I just don't think I can do it this year".

"Oh Mom", I said. "Don't you worry about it. I'll get Joe over to plow and I'll plant the garden. I'll have it in the ground before Good Friday", I continued. "And when you get to feeling better it'll be there for you to tend to".

Now, if there's a person in the world who knows me, it's my mom. Just the thoughts of me getting a whole garden actually up and running was silly. She didn't laugh out loud at my offer but I'm sure she "yea, right-ed" quietly! But I meant what I said. I didn't know how but I figured I could at least get it started. And I would always have her to ask.

Mom got sicker still and a few days later we landed at the hospital. About 24 hours into our two-week stay I started hearing things like "Cancer", "Nothing we can do", "Not much longer". Mom was so sick by then that she wasn't able to really talk with me anymore. But I knew our time together was growing shorter by the day so I talked to her about everything I knew she loved. We talked a lot about her garden. I reminded her that I was going to get it going and when she got better I was going to need her help. I asked her about different kinds of tomatoes, should we plant okra and what did she think about no Zucchini this year. I talked about canning, snapping green beans and how to pickle beets. She responded with faint sounds, answering my questions as best she could. We spent several long nights together reminiscing - I talked, mom listened. I talked about our big garden up in Lincolnton and how they worked us kids to death out in the sweltering sun during the time before sun-screen. We talked about Maw turning potatoes out of the ground and Myrtle's white pickles and eating biscuits and butter off of old metal pie tins and drinking water from the spigot on the side of the well. Miles of green beans, shucking corn on the back of daddy's 54 Chevy Pick-Up and that old, family recipe soup mix. That time the pressure canner blew up at Lynn's house and there were green beans on the ceiling. Planting "under the signs" and dad wondering if a Pepsi sign would do.

The more I talked the more I started to realize that some of my mom's most favorite things, her most fond memories revolved around a garden. Suddenly her garden in my back yard became my mission. I didn't know how I would do it but I knew that her garden would have to become a reality this spring. I knew that she wasn't going to get better and I would be digging in the dirt on my own but I just had to do it. I started to think I could hold on to a little of her if I could just get her garden to grow. She would somehow still be with me if I could get her Zinnias to come back, grow some tomatoes, pick some squash. It was important to her, that garden, so it was urgently important to me. I even prayed about it, "Lord, help me be the kind of gardener my mom would be proud of, help me grow something and not kill it - and help me know how much water to put on the tomatoes..."

I had been at the hospital with mom for the last 14 days of her life. During that time I was blessed to have such a wonderful church family, taking care of my 'stuff' while I was gone. My mail, my cats, my grass, etc. I wasn't worried about a thing. Someone came over and planted my empty flower pots (exactly what mom would have done!) with Petunias! And someone even weeded the bed in front of my house - over grown with shaggy bushes and random things growing out of control. Church family means way more than casseroles!

I’d stay in the garden with Him, though the night around me be falling, But He bids me go; through the voice of woe His voice to me is calling.

Mom died last Saturday afternoon. It was late when I finally got home that night. It was dark but I could see the Wave Petunias in my planter as I walked up the front steps. I noticed a little concrete statue of hands with a Bible Verse chiseled on the base. There was a beautiful Geranium spilling over the side of a new pot that someone left on my porch. It was a nice climb up my steps as I made my way into the house. My church family was so thoughtful. I was getting ready for bed when out the bathroom window something caught my eye. Something was in mom's garden. I ran out the back door, down the stairs and into the backyard. The garden was there! It was plowed, there were plants in it, tomato stakes and a sprinkler. Mother's garden was planted and growing - and I stood in the middle of it and cried. I sat in a chair in my backyard in the middle of that night and "watched my garden grow". And I thought fondly of my mom and our gardens of the past and I talked to God.

And He walks with me, and He talks with me, And He tells me I am His own; And the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known.

Hope.

My mom passed away 5 days ago. And it's been the hardest thing I've ever been through. It's still very early in the process, I'm still doing things like paying for funeral stuff or eating Casseroles and Fried Chicken brought over by friends and church people. I haven't had a chance to have a good cry, grieve any sort of way or even believe that she's gone. I can only describe myself as feeling quite raw. I'm right there on the edge of going to bed and never coming out of my room again. I call a lot on Jesus. I 'pull it together' for Matthew's sake and I pray for that peace which surpasses all understanding - just so I can stay upright while at the courthouse in the probate office.

After seeing Heaven, mom would never want to come back here. And it would be very selfish of me to ask. But I'd nearly give anything to talk to her again, see her face, hear her voice, touch her sweet hands, kiss her face, hug her, smell her, tell her I love her and hear her tell me she loves me. Yes, I have all the cliches going in my mind... "You can still talk to her", "you can still tell her you love her", "She knows", "She's looking down on you", etc. But you know what I mean. A girl needs her mom. I need my mom, here, in the flesh. I don't think I'll ever get used to this. I've called her every single day, several times a day, just to check on her for the last 6 years. I've helped her write out bills, I've picked up her groceries, I've run errands for her, I've fixed her TV remote and all kinds of little things. Since my brother died I took 'sole ownership' of our sweet mother and whatever she needed, I tried to do. If I couldn't get it done we made sure we had friends on board to pick up anywhere I left off. If I could help her I would. But please don't get me wrong. Up until recently, Mom did fine on her own - and she and I made a great team. She's helped me and been there for me in more ways than I could even fully explain. She's been my partner in raising my son, she's kept my lights on in hard times, listened to me complain about something, been my go-to person for everything. She was my friend, Matthew's biggest fan, my Bishop family. She would come over to visit and end up doing our laundry and making dinner. She'd go to the grocery store and pick up something to make my favorite meals. She didn't care a thing about eating a big dinner anymore but she did it for us. Because that's just what mothers do. She would fix Thanksgiving dinners and have my ex-husband and his girlfriend over - just so Matthew could feel surrounded by lots of his family. She was my Emergency Contact Person in case I fell down some stairs somewhere. For the last 5 days I've been nearly sick with worry that I haven't "called to check on her today". The urge to call her to check in is like a pitchfork gouging out my insides. I think the longing to hear her voice is trying to kill me.

While you're hanging around the hospital waiting on the enevitable to come, time is a real weird thing. One minute could feel like forever and days on end feels like the blink of an eye. Mom was in pain, not really with me anymore while we were there - waiting, waiting, waiting. But at least she was alive and I could help her by raising the bed or giving her sips of water, pushing that stupid nurse button. Now that that part is over I've never felt so final. So "now what" in my life.

I certainly didn't mean for this blog post to be what it's become. I just feel so damn bad. So bad. I feel bad for my son and I feel bad for me. I feel bad for my mom who was the victim of damn cancer. I feel like Florence in that episode of Good Times when James died and she held up so well until finally she dropped a stack of dishes and screamed Damn, Damn, Damn. That's how I feel. I want to drop dishes and scream bad words. I want to see the bottom of liquor bottles, I want to find Dr. Feelgood, I want to be numb, mad, I want to scream, I want to demand to know WHY?! I want to kick stupid cancer between the legs with a steel toe boot as hard as I can, then stomp it and stomp it until its crying in a heap on the ground.

We went to the hospital for an infection. Dehydration and an infection. And we never came home again until I came home without her. Now "home" as I know it will be boxed up, divided, handled by the state, sold, gone. And suddenly there's no roots even holding us in this state. There's nowhere to go home to. I feel like an orphan, the last Bishop standing, alone. Desperately alone. I could be surrounded by people - and have been since this started but I've never felt more alone in my life. I want to go somewhere - I feel like if I could just get somewhere away from this pain that I would be ok. But I could run forever and not get away from it. So instead I literally walk around in circles inside my own house, fretting over what will become of my mother's memory. What will happen when I can't remember her voice or what her hands looked like. Oh God, I think my heart will break apart into a million pieces and never, ever get back together. I don't know how to handle this, I don't know how to be, I don't know how tomorrow could ever be ok.

And then I think about Jesus. And I'm relieved that I know Him personally and so did mom. At least I have hope in that - and I don't grieve the way the lost do. Because as hard as this is and as hurt and sad as I am, at least my mom isn't. She's in Heaven, beautiful Heaven with our Holy Father and I'll see her again someday. Compared to eternity, our reunion will be in the time it takes to blink your eyes. I can hang on for that long, at least.

It's What Jesus Looks Like

My grandmother had a big, framed picture of Jesus. You may have seen a copy of it, as it's a pretty popular print. Jesus is in the Garden of Gethsemane. He's kneeling on a rock, hands together and looking up to the dark sky. He's dressed in a blue, flowing robe. His head is circled in a glowing halo as a beam of light breaks through the omnious clouds and shines upon his chiseled, handsome face. He has light brown, long wavy hair, fair skin and a beard.

The backgrounds may all be different but that version of Jesus is pretty iconic. Most people can see a picture of the face of Jesus and identify Him right away. Yep. That's a picture of Jesus. I'd recognize that face anywhere. All fair-haired, fair-skinned, green or blue-eyed Jesus. I'm not so sure where that depiction of Jesus first came from. Let's face it, there were no cameras snapping candid pictures of him or artist renditions of the Savior 2000 years ago. There's no physical description of Jesus as the Son of Man in the Bible. He was a Jewish Carpenter from the middle east. I don't mean to be all stereo-typical but when I think of Middle-eastern Jew, flowing, light brown hair and green eyes rarely comes to mind. Truth is, no one really knows. But I think over these last couple of weeks that I've been walking alongside my mom on her journey to life-everlasting I've seen him! So let me finally set the record straight... I know what Jesus looks like!

Jesus looks like a little Nurse's Assistant named Jackie. A tiny little black lady, older and sweet who shuffled when she walked. Dressed in a green nurse dress, white stockings and orthopedic shoes, Nurse Jackie did her job on the overnight shift quietly and respectful of my mother who was trying to sleep. Nurse Jackie preached the gospel without saying a word. She thanked me when she walked out the door and I never saw her again.

Jesus looks a little like a silver, miniature Schnauzer named Molly. Molly was a physical therapy dog, perfectly behaved and as sweet as could be. Molly was happy to be there, pranced around the bed and over to my chair. She sat at my feet and looked up at me with eager eyes, leaned against my leg and comforted me.

I learned that Jesus smells a lot like Secret Deodorant and a bag full of girly products brought over by a sweet friend. I never knew how much your armpits smelling like flowers could make a difference in one's perspective. He's in the form of socks, snacks and vending machine money. I found Him in a pink gift bag.

Jesus feels like a hug and some warm hands in my prayer circle. I heard His sweet words as His precious children prayed for my mother's health and for my well-being. He soothed me through their actions, loved me with His Truth. He hugged me with their arms. He enveloped me in a shroud of his protection when the prayer circle enclosed me in love.


"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you" ~ Matthew 7:7

We had a bad night. That night was so bad that I got on my knees at the foot of her bed and begged Jesus to take my mama home. Either lead her to the place of no more sickness and pain or send us some relief here on earth. And then, Jesus showed up.

He looked like a young lady with shoulder-length, brown hair and little, square glasses. Her name was Tatum and she was the nurse for that days' shift. She listened to me and she cared for my mother. She said she was there to help us and she did. She gently cared for my mother, bringing her some much needed relief and she soothed my worried soul. She oozed compassion and she was the vessel used to pour out His mercy on us.

Jesus looks a lot like a sprawling, one level building out in Huntersville. There are rock columns holding up the porte cochere, brick and stucco walls and large glass and oak framed windows. The streets are lined with blooming Bradford Pear Trees and the grounds are carpeted in the lushest green grass. There are flowers, gardens, sitting areas, beautiful plants, bird feeders and porch swings. And the doorway is flanked by massive Rosemerry Bushes. The smell is unforgettable. He's the Hospice House in Huntersville and He invited us in. He's filled with wonderful staff and volunteers working for nothing but to bring comfort and rest to people coming to the end of their lives journeys. The people do their jobs with a God-inspired mission in mind, loving their patients with Jesus' heart and in the spirit of love. By day the halls are filled with beautiful music and sweet and caring voices and by night the lighting is soft and it's purposefully quiet. They want to make sure their guests can rest. The touches are gentle, the care is kind. I haven't seen it yet but I imagine once my mother runs into the arms of her savior the aftercare will be full of respect and dignity.

Jesus looks a lot like a prayer shawl. He's multi-colored strands of yarn knitted together in love by a sweet group of church ladies. They prayed over the small blanket and delivered it to Hospice House to lay over the feet of my mom. He's soft and warm and he blanketed me in peace the first night we were here.

Jesus tastes a lot like a chicken salad from Panera Bread brought to my family from the ladies at my work. He's a card signed by everyone who cares about us. He's a vase full of Tulips. He's our friends and family who have been here from day one and He's my beloved church family who has taken care of everything and anything we may have needed. He's a kind soul who planted flowers in my empty flower pots, He's a stranger that cleaned the outside of my house, He's my cousin who cleaned the inside of my house. He's my neighbors who have taken care of my son or cut my grass. He's the kids who came in to feed my cats. He's come in phone calls and emails and letters. He's been here from the beginning and He'll be here at the end. He's everywhere you look, every corner, every crevice. You can't miss Him.

And finally, Jesus looks a lot like a preacher with a faux hawk in his hair and Chuck Taylor Shoes. He's prayed for us, visited us and encouraged us with the Words God would have us hear. Even more than that, I heard Him on the phone with my son explaining to him about Heaven and more importantly how to get there. I saw Him sitting on the floor today with my sweet son, playing card tricks and loving on him, telling him that either way his Nana was going to be ok. It turns out Jesus looks nothing like His pictures.

My mom has been asleep most of this last two weeks and didn't get to see Jesus the way I did. I'm happy for her that she will soon be laying her eyes on His glorious face! Until then, let me thank you all from the bottom of our hearts for "Being Jesus", just as you were called to do. We love you and because of you we are ok. May God bless you this day and everyday and I hope that at some time you'll be able to see a little Jesus in me.

The Kitchen Table

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God; believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also may be where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going.” ~ Jesus.

From what I've read and heard, Heaven sounds spectacular. It's hard to wrap your head around the splendor. Most people have heard of pearly gates and streets of gold - but I wonder if people ever just sit and ponder the sheer beauty of Heaven. Streets of gold. What does that look like? Each gate is made from one pearl. Either that's a really big pearl or a very small gate. It's more than we can fathom. I don't think in our human-ness we can comprehend just what a glorious place it really is. It's not just clouds with fat, naked cherubs playing harps. It is a real place with real people, real buildings and my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ there with the Father.

The grandeur of Heaven is beyond my mind's imaginaton. I can visualize streets of gold - but only by what I know gold to be. This gold is so pure that it looks as clear as water. Around the golden city are grand, high walls of Jasper, crystal clear and gleaming and adorned with countless numbers of the richest rubies, sapphires, emeralds and every kind of precious stone. Magnificent angels sit atop the 12 open gates of pearl with outstretched wings as far as the eyes can see and bands of angels everywhere you look to welcome the saints. The most fragrant flowers, a light dusting of sparkle everywhere, sweet music of praise fills the air and every corner is set aglow by the light of the Precious Lamb.

According to Revelation 22, the Garden of Eden will be there, fully restored, as "...the river of the water of life, as clear as crystal, flows from the throne of God and of the Lamb down the middle of the great street of the city." And there at the mouth of the river, alongside the tree of life sits our Savior, our Father God and the saints casting their crowns at the feet of Jesus. I try to imagine the most wonderous scene and then multiply that by higher than numbers can reach - and then it might scrape the surface of how good and lovely Heaven is.

Reading Revelation gives us an exquisite peek into the awe-struck wonder of Heaven. But as incredible as all that sounds, for me - I believe Heaven holds even more than that! There's a kitchen table in Heaven and it's set with brown-ware dishes. There's chicken-shaped set of salt and pepper shakers and a napkin holder at one end. Around the table are ladder-back chairs with rush seats and a homely patina on the older wood. There are knick-knacks in the kitchen and charming, albeit a little dated, wallpaper on the walls. It smells like breakfast - good, country breakfast and it's as inviting as you could imagine. The coffee is hot and the conversation is interesting. Things are as good as they can be in this little 'room' inside my father's house. Sitting in the chairs around the table, my grandmother is there, my aunt Ne-ne and Lynn. There's laugher, love, family and every good thing. All beautiful and well in their restored bodies and they are praising their savior together. My brother is standing behind Maw, probably picking up little bites of food so anxious to eat some home-cooking even before it's ready! Timmy's there with NeNe and Darrell's by the stove cooking the meal. Just over in the next room Doug is sitting in the rocking chair listening to my daddy play "Just a Closer Walk With Thee". When I think "Heaven" it's the scene I mostly see.

But something has changed lately in my sweet vision of Eternity. I never noticed before but now by the table there's an empty chair. My beautiful family is making plans for a homecoming. They've put on more coffee and set another place. They are rejoicing in the good news of my sweet mother's salvation and are ready to welcome their sister, their wife, their daughter, their mother home. Soon my mother will be at the feet of her Savior and in the arms of her beloved family. And there is no place on Earth she would rather be.

I'm by my mother's bedside. Her breathing has slowed and it's short time now. I've told her that Matthew and I will be fine. I thanked her for being the best mother and grandmother anyone could be blessed with - and I was happy she was mine. I'm sad for me but I'm excited for her. The end of this life is just the door that opens to the little kitchen table. And so she'll go before me and then one day she will set a place for me. And we can cast our crowns at Jesus' feet and stand in His glory forever together as family.

Emergency Contact Information

I'm sure you've heard it said "It's better to give than receive." It really is true. But be honest. Have you ever given some wonderful thing to someone, gotten nothing in return and then tried to convince yourself that you weren't really disappointed? "Oh well, it 'is' better to give than receive..." I've said that. I have smarted with the sting of selfish disappointment and tried to make it ok with sarcastically saying just that. More than once. But then Jesus decided He was ready to show me what that phrase really meant. It's not a band-aid for hurt feelings. It really is better to give than receive. When you do for others and give out of the overflow of God's love for you, you don't need to receive. The real joy is in the giving! And then, when you're 'truly' not expecting anything in return you suddenly see yourself covered in God's blessings being poured on you! Proverbs 11:25 says, "The one who blessed others is abundantly blessed; those who help others are helped".

When Jesus decided it was time for me to find a church he led me into one that uses "Love In Action" as a slogan. Go and Tell, Be Jesus, Random Acts of Kindness, Love in Action - meeting the needs of people practically and spiritually. This is not the kind of stuff a spoiled rotten, self-absorbed, selfish one time "daddy's girl" is good at! There would be no sitting on a pretty pew, getting my feel-good message for the week and being on my way. No. If I was going to stick around I was going to have to go out and get dirty for some cause. I would have to talk to some street-person or help someone. "Nobody better ask me for any money", I thought. I really don't want to extend myself in anyway...

But then something started to happen. The more I fell in love with Jesus the more I actually wanted to go out there and do something for someone! It didn't matter who and it didn't matter what. I just needed to go. And go I did. Working alongside my church family I've given without any expectation of receiving. Just giving because Jesus loves me so much that I "can't not".

Last month our church had an entire month of "Compassion Events". We did everything from cook breakfast for homeless people to singing hymns for people with special needs. None of that was any kind of hard work. No hard, physical anything, no danger, no dirt. Just showed up with a little love in my heart for people in need. But there was this one place that was going to separate the men from the boys. Kings Daughters Ministry was a lady's vision coming to life. In time it will be a beautiful center for troubled women and their children. A place to live and grow and learn in a Christian environment. The vision sounded lovely. But at that time the building was a damp, dark, dirty old mill building with rusty metal stuff, stained and leaky ceilings and broken windows. There was heavy stuff to be moved, trucks to be unloaded, hard labor to do. Even walking around the place was physical as it was like a mile from one end to the other. The work was going to be so intense that the lady asked us to sign a release form! She had some volunteers and by goodness she was going to get her 'money's worth' - and if we happened to fall down and break a leg or something, well, that was going to be at our own risk!

I was standing in the office filling out my release form. Name, check. Address and Phone Number, got it. In Case Of Emergency, Please Contact _______________________. And I came up empty. Mom was my usual Emergency Contact Information. But she was sick that day. If I fell down the stairs there was going to be no one to call - I was going to have to manage that on my own. I just stood there, a little caught off guard with that question. And then I felt horribly lonely. How can someone really have no one to contact in case of an emergency? How did I become so alone?! How sad. My feel-good feeling was slipping away. "Um, I don't really have an emergency contact today so I'm just going to leave this part blank", I tried to joke about it. "If I get a concussion, I'll be fine without calling the emergency number!" The lady didn't really get my humor. And let's face it... what was even funny about that?! And then one of the men from my church, Steve McCotter- who was filling out his own form - said, "Put me down".

No one was actually expected to get hurt - the form was just a formality. But let me tell you... having no one to list as an emergency contact is a desperate, horrible feeling. In that moment's time I ran the gammit of the 'what-ifs' and in my mind I went from a day of "Love in Action" to I'm going to catch tetnus from an old rusty cart because I had no one to call for a ride to urgent care and little Matthew would become an orphan. And then in one sentence - the 3 little words, "Put me down" Steve gave me someone to contact in case of emergency. Steve put himself on the hook for me. He accepted the job of springing into action if I were accidentally run over by a fork-lift! As he called out his number to me he inadvertantly offered me a sence of peace, a comfortable feeling, I felt cared about and mostly I no longer felt alone. He volunteered to be in charge of me in the event I couldn't be in charge of myself. How wonderful and selfless. That's a big responsibility to be that emergency go-to for someone. I'm sure he thought nothing of it. But later in the day I was teary-eyed over the thoughts. It was the finest example of "Love in Action". I'll never again take that question on any standard release form for granted. And I'll never again have to worry about it. So in case of emergency, please contact Steve McCotter!

It might not have been a gift wrapped in a pretty package - but while I was giving I received the best blessing - just like Proverbs 11:25 promised.

Having an emergency contact is super important. And if that's all I ever got from church that would be plenty.... but there's more. I'm writing tonight from mom's bedside at the hospital. She's become sicker, still. I should be a basket case, nervous wreck and sad as sad can be. I'm alone here with mom since dad and my brother have passed away and I'm nearly overwhelmed with information, decisions, phone calls. Instead, for this minute anyway, I'm fine. My church family has come to my aid. They have prayed for my mom's health and they have prayed for me - that I have the kind of peace that can only come from God. They have stood with me at my mother's bedside. They've taken care of my sweet son for the last few days and they've loved on him like he was theirs. So many people have offered help to me that I've had to say "Thank you, but there's really nothing else I need". "Well let me know as soon as there is something..." they would respond. A gang of church ladies came to my house the other night and washed my dishes. There is nothing I've needed, not an hour passes that someone hasn't checked in with me. Most importantly - because of these beautiful people I am not alone. I had no idea of the value of a church family. What a blessing! What a beautiful blessing that God has given me! And finally I see the importance of landing in the 'love in action' church!

I could write all night (really all morning - it's nearly 4am). But I'm calling it a night. It won't be long before the room fills with people wanting to help me with something. It's the most awesome dilemma! So I better get some sleep. Good night for now.

Go and Tell Beats Sit and Stew Anyday!

Anyone who knows me knows I adore my church! I love the all of Tuckaseege Baptist Church. It's history, the land it sits on, the windows, the carpet, the people, my sunday school class, the pastor, the message, the music, the whole sum of Tuckaseege Baptist Church makes my heart swell with pride. When I became a member I became part owner. I love her, that church. It's God's house and I'm most happy when I'm in His presence there. But...

After last night's business meeting I came away from there all sideways and ill-feeling. I know we have to discuss budgets and meetings and business stuff. But the disagreements over the silliest things just makes me tired! I don't get how people can be so, well, just mad. Mad about everything and all the time. But that's the thing about church. It's full of people. The people - all of them - make up the church and like it or not, agree or disagree, we're all in this thing together! I've heard it said "If you find the 'perfect' church, don't join it! You'll just mess it up!"

People are emotionally-driven, self-absorbed beings! Even when we try real hard not to be! It's part of the challenge of being a Christian. Because we're not perfect - nothing will ever be perfect! No one can be 100% happy 100% of the time so I'm not going to worry about it anymore! The color of the carpet - even though it matters a great deal to people - won't get a single soul into Heaven. Neither will singing hymns from the Baptist Hymnal, the best audio/visual equipment money can buy, a finely tuned Building and Grounds committee, coming in under budget or over budget, or the pastor sporting Chuck Taylor kicks. At the end of the day the ONLY thing that matters is the Good News of Jesus Christ! By His Grace I am saved! Not by Grace and candlesticks dedicated to someone's great grandfather back in the 1940's but by His Grace alone! If someone wants to come to church to be all mad, complaining and looking for an opportunity to pounce on someone for disagreeing with the status-quo well so be it. Rest assured, I will be ignoring it from now on. Peter, who loved and trusted Jesus very much, while walking on the water took his eyes off Jesus for only a moment and he started to sink. The Devil can and will use anything and anybody to cause us distraction. I will never, ever come out of my church in worse shape than when I walked in ever again. When I'm inside the 4 walls of my beloved TBC I will worship God, praise His Holy name, do his work and no matter what I will keep my eyes on Jesus! And only Jesus. Loving Jesus is easy. Church - ain't for the faint of heart!

That was last night. But let me tell you about tonight. For the month of February our pastor has put together many different 'compassion events' - different opportunities to serve the community while showing the love of Christ. "Love in Action", based on 1 John 3:18. Tonight six of us went along with the pastor to a place called The Gastonia Street Ministry. It's just a little place on the west side of downtown that serves meals and a sermon to people who are basically homeless or on drugs or generally down on their luck. Our team walked in, said hello to the people the ministry serves and made our way into the seats. I sat in a blue, plastic chair that was too small for my behind. On the wall behind the pulpit was a giant cross crudely built out of particle board. Nothing matched, it smelled a little musty and the greenery in the "sanctuary" was 2 plastic and silk ficas trees that could have used a good dusting. Absent was the plush, cranberry carpeting, intricately carved, oak furniture, brass collection plates and ornate, stained glass windows. Also missing were any mad people, nit-pickers, worryers and anyone there to somehow fill their religion quota for the week. The people came to 'church' to hear the word of God and to praise and worship their savior. That is all. And nothing else mattered. At all. I felt so comfortable there sitting beside my down-trodden brothers and sisters. My heart was fresh, my mind was clear and I was ready to receive the word God had for me and the others gathered.

When they took up the colletion, someone actually put pennies in the plate. Pennies!! And the people of the ministry were so, so grateful. I can't explain the feeling other than it made me cry when the man who took up the plate reminded us of the poor widow in Luke 21. "As he looked up, Jesus saw the rich putting their gifts into the temple treasury. He also saw a poor widow put in two very small copper coins. "I tell you the truth," he said, "this poor widow has put in more than all the others. All these people gave their gifts out of their wealth; but she out of her poverty put in all she had to live on." We really were in the middle of the people that Jesus had such as heart for! I was overcome with emotion and love.

And then my pastor stepped up to the mic. He was dressed in faded jeans, a flannel shirt over a tee-shirt and some black Chuck Taylors. No one cared. And he brought his gift - the most raw, unadorned, real, humble and perfect message I've ever heard him do. He was truly free. There would be no judgement, no critiques, no complaints. There was no one to impress, no one was inadvertantly insulted, no hurt feelings. Just sheep to his shepherd. He stood in the makeshift church and told homeless people to REJOICE! Told us all despite any bad circumstances we might ever find ourselves in to rejoice in the Lord, Jesus Christ! At the end of the day, he said, "If we have Jesus nothing else matters." He said that and meant it and its true! The people agreed with him - even while we were sitting in too small plastic chairs in a room with no carpet anywhere!

We plated up pizza and handed out donated drinks for the people, spent sometime talking with the guests and even little Matthew handed out Bibles to anyone who might need one. Then we packed up our van and left. I will never, ever forget this night. It will be the night I remember fondly when business meeting nights go south at my church. I wish that every member of TBC could go serve dinner just one time at Gastonia Street Ministry. Stuff like song selections, hairstyles, flower budgets and second phone lines - although important - wouldn't matter much anymore!

The Bobo

I have spent the last 40 summers trying to avoid the haze and humidity of the South. Truly, I hate it and towards the end of August I desperately search for any signs that summer is trying to pack its bags and go. Retail stores here in the South must hate it too as they always seem to change the seasons in the showrooms well before it’s time! Halloween candy makes its way to the shelves along with the back-to-school sales and the Christmas décor shows up in September. I’ve heard many complain about this but I cannot complain! For me it’s a sweet reminder that the hazy days of summer will be a thing of the past and soon I’ll be basking in the crisp fall air, eating Thanksgiving dinner with my family and picking out just the right Christmas tree! Oh glorious cooler weather! How I love you so!

One day my little son Matthew and I trudged through the thick, humid soup down to the local Wal-Mart. Matt must’ve been about 4 ½ at the time. I put him in the buggy and we set out to get a few things. A sparkle caught my eye and before I knew it I was standing in the garden center, already transformed into a Christmas-themed winter wonderland and glowing in all its tinsel, glitter and twinkling lights. We slowly laced our way through the aisles, Matthew looked on quietly and I, leaning on the handle of our squeaky cart, gazed at all the holiday goodness. I got lost in the joy of it all. I momentarily lost awareness of the things going on around me while I daydreamed of a white Christmas and made mental notes of cookies I would bake, cards I would send and gifts I would give. Then we rounded the last corner and I was chunked back into reality. We went on through the store picking up mundane garbage bags, boring cat litter, a few uninspiring groceries and very definitely nothing sparkly. It wasn’t until we got to the checkout line that I realized Matthew didn’t have his Bobo.

“Matthew, where’s your Bobo?” I questioned my son. He looked all around him and he couldn’t answer me. “Did you leave it in the car?”

“I don’t know”, he said. And his precious face started to show concern. His eyes widened a little and his cheeks pinked up. Outwardly I remained calm but something was kicking me in the pit of my stomach. “What if Bobo is gone?! How could we even sleep tonight or go anywhere tomorrow!? THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING!!” I screamed to myself.

“It’s probably in the car”, I assured him calmly. “We’ll check out and then we’ll make sure it’s in the car before we leave”. His chin quivered as he nodded in agreement.

To most, Bobo could only be described as a blue blanket, raggedy looking and thin, stained with purple paint and dotted with a few crude, hand-stitched repairs. If anyone got close enough to it they could even say it smelled funny, depending on the last time it was washed. But to Matthew that raggedy blanket was his most important and highly valued possession. Bobo was his companion when he was lonely, his comforter when he was sick and his security when he was scared. It never left his side, it never hurt his feelings and it never failed to cover him. It did these things for Matthew not as a blanket does but as a loving protector does, like a shield or a shelter. But most of all, Bobo was his friend; a cherished and very much loved friend.

We reached the car. The anxiety built up in me as I tried not to think about a new world without Bobo. As much as Matthew loved that blanket, I loved it for him. How would my baby get to sleep tonight without that blue wad of material curled up under his chin? How would I console him? “Oh please be in the car”, I thought. I was nearly praying about it.

Bobo wasn’t in the car. We made our way back into the store and hurriedly retraced our steps. Perhaps it was in the Christmas aisles, where my mind’s eye was decking the halls rather than paying attention to the Bobo dropping out of the cart. It wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the pet department or the grocery aisles either. Bobo was nowhere to be found. I felt panicked and Matthew started to cry. I tried to reassure him we would find it and everything would be ok but nothing I could have said to him would have given him the comfort he needed. This was the kind of stuff that Bobo was good for. I saw fear that I couldn’t calm. I was “Just Mommy” and short of finding Bobo there was nothing I could do to make this all better. All I could do was stand there in a heap of nervous uncertainty and watch tears roll down my baby’s face.

The line at customer service seemed to be a mile long with early Christmas shoppers already returning stuff. This was an emergency and worthy of line-jumping, I thought. I tried to make eye contact with the overworked and exasperated cashier but she never looked up.

“I’m sorry, excuse me”, I interrupted, and the lady finally noticed me and my crying son. I could feel the glares coming from the people in line. I couldn’t blame them at all. Time is tight and a line has rules, no matter what kind of emergency a lady might think she has. “Has anyone turned in a dingy, blue blanket?” I asked the clerk as I stroked Matthew’s hand or rubbed his back trying to somehow soothe him. The lady held up a finger, signaling me to wait until she got finished with her current customer.

We stepped to the side and let her do her job. As I stood there with my crying and worried son the people in line seemed to soften their stares. They must’ve realized the situation we were in and I’m sure that many a parent could relate to a security item once loved by a kid of their own. And anyone with a heart could plainly see that my son was hurting. The shoppers were now invested in our plight and if a few more minutes were added to their already stretched-thin day, then so be it. They wanted us to find the blanket now as much as we did.

When the cashier finished with her customer, she said she would go check the lost and found bin. She returned within seconds empty handed. I was so disappointed. Then she said, “Let me look under here”, as she stooped over and walked down entire length of the customer service counter. I think I held my breath. She got to the end, stood up straight and with a blue blanket in her hand said “Is this it?!”

I exhaled and even burst into tears! Some precious shopper had found the Bobo and returned it! Matthew ran over to the lady, stretched out his arms and embraced his dear, found friend. “Bobo!” he exclaimed as the cashier smiled and cried. I thanked the lady several times, took Matthew by the hand and turned to leave. Then I noticed several people in the line were crying along with us, happy this little story of “lost love with a twist” played out with a happy ending right in front of them. Bobo was now safely back in the arms of the one who loved it the most and all was right again in Matthew’s world. And I’m sure that Bobo was probably happy also!


In Matthew’s eyes, the cashier was a hero. To me the hero was the stranger that found the Bobo and took the time to turn it in. They saw past its raggedy appearance and thought that just maybe there’s a sad kid out there who loved that misplaced, dirty blanket. I’ve heard many times a Bible verse that talks about “Love in Action” but I never really understood it until I saw love all over Wal-Mart that day. I saw it in my son’s breaking heart, the stranger’s actions, the cashier’s compassion and the emotion of the people in line. Even Bobo the inanimate object showed love by offering security again to a little boy who was afraid that his most loved thing was gone.

Matthew is older now and Bobo doesn’t get out much anymore. But there will always be love in his heart for that blanket - a special kind of love that will never be tarnished by hurt, distrust or betrayal. It’s love the way love was meant to be; innocent, pure, hopeful, trusting and kind. If only we loved each other in the same way a child loves his blanket!

Becoming Butterfly

Nature - it's a good thing. Vast, beautiful and wonderous, full of spectacular phenomenons, undiscovered wildness and perplexing mysteries. At any turn of your head you can lay your eyes on God's handi-work, His attention to detail and His incredible eye for color and clarity and composition. The night skies, deep and endless, encrusted with supernatural dazzlers, until the sun breaks the darkness sending shards of light to rain down over fields of greens and oceans of blues. Every morning the birds awake in their nests of intricately woven strands of flora and fauna and sing their songs of praise and glory. God must smile and the break of every new day. His creations are, in a word ... miraculous!

How anyone could see God's art and summize that it was thrown together by some big bang is beyond me. Take the metamorphosis of a butterfly. The butterfly lays an egg on the underside of a leaf. It's held in place by some sort of sticky, butterfly glue that has yet to be understood by scientist. From the butterfly egg comes a caterpillar. To live, the creepy crawler instinctively eats the plant it was formerly attached to, growing quickly and nearly doubling in size daily. He leaves his home - the plant - in search of a safe place to start the next phase of his life. He attaches himself upside down to his next location and covers himself in a protective shell called a Chrysalis. Inside of there the final transformation takes place and the caterpillar emerges as a beautiful butterfly. Winged Jewels of the insect world, no two exactly alike and all perfectly designed. Yes God's design - it's all good!

During my time of unemployment this past summer, I had plenty of extra time on my hands. I spent a lot of time looking through the job listings and sending out my resume. I spent lot of the time in my study Bible learning things I'd never heard of and getting closer to God! I also got to spend a lot of time writing. (Truthfully, now that I'm safely employed I wouldn't subtract a minute of my 'off time'!) I wrote a lot and about all kinds of things. I entered a writing contest (which I'm still waiting to hear if I won!)and I submitted several things to the local newspapers. It always lifted my spirits to have my work published! And I'll admit it...during my season of unemployment, I probably spent too much time on Facebook. It's really no secret!

Of course part of the fun of facebook is looking up the long-lost friends from the past. I had pretty much found everyone from my past that I was interested in finding but there was one old friend of mine that just never showed up in Facebook. One day I "googled" his name and found him - in a prison in the mountains of North Carolina. I was so disappointed. Not really surprised but disappointed for sure. We both ran in the same circles doing the same kinds of things. Without knowing "what he was in for" I could only assume that the drugs he started using years ago must've caught up with him somehow. We all "partied" together back in the day but he took the 'party' to a level the rest of us weren't willing to go to. So eventually we all lost touch. I had no idea what happened to him between then and now that landed him in the the custody of the state. But for the grace of God there go I, I thought. I fought my own demons for years. I wasn't going to judge the guy. I was lucky I never got in more trouble than I did.

I hadn't seen or heard from him in 15 years. I had no idea what his life has been like, what crimes he did to land him in prison or if he would even remember me. But something was tugging at me. I had to write him and I needed to tell him about Jesus - I just had to know if he had a relationship with the Father. If he had Jesus no matter what mess the rest of his life might have been in I knew he would be ok. So I wrote the letter and sent it on its way.

He wrote me back right away. And I was happy to read that he did know Jesus Christ as his personal Savior and because my letter came right at the time it did he also believed that God answered prayers! He told me a little about his life and his current situation. And he confirmed my suspicions ... He had a long way to go in prison and he had just got there. He was grateful that I had written him and hoped that I would write again. He also said he was proud of me. He knew my past. He knew a lot about 'old me'. From the sound of my letter he guessed I had changed a lot over the last how-ever-many years.

We started writing back and forth. And because I had so much extra time on my hands my letters would become these epic, marathon letters with page after page after page of whatever was on my mind at the time. My letters were also full of the Good News of Jesus!! I would try to remember everything from Sunday's church service and write it all down. I would copy the notes from the bulletins or tell him whatever our last Sunday School lesson was about. Not a page was written that I didn't remind him that he was loved by God! He knew that. And he in turn would remind me of the same thing when I would try to get discouraged on the job search. I was honest with him about my own trials, troubles and addictions. "But for the Grace of God..." I thought that often as I wrote to him. It could have easily been me.

He said he loved reading my letters - he had plenty of time on his hands as well. Send the letters, as long a letter as you can write, he said! I sent him a Bible and I sent him some small Bibles to give to any of his fellow inmates that didn't have one. I felt like I was reaching out to other people in the prison that way, at the very least helping my friend perhaps plant a seed for someone there. And I sent him my blog posts, Facebook notes and articles. He said he enjoyed them. I got so much from this friendship and he did as well and it was just nice getting to know him.

For Father's Day this past year the Gaston Gazette published a piece I had written a couple years earlier called "Flowers For Father's Day". It was a sad little story I had written about a rose bush after my dad had passed away. I was so excited about it - not only was the article unedited but they also gave me a whole page, ran pictures of my dad and family and even had my picture with my name under it as the writer. It was the best looking article of mine I'd ever seen in print and I was so, so proud! I sent a copy to the prison along with a mile long letter all about the experience of getting it published! He said he loved the article so much that he read it to some of the men there. He said it made a few grown men get teary eyed! (I get that, I cried when I wrote it!) My writing, he said, softened up some hardened criminals!

So I'd been writing him for awhile and finally decided I would just go visit him. I didn't know what to expect when I got there. The only prison visits I had ever seen were on TV. I think had in mind something like stainless steel stools bolted to the floor and a conversation through thick, bulletproof glass and an old-school telephone receiver. It wasn't like that at all. You walked in, one prisoner visitor at a time and they sat you down at your own small, round table. There were rows of tables with the visitors sitting and waiting on their loved ones to come out. The prisoners came out one at a time - I guess for security reasons and made their way to the table that had their visitor sitting there. There was a young lady sitting at the table in front of mine waiting for her guy to come out. When her guy walked out she stood up to greet him. As he was walking towards his girl he looked at me. Then he looked at me again, almost like he knew me. I felt a little weird, honestly! He hugged his girlfriend and looked at me again. This time he said "I know you!"

It was the last thing I ever expected to hear in a prison visitor room in a medium security prison in the middle of the North Carolina Mountains. I'm sure his girlfriend didn't expect that either because she whipped around and looked at me like I just tried to steal her man! I'm sure I looked confused and all I could say was "Really?". He said, "Yes, you wrote the article about the flower. That was you!" And suddenly I was overly-too flattered. "Yes, that was me", I confidently responded. "Butterfly!", The guy said. "That was a good story", he finished and then started visiting with his girlfriend (probably because he knew what was good for him!)

"Butterfly?" I wondered. There was no butterfly in my story. Oh well. My friend made his way to my table and sat down. We'd both changed a lot, I decided. He was grey and my weight had doubled since the last time we saw each other. Oh well, happens to the best of us I guess! After some catching up I leaned in to quietly tell him the guy behind him recognized me. "He said he read my article", I told him. "A lot of the men read it", he responded. "They all loved it!" And he told me about more men getting sad, actually crying or talking about their own dads after reading it. I was really fond of the idea that something I had written had an effect on such a seemingly 'tough crowd'.

Still trying to keep my voice down so the next table over couldn't hear that I was talking about him I said to my friend, "He said something about a Butterfly".

"That's what we call you", he said. "Butterfly".

Evidently if you're in prison you get a nick-name. And a lot of times even the friends and family members of the prisoners get nick-names also. Turns out that I had a prison nick-name. (Another thing I never figured...). My prison nick-name was Butterfly.

"Butterfly? Why?" I questioned.

"Because you've changed". He continued. "I've told them about you, how I knew you and how we all were in the past. You were wrapped up in a cocoon of sin and addiction. But you got Jesus and you went through a change and emerged as a beautiful butterfly! You've spread your wings and you're flying! You're not a caterpillar crawling around on the ground anymore. You're free."

All of a sudden it occurred to me that I was a completely different person! When He saved me He also changed me! All those burdens I carried for so long had been cast off and I really was free from my sins. It might not have been all that obvious to me at the time but to a person who knew me a lifetime ago there was no denying the presence of my Savior in my life! I was so happy knowing that you could determine by my words and my actions that I was a true and happy follower of Christ! I felt like I had Jesus oozing through my pores! "Thus, by their fruit you will recognize them." ~ Matthew 7:20. Butterfly was validation. As complicated as metamorphosis was for a self-absorbed, careless, unloveable old sinner like me God loved me anyway and thought of me as worthy of transformation. By beautiful design, he turned me into a winged jewel in his glorious garden!


God will use any person and any situation for good. Sometimes you become one of His tools and you don't even know it. Through my old friend, I was able to be a witness to 'hardened prisoners'. I was an example of God being able to save a wretch like me. I don't know if anything I've said or written or been an example of has led anyone to Christ but I'm certain some seeds have been planted. My friend can do the watering - and hopefully the harvest! We make a good team that way! God's team!

So Butterfly it is ... and I like it. It's girly and sweet ... But having a prison nick-name also gives me street cred! :)