I hope each and every one has a wonderful Christmas. May you find peace, joy, love and laughter under your Christmas tree (and maybe a few cool other trinkets, as well).
"This is how God showed His love among us: He sent His one and only Son into the world that we might live through Him." (1 John 4:9)
Have a very blessed Christmas.
Dee
You just have to read Women's Ministry Christmas Tea from "Stacy from Louisville". (Just click on the blue letters to read it.) She did a guest post on the blog "Stuff Christians Like". It is fabulous and it will bring you so much Christmassy laughter and joy you might have to change your Christmassy panties. Anybody feel like going to a Christmas Tea?
Merry Merry!
I turned 40 years old in’04. Its now ’08 and you are not allowed to do the math to figure out how old I am now. The point is 2004 was a big year for me. It was a milestone, a dozy, a whopper, the big one – cause for pause you might say.
I admit I had a bit of trepidation when I first realized I was coming face to face with my forties. I didn’t feel forty. I didn’t look forty (and you are not allowed to tell me otherwise). I certainly didn’t act forty. But there it was on the calendar – 2004 – staring me down in some sort of game of chicken to see which one of us would blink first.
So, instead of running from it or saying I was 39 for the second time or mumbling anytime someone asked me my age I acted like David with his slingshot and ran toward the giant. In December 2003, I announced to my family that in case they were not aware I would be having a big birthday in the New Year. In fact, 4-0 in 0-4 was a rather significant number play and not everyone turned forty in such a like year. This obviously called for a very special 40th celebration. My family readily agreed. (The spiked punch I served them didn’t hinder their decision making either.)
I told them that I, we, would be celebrating my birthday on the appropriate day every month of ’04, not just in August as is the usual custom. I, we, would begin next month in January. And gifts would be expected – each month – it was birthday celebrations I, we, were going to be having after all. (This last part I was certain was a deal breaker.) 12 full-fledged birthday parties to celebrate my fortieth, this was my plan.
Much to my delighted surprise the gang jumped in in agreement. The family was on board whole heartedly. It was settled right then; we would have a birthday party complete with cards and gifts for me every month for an entire year – including the months after August.
It was hilarious and a blast. We gathered for bowling and pizza. Fajita dinners or game nights. Each month was different and brought something new. The gifts were great and the cards even better. I love Cheetos, I consider them a food group unto themselves. I have never seen a bag as big as the one I unwrapped one month. I received orange juice – renamed Captain Morgan Juice – because Cap’t Morgan likes to drink mine in the morning. I was given gifts of food storage containers because I rarely cook and leftovers are a necessity. A bar of “It’s All About Me” soap – one of my personal favorites; An “I Love Lucy” calendar; and a pair of Halloween socks.
As you can see the gifts were not fancy or expensive. They were thoughtful tokens of love. I still have most of them, save for the Cheetos (I do still have the empty OJ bottle with the substitute label). I smile every time I put leftovers in a container (I did it last week with some extra cupcakes). And I still have all the cards.
The “birthday parties” were actually reasons to get the whole family together, even if it was only one night a month. We are all so busy these days it gets easy to push family aside – we’ll all understand after all we’re busy too. But for one year my family took time out of our busyness once a month to celebrate a pretend birthday. That’s a gift we’ll all have forever.
Well, someone I know is about to celebrate His birthday. His 2009th birthday. That’s a way bigger deal than a 40th. We are all about to celebrate Christmas which is Jesus’ birthday. Christmas comes but once a year. And that’s sad. We make this huge deal out of it and then it’s over in a flash. All that goodwill and peaceful sentiment is packed up and put away until next year.
My family celebrated my birthday for 12 days and I don’t do a gnat’s eyelash for them as much as Jesus does for me and He only gets one day. Something’s wrong with that picture. So this is my plan; in 2009 I am going to celebrate Jesus’ birthday once a month for a full year. That’s right I am going to celebrate Christmas 12 times in ’09.
It’s the least I can do for the One who gave me the gift of my life and then saved it. There will be gifts – to those I love and those less fortunate than me. There will be singing and worshiping – the Birthday Boy deserves my best rousing “Happy Birthday to You.” There will be joy – because every party is an occasion to celebrate the beautiful blessings He has bestowed. And there will be cake – no decent birthday party is without cake. I will forego the 2,009 candles; I don’t want to burn down the house.
In 2009 the phrase “Christmas comes but once a year” just won’t fly in my home. If it’s the 25th there’s a party going on - Jesus is getting a birthday celebration fit for a King.
And you’re all invited. (I hope He likes soap.)
~
When I was a kid I used to love to race – anybody, anytime. “Race ya to the car!” “Race ya to the slide!” “Last one to the tree is a rotten egg!” Of course, I come from a long line of slow, un-athletic ancestors so I was a rotten egg a lot. (My brother’s nickname on his football team was Blaze – and not because he was fast.)
What is it about running and competition that is so fascinating and fun for kids? I was not unique in my love of the contest. My friends were equal in their “Race ya!” challenges. “Race ya to the deep end!” “Bet I can eat my lunch faster than you.” “Last one to the library is a loser!”
It seems as if I spent the better part of my childhood running or competing. And the races were always spontaneous. My brother and I decide to go get a snack; he turns to me all of a sudden and says “Race you to the kitchen! Ready, set, go!” And we are off and running at top speed. There is no time to think. No time to decide if I want to participate. Participation is a given. The only variable is who will be the rotten egg.
Then one day out of nowhere the racing stopped. I don’t know what my last childhood race was. It probably was nothing special or eventful. Maybe it was a race around the circle driveway or to see who could hold their breath the longest. But there was a last childhood race, there had to have been because I’m no longer racing people to the car.
I’ve grown up. I’m too mature for that sort of thing. Adults do not race.
Well, I did race once as an adult, about 10 years ago. I was skiing with friends and a friend and I had just come off the lift on our last run of the day. We looked at each other, and both being Leos, we 2 very adult women decided to race to the bottom of the hill. I passed her like she was standing still and beat her like a drum, HA!, but only because I was in a deep tuck and I had a tail wind. I think my leg is still in a cramp. As a perpetual rotten egg, I like to tell this story, usually when my friend is around and we are in a large conversation circle at parties. (Perhaps this is why no one wants to race me any more, hmmm.)
Anyway, the point is for the most part somewhere along the way we grow up. We stop running, chasing, jumping and skipping. We think these things are best left to the kids. But the point that it happens is very subtle. We don’t really know the shift is on. It’s not like getting our drivers license; one day we can’t drive, the next day we can.
One reason I know I stopped racing is because I’m too tired. Racing is hard work. It wears a girl out. Kids can do it because they seem to have this boundless energy. Me? Not so much. Stress, multi-tasking, jobs, mortgages, bills, you name it – who has the strength to race?
But I think I’m supposed to be racing. I don’t mean racing co-workers to the coffee-pot – although that would be hilarious. No, I think I am supposed to still be actively engaged in the contest.
Isaiah 41:31 says “But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; They shall mount up with wings like eagles, They shall run and not be weary, They shall walk and not faint.” (I love the part about the eagles’ wings – eagles are fast and fly high.)
Life’s trials and problems slow me down, trip me up, wear me out, and kick me out of the race. It’s during these trials and tribulations that my endurance is challenged and pushed to its limits. Who feels like racing when all I want to do is sit and nurse my bruises?
But as every marathon runner will attest there is a “wall,” a part of the race close to the finish when they feel like they will not make it, which must be scaled and overcome in order to finish the race. A choice must be made when the runner hits the wall – quit or call on all that you have and push through.
I’ll admit during my trials I have been tempted to quit. My wall has been high and thick but I have God running with me and I am waiting on Him so I am choosing to stay in the race. I will no longer be weary or faint, He won't let me.
In fact, I’m feeling pretty good and re-energized . . .“Race ya?”
~
Tis is better to give than receive. That is what this season of Christmas is all about, giving my loved ones gifts as expressions of my love. But let me get real – receiving gifts is pretty good too, and not just at Christmas time.
I particularly like to get gifts that I can learn from, that I can grow with and that add fun and spice to my journey and maybe snuggle with from time to time. You probably are thinking “Wow, she’s pretty tough to shop for.” Actually, no. Just the opposite.
Just ask God, He knows. During my life, He has given me several such gifts. Each has been the same while being completely unique. I have learned something invaluable from these gifts and my life’s journey will never be the same because He bestowed these upon me. Let me tell you about a few:
Patches
She taught me loyalty, faithfulness and love. (And to always come home after a long day romping around the neighborhood.)
Lucy
She taught me love, love, and more love. (And to never stop smiling, even when you lose your sight.)
Cap’t. Morgan
He is teaching me curiosity, mischievousness, and love. (And to always fight for the one you love - even if it means drawing a little blood.)
Gracie
She is teaching me alertness, playfulness, and love. (And the first one to the big chair wins and is queen of everything.) 
These gifts and others like them have given me so much over the course of my life. And even though some of them are no longer leaving fur tumble weeds in my butter or muddy paw prints on my pants as I dash out the door their memories and souls live on inside me. They continue to teach me and let me love them.
I think the unconditional and pure love of an animal - no matter what size, shape or form it comes in - is about as close to God’s pure and unconditional love as we can get here on earth. (If you think about it, the animals God saved on the ark out-numbered the people exponentially.)
Perhaps that’s why God gave us the gift of animals as companions. By drawing close to our furry and feathered friends and loving and being loved unconditionally our Heavenly Father is really drawing us closer to Himself.
And as Snoopy says, "Happiness is a warm puppy," (or a fluffy little parrot.) Not even Lucy van Pelt can argue with that.
~
Its Christmas time and that means catalogs – hundreds of catalogs – in my mailbox everyday. I usually like catalogs. I don’t order much but I like to see what’s in style, what I should be wearing and am not. See what furniture my living room should have in it but doesn’t or see what techie gadgets and things I don’t know how to use but would make my life so much easier, and more expensive, if I did.
Yes, I love to daydream by catalog. But this time of year it’s just too much. I can’t keep up. And as I did order a few gifts from the catalogs I had a chance to read, I am now doomed to receive mountains more.
One thing that is tough about buying from a catalog as opposed to an in-store physical purchase is that I don’t have the opportunity to see, feel and evaluate the item. Things invariably look different in pictures. If its clothes the fabric could be different than I thought. If it’s a thing it could be altogether different than expected because for starters it’s a different size in real life than in the picture.
Some catalogs blow pictures up to show detail then add – in small detail – the disclaimer “(Not Actual Size)” to warn me that the diamond earrings I’m ordering are going to be smaller than the 2x2 photo. (Disclaimer – I’ve never ordered diamonds from a catalog.) Like I actually need to be told the earrings were not going to be the size of postage stamps. Clearly some wise guy lawyer (like me) got in the way, errr, tried to be helpful. But I’ve also seen this disclaimer in food catalogs – “be careful, the cookies you are about to order are not going to be the size of a salad plate, we just blew them up to show off the sugar detail.” Duh.
There is a situation when I think the disclaimer would come in handy. I think God should project it from time to time, sort of like the bat-signal – just to remind me.
I have a habit at times of treating God as just a regular kind of guy. Jesus was a man after all and for what I can tell He was not abnormally tall or large. He was just a regular guy for His day. It helped Him fit in. And take the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit lives inside me. I’m not a big person – 5’8, 127 lbs. So when I think of the Holy Spirit I don’t imagine anyone bigger than me. God, Himself, I see as my Beloved – the One who loves me and protects me and guides me. In my walk with Him I talk to Him, pray to Him, yell at Him sometimes, listen to Him and try to follow Him the best I can. So when I communicate with Him I’m communicating, in my heart, with a regular size God, a God who fits in my passenger seat.
What I fail to do, however, is see Him, really see Him. I mean I think I see Him – at least I say I do. Every time I see a sunset or a beautiful baby or a magnificent mountain peak I say “Wow, look at that. That is God in all His glory.” But even that is selling Him short. The physical body Jesus took and the Holy Spirit taking up residence inside of me are just portals for God to interact with me. They have nothing to do with His size, His abilities, His presence.
I think the reason I do is because my human brain just can’t comprehend how vast and glorious He actually is. He is my God, handling my problems, counting and protecting the hairs on my head, while at the same time He is your God, handling your problems, counting and protecting the hairs on your head, while at the same time doing the exact same thing for each and every soul on the planet – whether they love Him or not because He loves them regardless. (That’s a lot of people my friends.) If there was one thing, person, Being that needed to carry the (Not Actual Size) disclaimer God would be it.
There is, in fact, no size to God and I think that is the point. I try to put Him in a box or category or character to make Him manageable – so I can manage Him! Now if that’s not the tail wagging the dog. No wonder I get frustrated and angry and lost when I can’t solve my problems. I’m not supposed to be the one solving them. But when I just see an average size God I don’t trust that He’s big enough to handle the troubles I’ve got.
Talk about your (Not Actual Size). Turns out that God is huge, ginormous, God-sized. He’s so big I can’t see all of Him at once. He’s clever; He only shows me the parts of Him that I need at any given moment. He doesn’t want to overload my human-sized brain. But my brain, and my heart, knows that all of Him is there. With arms that can stretch around the world a thousand times in one hug; with a heart so big the love it pours out fills every ocean in just one drop, and with grace so vast and endless the earth will physically turn to dust before He can stop bestowing it. That’s the size of my God.
I don’t want an average size God. I want a God-size God. And luckily for me that’s the size He shipped.
~
I am a Texas girl, born and bred. I love to wear cowboy boots – I own more pairs than a girl has a right too (and I could always use a few more). Trucks, jeans, cowboy hats, spurs, chaps, horses, cattle – I love it all. Which is tough, me being a city-slicker and all. I am a cowgirl who is in need of a good cowboy.
And cowboys. There is no one better than a Texas cowboy. Brave, strong, tall, sturdy in the saddle and polite. You will never meet a more polite person than a cowboy – “Yes, Ma’am.” “Let me carry that for you, Ma’am.” "Can I put out that house fire for you, partner?" I don’t agree one iota with Willie Nelson that mamas shouldn’t let their babies grow up to be cowboys. We’d have a much happier world if more mamas did.
And have you ever been to a rodeo? Those guys are built with steel. They make NFL players look like wimps with their helmets and shoulder pads to protect them from a mere 300 lb lineman. Cowboys wear spurs – Spurs! – to protect them from a 2,000 lb bull or bucking bronco that they are riding - voluntarily. (Go the the Professional Bull Riders website and they rank the bulls and list the “buck-off” stats of the top 50 bulls! More than a few have a 100% BO!) That’s the kind of guy I want in my corner.
There is, of course, the endless debate among cowboys – a debate I can go either way with – 501’s or Wranglers. There are those who say 501’s are the original cowboy jean. Button fly and brass rivets and all. There are those equally as passionate that a true cowboy only wears Wranglers – to wrangle. (You ever see a cowboy from the back while he’s wearing Wranglers? You might vote that he’s right.)
The debate here in Texas is equally as tough on the question of a cowboy’s favorite toy, his truck. Chevy and the Silverado are pretty well known around these parts. Apple pie and Chevrolet and all that. But in Texas it appears as if the Ford F150 is the must have tool in the cowboy tool box. And the older the better. Go to any city, town or wide spot in the road and you will count them by the truck load.
Not every man is born to be a cowboy. You can spot a true cowboy from a mile away. They have a certain saunter, swagger about them. They never wear their hat indoors. They always open the door for a lady and always call their Mother on her birthday. They generally have very rough hands from working hard – even if they have a desk job. (In this day and age not every cowboy gets to ride the range.) A cowboy never cusses in the presence of a lady and he takes a bath once a week whether he needs it or not. Cowboys have an easy way about them. They are never in a hurry and are always the first one there in an emergency.
But for some being a cowboy is just too much. It requires too much selflessness. Some people just don’t want the burden of being the go-to-guy. Khakis and loafers are more comfortable than jeans and boots. And that’s okay. It takes all kinds to make the world go ‘round, as they say.
Which begs the question – what kind of Cowboy would Jesus have been? Notice I didn’t ask whether He would have been one – that’s a no-brainer. No, I mean 501’s or Wranglers? Silverado or F150? Desk-set cowboy or out on the open range?
I’ll tell you what I think – I see Jesus sauntering in 501’s and Ropers – no Luccheses or Tony Lamas for Him. He just strikes me as more of a manual button Guy than a zipper Guy. And some cowboys get there Wranglers starched so they have a nice crease. No one ever does that with 501’s and no way Jesus sports a crease in His jeans. I’m also going with the F250 Super Duty with a trailer hitch. Yes, I’ve kicked it up a notch but He’s a traveling Cowboy and always has people with Him. He’s going to need the extra room and engine strength.
I don’t have to tell you what color hat He’s wearing – white straw with a silver band. His horse is a beautiful chestnut American Quarter – tall, strong and fast like the wind. Can’t you just see Him in His spurs, chaps and white shirt? “That sure looks heavy; can I help you with that problem and carry it for you, Ma’am?” “Sure looks like you could you use a little bit of grace, little Lady. Why don’t you let me give you some.” “Say, partner, I gotta heap of hope here for you. Why don’t you let me load it into your barn?” Jesus would have made an awesome Cowboy. There is not a bull or bronc alive that can throw Him.
I can see Him now. Steady, strong and true. Riding His horse across the Texas plains saddlebags full of miracles.
He is just the kind of Cowboy a cowgirl could lose her heart over.
~
I love Scarlett O’Hara. She is a woman after my own heart. Fiery, determined, cunning, coy and always finding herself in some sort of pickle. She thinks she is in love with Ashley, the steady, sturdy one, who leads Scarlett on with admissions of love. She is equally, perhaps more so, inescapably drawn to the dashing “scalawag” Rhett. (Her word, not mine.) Ashley, of course we learn, is weak when it counted and never truly loved Scarlett. Rhett, on the other hand, strong and dashing patiently pursues Scarlett, knowing he will eventually win her despite her protestations.
We meet Scarlett and Ashley in the parlor at Twelve Oaks Plantation during the barbecue. (Why don’t houses don’t have parlors any more? You just feel fancier when sitting in one. I always did in my grandparents’ – when I was allowed in; children can be so messy.) During this scene Ashley tries to tell Scarlett it’s off between them, if it was ever on, and he is going to marry Melanie. Scarlett will hear none of it. This of course leads to years of flirting and pursuing between them – mostly from Scarlett’s side but the married Ashley does profess his love to her after the war. (Talk about scalawags.)
Ashley would have been all wrong for Scarlett. He was so weak and melted like butter in the sun and could be pushed around like a rag-doll by the much stronger-of-constitution Scarlett. If Scarlett had opened her eyes for a moment and stopped focusing on him as the prize she would have seen him in his true light. A good guy just the wrong one for her.
Rhett is the one for Scarlett. And we all know it the second he comes out from hiding in the parlor after Ashley leaves and Scarlett throws a vase at the closing door. The tension is palpable. Rhett, we can see is no genteel gentleman. He is a swashbuckling “varmint” (Scarlett’s word, not mine) and we are instantly, hopelessly in love. Rhett is a dashing hero. He is the type that can match Scarlett’s wit, strength and passion. We know that he will keep his word and, given the chance, take care of Scarlett forever.
She, of course, will have nothing to do with Rhett. She cannot see or refuses to see past the sleek package and pretty words. She instead focuses on the fact that he is not what she wants, not what she has already set her mind to. She knows what is best for her and this man is not it.
Rhett: “No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how.” A woman who can pass up on a lover like this is clearly walking in the dark.
I am so like that sometimes. Always pursuing the wrong thing – I know what’s best for me and you can’t persuade me differently. I want what I cannot have or I want something that I can have but is no good for me. Put the perfect opportunity, event, thing, person, whatever in front of me sometimes and I will keep moving it out of the way to get what I want. When I finally to get it? “Okay, that was neat. Now what?” The victory is so very short lived, if there is a victory at all. Sometimes, like the Ashley situation, the eyed-prize never comes.
I have, thank goodness, been fortunate enough though to meet my Rhett Butler. And if I have to say so, and I do, my Dashing Hero really is the real deal. As we know, for all Rhett’s greatness and strength, he was but a man who eventually could not withstand Scarlett’s shenanigans and he abandoned her. But my Hero withstands all my shenanigans – and boy there are many to withstand – and will never abandon me. He loves me and pursues me with such a force that Rhett would envy to give to Scarlett. My Dashing Hero is patient, oh so patient. When I spurn Him and the gifts, opportunities, people, blessings, He is trying to give me He waits, and waits, and waits.
All I have to do to have my Dashing Hero sweep me off my feet and love me inescapably forever is all Rhett ever wanted Scarlett to do – say His name. “Just once.” (Rhett’s words, not mine but they are right on.) One call of His name, that’s all it takes to be loved and protected and showered with blessings for all eternity. Luckily for me I’m brighter and a bit more cunning than Scarlett – I have called out the name of my Beloved – Jesus. (And He is the Dashingest Hero you’ll ever want to love you.)
And as God as my witness, my life has never been the same since.
~
I have heard this sentence much too often lately for my tastes, “It’s simply hopeless.” I don’t like it because it reminds me of myself and the way I sometimes feel. I don’t like it because it is pessimistic and does not even try to incorporate the positive. But mostly I don’t like it because it simply isn’t true – in any circumstance.
I have heard this despair filled remark said about world poverty and over-population. I’ve heard it said about illnesses. I’ve heard it said about debt and deficits. I’ve heard it said about civil rights. I’ve heard it said about unemployment and the nation’s economy. I’ve caught myself muttering it a time or two.
Now, I am not saying that every situation will turn out the way I hope it will. Quite the contrary – as we know, that rock-n-roll singing career I’ve been hoping for with my core girls from high-school – “The Cheap Sunglasses,” has not panned out as I’d planned. But hope has a point and a purpose.
If anyone had a reason to be hopeless it was Helen Keller. Helen was born a healthy, normal child but became sick at 19 months old with an illness that left her deaf and blind. However, her family would not let their young daughter languish in a silent and dark world. The family cook’s young daughter began to teach Helen household signs she made up to help Helen communicate with the family. The family was determined not to stop there. When Helen was six, her mother heard of another deaf-blind child that was being educated. Pursuits of that situation eventually lead to a meeting with Alexander Graham Bell. Bell recommended a Boston school for the blind. It was at this Boston school that the Kellers met Annie Sullivan, herself half blind, the woman who would become Helen’s personal teacher and friend. The relationship lasted 49 years.
If Helen ever felt hopeless it was Sullivan who brought hope to her chaotic, undisciplined world. Helen was enrolled in school and Sullivan taught Helen to speak, read fingers in the palm of her hand, and read Braille – in four different languages. (I have trouble enough with one and I can see!) Helen graduated magna cum laude from Radcliffe College with a Bachelors of Arts degree. Helen went on to live her life as a world famous speaker, author and political activist (warrenting her her own FBI file!). From a blind, deaf child to a world influencing adult – no wonder they called Annie Sullivan, The Miracle Worker.
Like Helen, I too have a Miracle Worker to bring me hope and create miracles where there is only darkness and silence. I heard someone say once that “you are not in line for a miracle until you have a problem nobody can solve but God.” I love that. It is stark in its truth and simplicity.
My Random House College Dictionary defines hope as “the feeling that what is desired is also possible.” So I suppose that when a situation is deemed hopeless a person no longer feels the desired outcome is possible. Here is the major flaw in hope’s definition – it is based on feelings. Anything based on feelings or emotions is going to be fickle. I am in a good mood; I have hope – I get in a bad mood; I lose hope. Feelings as a foundation for hope will always lead to disappointment and despair, unless I get exactly what I am hoping for and that rarely happens. So, I must look for a different foundation.
Jesus isn’t fickle. He does not waiver when my emotions do. When the wind begins to howl and my self-confidence begins to founder He gets stronger. “Those who hope in the Lord will renew their strength.” (Isaiah 40:31) There is a reason little children sing “when I am weak He is strong.” There is nothing – Nothing – Jesus cannot do. Man cannot do a lot – Jesus can do a lot. We only have to put our hope, our trust, in Him. And when we do He will never disappoint.
Like Annie Sullivan, it is the job of the hopeful to bring hope to those who have none. It may have been hopeless for Helen but it wasn’t for her family or for Sullivan. The hope my Miracle Worker brings and the miracles He performs – through those “Annie Sullivans” He uses to bring them – may or may not solve the immediate problem, but it always lifts those in need to new heights and brings light where there is darkness and joy where there is silence.
Keller wrote in her autobiography that upon discovering her first word - water - spelled out by Sullivan in the palm of Helen's hand, her "living world awakened her soul, gave it light, hope, joy, set it free!"
Hope for the hopeless. Sometimes just that simple gift is itself the miracle.
.
"You can do it. Just jump, I'll catch you." Words from my dad as I stood trembling on the side of the pool and he stood in 3.5 feet of water in the shallow end. He might as well have been in 100 feet of water as far as my little self was concerned. I didn't know how to swim. What if he didn't catch me? What if I drowned? This was virgin, scary territory. What was a little girl to do? But his coaxing eventually convinced me to jump to him. He was my dad, he would protect me.
He, of course, pulled the 'ol learn-to-swim fake-out by backing up as soon as I was air borne. He didn't catch me, instead he made me swim to him. Nice, since learning to swim was the point of this exercise in toddler terror. Terror notwithstanding, dad did not let me drown and did pick me up - eventually. He just wanted to help bring out my swmming skills.
And as it turns out I did learn to swim. Not all in one day, of course. I did take actual lessons (which were no less traumatic) to perfect my innate swimming skills. My parents even made me join the club's swim team a few years later because I was such a good swimmer - I have lots of 6th place ribbons to prove it.
The reason dad could instruct me to jump and then not catch me but instead make me flounder until I started swimming is because I already had the ability inside me. I had just not realized my ability yet - it was hidden until that moment in time.
I have other hidden, latent talents - we all do - innate gifts given to us by our Heavenly Father. Some talents are visible right away - the ability to sing, dance, do complex mathematical equations. But others remain hidden, cloaked behind layers of life, emotions, and fears so that they are unknown to us - abilities like strength of heart, generosity of spirit, patience.
Gifts like these sometimes must be brought out by other means because we don't believe they actually exist, at least not in ourselves. God takes us on journeys to show us ourselves as He sees us. For some, certainly for me as far as my talents are concerned, seeing is believing. If a few years ago you were to tell me I am a patient person I would have said "No, I am not." But God has taken me through many journeys requiring patience, which have shown me that I am indeed a very patient person. I have the ability - in most, not all circumstances, let me be clear - to wait graciously. I didn't always think I did, so I had to learn it for myself.
I am reminded of Dorothy. The Wizard of Oz had nothing in his black bag for her - because as it turns out she didn't need anything, she already had it. Dorothy, as she is trying to leave Oz, is told by Glenda, the good witch, that she can go home at any time; she has always had the ability - the ruby red slippers on her feet. Glenda states that had she told that to Dorothy earlier she would not have believed her - "she had to learn it for herself." Once Dorothy professes what she's learned she clicks her ruby red slippers three times and takes herself home to Kansas and Auntie Emm.
Like Dorothy, everything I will ever need I already have. God has bestowed upon me - and you - the exact gifts, talents and abilities I will ever need. Perhaps not all the ones I wanted - I've always wanted to sing and be a rock star, but that is one thing no one wants me to do (trust me on this!) The gifts I don't know about yet, or believe I possess, God will show me along the way. God did not give me something He does not intend for me to use. While I don't always care for the little journeys God takes me on to show me my bestowed gifts, my abilities, they do reveal more of me to me.
And, I am discovering, I have a closet full of ruby red slippers.
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I love Thanksgiving. The turkey, the stuffing, the mashed potatoes, the green bean casserole, the dinner rolls, the pie – the pie. I do love me some pecan pie. The football games all weekend long. The getting together with family and friends. I think it is one of the best holidays we have.
Typically, when I was growing up we went to my grandparents’ house. They lived in the same city I did but they lived on seven acres – inside the city. They had this wonderful, huge forest of a backyard. My brothers, cousins and I would run around and play football or other sorts of games outside with their black lab Happy. If it was really cold my grandparents would have a great fire going in their enormous fireplace in the living room. And I would sit on the hearth and let my back get really hot where it stung to touch it. (I wanted to see if my shirt would burst into flames but I usually could not stand the heat long enough to find out.)
Dinner was served around the formal dining table. My grandmother used all her “good china” and silver. We drank water out of silver goblets. Goblets! That was what princesses drank out of in the olden days of kings and castles. I loved being fancy. The table was so beautiful and long and everyone fit around it. I didn’t have to eat at a “children’s table.” When we would have Thanksgiving at our house the dining table didn’t fit everyone and I was always put at the kids table, usually in the hall – even as an adult. (That's what happens when you're a middle child.) There was always lots of love and laughter around the Thanksgiving dinner table.
A completely different but equally warm and wonderful Thanksgiving is one I celebrated about a decade ago with a dear group of friends. We took a trip to the Hill Country area of Texas. We stayed in a motel retreat next to a river. It was cold and perfect. We made a hodge-podge motel kitchen Thanksgiving feast. It was wonderful. We sang carols at the outdoor fire pit. We played touch football – because its Thanksgiving and you have to play football – it’s in the holiday rule book. I visited my old camp, we canoed – of course there was the requisite falling in the freezing water, there was short-sheeting of the beds. This was a wacky, wonderful Thanksgiving weekend, full of memories and laughter and reasons to give Thanks.
That’s what I love about the holiday. It’s for all comers. No one is left out. It’s not “religious” and thus leaving out those who don’t practice a particular faith. It’s not about politics or past wars or past presidents or co-opted by the retailers. (They have kindly waited until the next day, lovingly referred to as “Black Friday.”) It is a day to stop the madness, gather with those you love, invite those who have no one or want to begin a new tradition and break bread together and give Thanks.
I will give Thanks for the good friends, the devoted family, the deep love, the constant support, the ever-present laughter, the big ears, the broad shoulders, the strong arms, the soft hearts, the kind spirits, and the enduring patience and faith I received this year. Blessings, each and every one. Gifts bestowed to me through the grace of my Heavenly Father. He will have an honored seat at my Thanksgiving table.
My basket is full to the brim and overflowing with blessings. There have been days when Thank You were probably the last words coming out of my heart. But the truth is I can’t think of one thing I would change. (Well maybe one teeny tiny little thing.) Everything has brought me to this now, to this moment. And my heart is full of love, and light, and peace. And that along with my wonderful family, dear friends, good health (whew that nasty cold thing is long gone, yippe), great dog and crazy bird is more than a girl deserves.
Blessings come small and blessings come large and they come everyday in a thousand different ways. And blessings come to everyone. God does not withhold His bounty from anyone. There is always something for everyone to be thankful for. Thanksgiving is a holiday that brings all people together. It knows no boundaries. And that is how it should be. Everyone is invited to the Thanksgiving table. The table is huge with plenty of room and no one sits at the “kids” table.
Would we find God breaking bread at any other kind of table?
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It's an age old question. There has never been any definitive evidence to point to an answer. The Bible is silent on the matter. It is never mentioned in any of the four Gospels. Paul never writes about it in any of his letters. Yet, the question has been around for centuries. And I think it's an important one. Did He or didn't He?
Conventional wisdom would say Yes, He did. Of course He did. Jesus was a man with an enormous heart how could He not? He had too much love to keep from pouring it out at least once.
But reason makes a different argument. He was always on the go. Never in one place too long; it would have been impractical. He just never put all His focus on one heart, that was not His way.
Scholars, students, lay people and even cartoonists (e.g. Charles Schultz) have been debating this question forever. I myself have wondered as to what the answer is many times.
Well wonder no more. I have uncovered the proof that should put this debate to rest once and for all. It turns out the painter Sebastiano Ricci somehow discovered the truth and immortalized the answer back in 1720 in his beautiful masterpiece "Last Supper."
See for yourself:
Jesus did indeed have a dog.
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The weather here has been cool and crisp lately. It is beginning to feel like the Fall season it is. There are other tell-tale signs – football is on and there is talk of the nearing college “Bowl Season,” the leaves on the trees, while still green are beginning to look a bit yellowish around the edges – death cannot be too many more months off for them.
I love the Fall. It has such a distinct flavor about it. Change is in the air – and I don’t mean anything doing with elections or politics. It is a time when people slow down and start doing little fun things like decorating the front porch with hay bales, pumpkins and scarecrows. There are all sorts of festivals this time of year. It seems as if every little town has a Harvest Festival or crowning of the Pecan Queen or some such event.
Some people like to “watch the leaves change.” Around here we have to travel to see that happen if we are interested in any change besides green to brown – we miss out on the green to orange to red to yellow spectacular known to most everyone north of Dallas. (But we know the luxury of not living in snow 6 months of the year, so there is that trade off.)
In my family, we had a fun Fall tradition when I was little. We had several pecan trees in our backyard and it seems that they shed their pecans each Fall (thus the apparent timing of the crowning of the Pecan Queens). During halftime of Houston Oiler’s games on TV my parents would send my older brother and me out into the backyard with large brown grocery sacks and see who could collect the most pecans.
I remember being bundled up against the cold and running around the yard in some sort of November Easter-Egg style pecan hunt/competition. My brother and I would scour the yard for those green egg shaped nuggets. And the funny thing is most of the time mom and dad didn’t alert us as to when the game came back on and halftime was over. They left us out there until we unwittingly cleared the yard of each and every nut we could find – all in a supposed effort to see which one of us was the better hunter-gatherer.
When we came back we measured the sacks to see who won and of course, there was the requisite crowing from the victor. But then came the real deal, while we could eat some of them most of them were set aside – we had this fancy cool pecan nut cracker that really looked like an atom smasher and these little picks to get all the pieces out of the shells (People today are so lazy and miss all that fun when they buy them already shelled.)
The real deal was that the pecans were Christmas gifts to family friends. We had to put them in these bright colored paper bags and tie yarn around them to give out to people for Christmas. (How long ago was this? Who hunts and gathers gifts from their yard anymore? I think I’m bringing this tradition back this year.) This was no “contest” between my brother and me. This was A) a way to get us out of the house for an hour and B) get the pecans picked up so my parents didn’t have to do it themselves. What a rip off!
Bait and switch, a ruse, trickery, deceit, manipulative parenting! Maybe a little. But it was “for our own good.”
In point of fact, we had fun out there. Even if we thought we were out there for one reason and we were really out there for a different one my brother and I still had fun. We still made a game of it and we did get to smash and eat some of the spoils, err, Christmas gifts. Would we have done it if mom and dad had said “Here take this sack and go pick up all the pecans in the yard so we can give them to friends?” Probably, but only after protesting and only because they were our parents – and I know I would have done it reeeally slowly and with a lot of heavy sighing.
God does that to me too sometimes. I think He has me doing something for one reason and later, after I’m done I look back and realize it was for a totally different purpose. He knows me very well. If He were to tell me “I’m going to teach you a lesson now” I would be like, “No way.” And there would be lots of heavy sighing. But, if He says “Hey, would you like to go on a little hike to a beautiful waterfall?” I say, “Sure!” It’s what He shows me on the nearly impossible 11 hour, 14 mile hike that I wasn’t expecting that’s the gift and the lessons I will never forget.
Bait and switch is a game as old as eternity. But it can sometimes be good to play. Just be careful if you are asked to join a competition to gather pecans at halftime – someone’s getting them for Christmas.
I am not a good patient. I hate being sick. I have been down the last three days with a horrible cold/upper respiratory thing and its not even winter yet. This does not bode well for things to come.
Generally speaking I am in good health and don’t often get sick. But when I do I don’t like it – I don’t suppose any one does. I have no energy. Everything aches and chills. I have no appetite and all I want to do is sleep. But who can sleep when you can’t breathe?
As far as patient etiquette goes I’m rather whiney and like my pillow fluffed and orange juice refreshed on a regular basis. Alas, as I live alone the whining falls on deaf ears, those of my dog, and the fluffing never happens. It’s a good thing this happens only once a year. (Knock wood.)
But this got me to thinking. What about Jesus? Remember when we were discussing Him becoming man so He could explore and experience everything we went through? Well, I don’t recall Him ever being sick. There are references to His suffering but nothing directly to His being ill.
I don’t recall Him ever succumbing to infection or breaking a bone or getting a cold. I’m sure He did. He was human after all and He spent His time around a lot of grubby, sick people. In any event, if He ever did get sick I bet He was a star patient. No complaining. No whining that He had the chills and a headache. He probably got out of His sick bed to fluff the pillows of others and get them more juice. (Trying to make me look bad.)
The closest time I can think of when Jesus would have been sick is when He wandered about the desert not eating or drinking for 40 days. I’m sure He was hot, hungry and pretty weak. At the end of those 40 days Satan tempted Jesus by telling Him to turn stones into bread so He could eat. Jesus resisted and told Him no one lives only on food but also lives on the Word of God. Satan tried to tempt Jesus two more times while He was weak and vulnerable. Both of these times Jesus resisted again and Satan finally left Him alone and then “the angels came to help Him.” (Matt. 4:1-11).
When I am sick and feeling really lousy with fever and body aches my defenses are down. I am apt to say Yes to just about anything to make the pain go away or agree to something because I’m doped up on cold meds. And that’s when I’ve been sick for 2 days. Jesus was without food and water for 40 – 40! That’s crazy. I would have been turning every rock I saw into bread and a bucket of water.
Even when in sickness Satan doesn’t take a day off. In fact, that’s when he’s most likely to strike with a vengeance. I know that’s when I started to think of all the things I should be doing and wasn’t, etc. My guilt creeping in and taking over instead of just letting myself have a couple of peaceful days to rest and recover.
Jesus’ desert story is a good reminder for me. Even when I’m weak, He is strong and if I resist Satan’s attempts to distract me “the angels [will] come to help” me and I’ll be fit as a fiddle in no time with no need to whine.
If I were a football player I would not be a receiver. I might play lots of positions but it would not be that one. Oh, I can run, albeit not fast, and I can catch – I’m just not good at receiving. I’ve never learned the proper technique.
Take compliments. I’m no good at them. I can give them and I love to get them, I’m just no good at receiving them. Call me a compliment killer. Tell me my hair looks nice and I’ll say Thank You then go on about how I think it really looks crummy and I had wanted it to look so much better. Say you like my blouse, “Thanks, but it’s really old and out of style. I really should stop wearing it.” Why can’t I ever just say “Thank You” and smile and accept the compliment? Be graceful about it?
I’m not much better with gifts. I love giving them and love getting gifts – but please just leave them on my doorstep. I'm no good at receiving them. I hate opening gifts in front of people. What if I say the wrong thing or don’t act gracious enough? What if I already have one (I never do) or don’t like it (never happens) – or like yours better than hers and she’s standing right next to you (slight possibility)? Dread of all dread. Why is it so hard to just receive the beautiful gift and its warm gesture and express Thanks, simple, sincere Thanks without thinking lots of extra embellishment is needed?
Love. This is the big one. I dish it out. I love to love. But the hardest thing of all for me to receive is love. I try. I thought I did it well but now not so much. I have gained a new understanding of love lately and in the process discovered that I don’t receive love very well at all.
I have been unemployed since January of this year. This being November, that’s a long time on my calendar. Other than a small bit of my own finances and unemployment from the government I have had no discernible income. What I have had is the most wonderful, loving family support system of my partner, my parents and my brothers keeping me a float. My family has been there for me at every turn. They have kept my roof over my head, my car in my garage, my electricity flowing through my light bulbs and my dog’s bowl full of kibble. I don’t know what to say to love like that. Love like that humbles me. How do I ever say the right kind of Thank You? A hug just doesn’t seem gracious enough. This love is so deep and strong and real. Why can’t I accept this beautiful gift without feeling guilty?
The answer to all the above questions is – because I don’t feel I deserve it.
I am completely comfortable with the concepts of our capitalistic society – supply and demand, a day’s wage for a day’s pay, you scratch my back I’ll scratch yours, keep what you kill, two way street. What I clearly get uncomfortable with are God's economic concepts of free, unearned, unmerited, one way street, no strings attached, unconditional, grace.
This past year has taught me the true meaning of that last one – grace. Grace, as I understand it, is God’s unmerited favor. It’s His blessings given to us just for being us. Not for anything we did or are going to do but just because He loves us. I admit, I think I understand the concept. But really I don’t. I don’t get anything in this world with out earning it. I was taught that at the earliest age. “There’s no such thing as a free lunch” as the saying goes. So, it’s just so hard to live in a world that demands we earn everything and places value on everything we do. That’s even the first question we get at parties – “So, what do you do?” Nice. Real nice. Then God says we don’t have to do a thing to earn His love, we get it by grace. My head spins.
Since I live in a world like that it’s hard for me to then turn around and suspend that belief when it comes to God. It just is sometimes. I know Jesus came and died for me and wiped away my sins so when I die I can go to heaven. But for the other stuff while I’m here, it is hard to relax and just receive His love, His grace without thinking I also have to jump through certain hoops to get to Him.
Case in point: today I was driving and thought to myself, in a rather frustrated PMSie kind of way, “What is it going to take from me for God to give me my breakthrough?” And this is what I got back, “Nothing.” Nothing? "Nothing." God is not “waiting” for me to do anything to trigger my breakthrough. And by that I mean any particular task, uncover the correct acorn so to speak. Stop cussing, act more lady-like, go to church more, give more to charity, etc. The breakthrough will be an act of His love through His grace – period.
He has been illustrating exactly what He means by this all year. My family members didn’t help me because I mowed one’s lawn, or painted another’s living room, or babysat their kids. Each and every one of them did what they did beautifully and graciously because they love me – period. Acts of love through grace.
It's getting easier for me to understand His love and His grace and accept that I am deserving. God is using my loved ones to teach me deeply important and personal lessons about both. And that is a beautiful gift from Him in and of itself right there.
Stay tuned, it's only mid-season and I just might make the team as a receiver yet.
If there is one thing about myself that I take pride in it is my sense of direction. I have always been able to read a map. I know my East from my West, my North from my South. I can find lost things. I can even properly program then follow the navigation system in my car. All of which is to say I rarely get lost. I would have made a great explorer.
But for all my explorer skills I find I still need guidance. You might call me a modern day Lewis and Clark.
Lewis and Clark were great explorers. They were arguably two of the greatest explorers our country has ever produced. Just think about it. In 1803 the still geographically small United States bought Louisiana from France. Now, this Louisiana Purchase more than doubled the size of our young new country. This was one huge purchase – even France was not sure exactly how much land it sold, that’s how big it was. Thomas Jefferson wanted to know so he hired Meriwether and William to go find the Pacific Ocean and come report back. It took them over two years but they got the job done.
Can you imagine the guts that took? They persevered through many a hardship. They didn’t have a map – they made the map as they went! That’s saying something. But for all their bravery they didn’t and couldn’t do it on their own. They needed a support team with them. No expedition can go anywhere without its roadies. There will be trouble, unknowns, hostiles and danger along the way. A strong team is vital.
But they shortly discovered they needed even more help than they started with. Early on in the expedition while wintering in what would one day be North Dakota they determined they needed a translator and a guide. Even our big, strong, intrepid explorers Lewis and Clark needed to seek a little outside help. Someone who knew how to talk to the locals, someone who knew the lay of the land – someone like Sacagawea. (I really like the fact that these big ‘ol boys needed a woman to help them out and show them the way – but I digress.)
Translator, guide, helper – Sacagawea did a lot to get Lewis and Clark to where they were going. Lewis and Clark were experienced explorers and they still needed help. No shame in that. In fact, it’s just as it’s supposed to be.
It’s always more difficult to go somewhere for the first time. Which is why we go through things, so we can be there to help guide others. Like my dad guided me through my bike lessons. We can all go from St. Louis to the Pacific Northwest with ease because we have Lewis and Clark (and Sacagawea) as our guides. Some things we go through are of course more difficult than learning to ride a bike or explore the Pacific Northwest. But going through hard times or trials and persevering is still important – we can’t lead anybody through something we have not been through ourselves.
Jesus is another and perhaps the best example of this. He became a human being so He could explore and experience each and every emotion, temptation, sin (without actually sinning – I, of course, sin with actually sinning), and problem as we do. This way He knows exactly what we human beings are going through day in and day out. It gives Him street cred. Who would listen to or follow a guide who said “Follow me; I know the way, even though I’ve never actually been there.” Nobody that’s who. Not me. Not you.
Jesus went through things to help guide us through. We go through things to help guide each other through. Heaven and earth – full of explorers.
Lewis and Clark would be so proud.
My whole life I have seen the world from a slightly off-center, dizzy, bubbly perspective. I don’t consider myself “normal” and really could not define that for you if I tried. If I was for sale in the store you’d find me in the 50% off bin due to too many cracks and chips. With me it’s buyer beware. Despite all my efforts I am a cracked person. And I thank God for it everyday.
When you see yourself as slightly different from “normal” people you might think it would be hard to find a place for yourself. But it’s really quite easy once you learn the secret – there are no normal people. I know, shocking isn’t it? I’ll let you in on another secret – you are not normal either. Ha, welcome to the club! Glad you are here!
I will confess that that one of my cracks is that I have always had a problem with self-confidence. (Humor is a great low self-confidence cover-upper.) I keep thinking people around me can do whatever I’m doing – cooking, singing, dancing, walking, spelling, lawyering, being a human being, reading, writing, arithmetic – better than me (okay, on that arithmetic one, they usually can). But in reality they are thinking the exact same thing about me – now that’s funny (especially if you’ve ever seen me dance).
But my biggest crack is a lack of confidence with God. There are days when I am so strong in my faith but there are a whole bunch more when my faith is so very weak. And days when I ain’t got no faith at all. My mind has a mind of its own. I think thoughts sometimes that I know God disapproves of. There are days when I don’t want to be the “bigger person” or nice to people. And quite simply there are days when I’m not. I know God wants me to be like Jesus and man, it seems like I’m just not getting there anytime too soon. I have my moments, I visit the area but it sure is hard to move in.
I got cracks. I got lots of cracks. How does God use a person like that?
Turns out Gods loves cracks. In fact, the more the merrier He is. Don’t believe me? (It’s okay, one of my cracks is I like to lie from time to time.) Let’s look at the evidence.
Every single person living on the planet today is broken, cracked and abnormal in some way. And that makes every single person living on the planet today the perfect person to be a recruit in God’s Army. To understand this we have to go back to the beginning. The Bible is the perfect place for that. Every person in the Bible – except one, The One – was cracked and broken. Even the Bible’s biggest heroes were fallible, sinful, lost their faith and used by God. Here are a few that come to mind:
- Abraham lost his faith in God. So He listened to his wife Sarah (bad move) and committed adultery by sleeping with his wife’s maidservant so they could have a child together (Ishmael)(Gen.16:2-4). Then his wife decided she didn't think this idea was so hot anymore (big shock) and had Hagar banished. After Abraham saw the error of his ways God still kept His covenant with him and bore Abraham a son with his wife as promised when he was more than 100 years old (Isaac).
- David, who was married, slept with one of his soldier’s wives and the woman produced a child from the affair and then David got the soldier drunk had him killed. (2 Samuel 11:2-17). God still made David king as promised after David repented.
- Peter, one of the 12 disciples, denied he knew Jesus to His face – 3 times on Good Friday. (Matt. 26:69-74). This is the same Peter who the night before tried to defend Jesus from a Roman soldier in the Garden and cut off his ear. Now St. Peter in-waiting is asked if he knows Jesus and he says "nope, sure don't" "Yeah, you're one of those guys who hangs with him" "Don't know what you're talking about. Is that sundial correct? Wow, look at the time. I have got to go." Peter was about as loyal when it counted as an ice cube in a microwave. However, Jesus knew his heart. (And luckily He knows our hearts as well.) Peter spent the rest of his life as a missionary, eventually was martyred, became a Saint and became the foundation (literally) for the Christian church in Rome.
- Noah, after the flood waters had receded, got drunk on wine and his son Ham found him passed out drunk and naked outside of his tent. He put a curse on the son of his son because he had seen all this (can only chalk this up to his embarrassment - haven't we all been there?) Noah went on to live another 350 years for a total of 900+. (Gen. 9:20-22) (I love this little told story.)
- Then there is Thomas. I love Thomas. Thomas was also a disciple who followed Jesus and could be rather pessimistic at times. When Jesus first returned to the disciples after the resurrection Thomas was not there. When the others told him about Jesus’ return he did not believe them – he doubted their story (and gave us the phrase “doubting Thomas”). A week later, Jesus met with the disciples, including Thomas, and said to Thomas to place his hands on His wounds so he would no longer be unbelieving but believing. When Thomas did this he did indeed believe that Jesus had been resurrected. Because of this God blesses those who have not seen but still believe. (John 20:24-29)
All of these people were cracked. All of the people were vessels used by God – cracks and all. Crackpots. God can use whatever cracks we have to offer. He loves us just the way we are, just where we are. And like He did with the crackpots in the Bible, He refuses to leave us crackpots the way we are or where we are.
Pretty good company for you and me to be in if you ask me.
I have a core. A sacred core. In fact, if you look around, you will discover you do too. These people who know us – sometimes better than we know ourselves. Our people, our posse, our cohorts, our partners in crime. They know us, love us, ground us, laugh with us, stabilize us, encourage us, center us, and help us muddle through thick and thin.
I have a core from my childhood. Women who have known me since my early days. (Yikes!) These women know where all my secrets are buried. They know all about my scary, awful and awkward years – and man, did those awkward years last decades. (The comforting thing is is that I know all about their awkward years too – she says with a satisfied smile.) They helped me through bad test grades, bad break-ups, bad dates and bad perms. They helped me through parents who “would never understand” and parents who were “soo embarrassing!”
I have a core from college. Women who have known me since my earliest tastes of freedom. These women repeatedly held my hair as I prayed to the porcelain god that I would never drink again. They helped me and I helped them through bad test grades, bad break-ups, bad dates and waaay bad perms (the 80’s were not kind to anyone’s sense of style, including my own). We dreamed together as we planned our futures after college. We were in each other's weddings – well I was in theirs, they are still waiting for mine, as is my mom, Lord love her.
These core people from childhood and college remain today just as valuable as they did the last day I spoke with them. If I were to see them today, no doubt I could pick back up with any of them as if none of the last 25 years had past by. You have that same story too. Look around. You do.
We have our current core too. Our adulthood core. The people who know us now. The ones who have seen us grow from young idealistic adults into the supposed mature leaders we think/hope/strive to be. We have started and restarted several careers with these people. They have helped us through bad bosses, bad break-ups, bad dates and unfortunately – bad perms (when will I learn?). They have supported our dreams and helped us get there. And they listened patiently as we vented when the dream shattered in a heap. Children are raised by some and so we buy endless amounts of unneeded candy/wrapping paper/whatever the kids are selling to show our support. (I have some cookie dough if there are any takers!) We love some of them, we live with some of them, we work with some of them and some we hang out with and invite over to watch ball games.
Core people – we are surrounded by them. We are shaped by them. We need them and they need us. They are central to us. You might say they are the center of us. Which is, in fact, right where you will find them –
In our center.
our core.
our heart.
our Coeur.
our Sacre Coeur.
our sacred heart.
It’s no mistake God put our heart, our sacred heart, in the center of our torso, the core of our body. It's the place where He dwells within us. It’s the strongest and most protected part of us. And the heart, the Coeur, is the most painful when it breaks. That’s why having a strong core is so important – people of history to turn to when the going gets rough and tumble.
So, this holiday season when you are giving thanks, remember your core, your sacred core – yours is bigger, longer and stronger than you think. And you are somebody’s sacred core too. There are people out there who have you as a key in their history. A rock that has stabilized their rough sea. And best of all, you are God's sacred core, His sacred heart. So even if you look around and think you see no core, see God. He is your core. He is your people of history.
Your sacre coeur - your sacred heart and His sacred heart - beating as One, inside your chest.
When I was a little kid of 4 or 5 (why my posts of late all seem to deal with my childhood I don’t know, but thanks for putting up with it) my mom, big brother (I do have a younger brother but he didn’t come along until a few years later) and I would play a game. The hugging game. Mom would wrap our arms around our bodies real tight – like we were giving ourselves a hug. While she did this she would give us a big ‘ol bear hug to make sure the hug stayed “on.” Then my brother and I would run out of the kitchen giggling and run chasing each other all through the house. Seeing who could keep their hug the longest.
At some point during the chase the hugs inevitably fell off. What 4 year old can run and keep their arms wrapped around themselves for more than 1.2 minutes, if that long? (The other sibling would be smug in the knowledge that although they too lost his/her hug, they held it longer - Ha!)
We would walk back into the kitchen and say “Mom, my hug fell off!” She was such a great sport – “Oh no! Your hug fell off? We can’t have that. Let me put another back on!” And she would stop what she was doing, squat down, wrap our tiny arms around our bodies and seal it with a giant bear hug and send us back out of the kitchen on our grand chase.
This game was ceaseless. No matter how many times we came back mom always acted genuinely surprised when we returned having lost our hugs – tiny arms dangling at our sides. The point of the game was to see who could keep the hug the longest - but secretly the best part was getting the bear hug from mom. I felt so safe and loved. The memory of it is still so clear and the warm and loving feeling still so present. It was just a silly game, right? Who even knows how it ever started?
I'll tell you how it started. God is love. That's how it started. God loves us and wants us to know what that is and what that feels like. So he gives us family and friends and partners and spouses and co-workers and children and pets to show us what love is and to give us hugs when we need them.
And He is always there waiting to wrap us in a big ‘ol bear hug when we need Him. He is just like my mom, and vice versa, so patient every time I come to Him after a bad day or sometime I just need a bit of encouragement – “Oh No. Your hug fell off. Here let me give you another one!” And also like mom in the kitchen, He’s always there giving me His full attention.
It’s nice to know we always have a place to go when our hugs fall off. God gives us loving families and friends to hug and to hold, but He also gives us Himself. And no one gives a better bear hug than Him.
I am a thief. I purposely took an item, clandestinely hid it and walked out of the store with it having no intention of paying for it. And, I got away with it - for 38 years.
There I said it. I got it out into the bright light of day. And I certainly think the statute of limitations has run.
When I was little we owned a farm outside of town - no, a ranch, no, let's call it a piece of property with cows on it. My favorite cow was "Bossy," and our bull was "JohnJohn" (see, it was no ranch - what ranch names its livestock?) My dad took the family here on weekends so we could escape the city and play "Griswolds go Cowboy." This was a charming place. No indoor plumbing or air-conditioning. I fondly recall traipsing off with shovel and toilet paper in hand to the grove of yupon bushes by the back fence before bed. "Be careful where you squat, you don't want to get bit by a copperhead." Ahh, childhood.
From time to time, dad would need a few supplies from the feed/hardware store in town. This was a great place. It had amazing wonders that a regular city hardware store didn't. Oats and barley in huge burlap sacks. The molasses oats smelled so wonderful. I wanted to be a horse just so I could try some! Nails loose in tubs. I would just bury my hands in the nails. They were so shiny and pointed. I wanted dad to have something for us to hammer and build so we could use that giant scoop used to measure out the nails. And they sold saddles and all sorts of stuff for horses. This place was a Wonderland!
I had to have something. I asked dad to buy me this thing and that thing and always the answer was "no, we don't need that." Need? Who ever said anything about need? As I wandered off dejected I spied these big spools of chains. How cool. So this is how you by a chain. They make it really long and you cut off just how much you need. "Hey dad, we need a chain don't we?" "No." Crushing blow and right in front of the cashier. Skulk away. But what does my little eye spy next to the spools of chains? But a length of chain that someone cut but did not buy!
Without a seconds thought that chain was off the floor and into my little 6 year old blue jean pocket with the ironed on patch over the hole in the knee. How no one, especially either of my parents or my brother, saw the enormous bulge in my pocket is still beyond me. But I marched right out of that store and got into our car with all the "I just showed you" pride in the world. I had a chain - just think of all the things I could do with that!
The bummer about stealing something is that you have to keep it a secret. You can't go around shouting "Ta Da look what I have!" especially not in front of the person who told you you could not have it. I couldn't tell anyone about my big score. Nor could I play with my contraband or allow it out into the bright light of day, lest I risk getting caught and have to return it and get a talking to (a fate worse than death.) And that would defeat the whole point - dad said no but I said yes and I won. What am I going to do with this thing I can't talk about or play with? Well, this is certainly turning into no fun fast.
Here's the other bummer about stealing - it begins to eat away at you. Eventually, the pride over my accomplishment wore off. With no one to show off to who cares that I have this stupid chain. I got the thing back to Houston and had to hide it in the deepest, darkest part of my closet so mom would not discover it. I had no use for a chain in the city. What does a 6 year old girl need a foot-long length of chain for - she doesn't.
This secret became less and less fun the longer I held it. Finally, after over a year I had had enough of that chain eating away at my conscious. I had to get rid of it. But how? I could not just throw it in the kitchen or bathroom trash. The perfect plot was hatched when I remembered my 9 year old brother had a briefcase - do not ask me why a 9 year old had a briefcase, I do not know. The point is he had one and it was the perfect foil for getting the kryptonite out of my closet and out of the house. I borrowed the case when my brother was out and put the chain in it; I then told my mom I was going out "to a meeting" - I was an imaginative child and pronouncements like this generally did not raise eyebrows. Once out the back door I ran to the garbage can and buried the sordid chain as far down in that beat-up metal container I as could. Ahhh, chain gone, burden lifted.
Everything was right again with my world. Sort of.
No one ever did find out. But of course, there was Someone that always knew. Someone who watched me as I stole it. When God knows you know He knows and knows you don't want to talk about it - that's usually when He wants to talk about it. And He is very patient and will wait to talk when you are ready, even if it takes 38 years.
You know, that chain has been a thorn in my side since the day I stole it. When I have thought about it I have always tried to think of it as this hilarious thing I did as a little kid. A joke I pulled. But in reality it has never once given me a moment's pleasure. Well, maybe one moments worth, those first few when I first shoved it into my pocket and ran out of the store with it but none since then. And I think I know why - I knew it was wrong when I did it. I did it because I was mad that I didn't get my way. I thought I was pulling one over on my dad and as it turns out I was pulling a huge one over on me. And 38 years is a long time to live with something stuck in your craw.
So that brings me back to God wanting to talk about it. I keep thinking of this "chain incident" lately. Why? That's over. I threw it away, never played with it, never stole again - what more is there? Plenty.
There is repentance and forgiveness. I haven't done one nor asked for the other - not in all these years.
The bible says we are separated from God by our sinning. God is so grieved to be even the littlest separated from us. And unless we repent and ask for His forgiveness - which by the way He has to give us, isn't that cool - we remain separate from Him and the circle is unclosed. And an unclosed circle makes sinning easier and easier because we just get farther and farther from Him. He knows this, that's why even an act that took place when I was 6 is so important to Him. And why He kept pursuing me about it.
Is there something stuck in your craw? Some nagging corner of your heart that won't let go? Why not think about seeing if there is a little old something something that you need to talk to your Heavenly Father about. Confession is mighty good for the soul - even when it comes 38 years late.
“How often it is a small, almost unconscious event that marks a turning point.” These words were written by a courageous, Christian, Dutch woman named Corrie ten Boom when writing of her life in "The Hiding Place." She, her father and her sister were imprisoned by the Germans during WWII for hiding Jews. Ms. ten Boom is the only one of her family imprisoned to survive the Nazi concentration camps. She was in her early 50’s when she was put into one of the worst Nazi camps in Germany – Ravensbruck. She survived and lived her life traveling the world giving witness to the glory of God and the fact that even in the deepest pit, God is there. It is a remarkable story. I dare say it has changed me and enlightened me. (Her life makes me and my life seem so weak and small – especially when I complained of living with no A/C for a whole week after Ike). And I didn’t even know of Ms. ten Boom or that this book, first published in 1971, existed until October 1, 2008.
This post is not a review of "The Hiding Place" (although I recommend it highly, esp. the 35th anniversary edition 2006), it is about how I came to find it.
I’ll be blunt – I’ve had what I consider to be a fairly good working relationship with God. I don’t always like what is happening or understand it but I can usually sense His presence. All that changed on August 22, 2008. God just up and disappeared on me – with no forwarding address. Left, fled the scene, goodbye, sayonara, hasta la vista, don’t let big door hit you on the way out. He did give me a parting gift though, one I didn’t understand – or like at the time. To be honest, I don’t particularly care for it now. The last thing He did was lead me to Isaiah 54:7. I won’t quote it all here, but let’s just say it talks about how God is going to forsake me because He’s angry. Not the thing a girl wants to read in the morning before coffee. (Is. 54:9-10 does talk about how later – after the forsaking – God will have everlasting mercy and kindness on me. But He didn’t lead me to verse 9-10, He led me to verse 7 – the one about getting forsook).
When God says forsaking, He means it. The rest of August and September were very dark and dry like the Sahara. I could not find Him anywhere. I looked in all my usual places but found no one there. (I did find one of those pennies once in a while. Usually when it was particularly dark, but other than that God was not communicating with me at all). And everyday was Dodge Ball. The red balls flying so furiously, I still have a few bruises.
September 30, 2008 was the darkest day. I don’t recall all the red-ball details but by nightfall I was out of the game and I didn’t want to play anymore. I took my ritual 9:00PM bath (I know, why too much info) and pretty much collapsed there in the tub. I completely broke down. My heart was broken, for many different reasons but a big one was that I felt after everything I’d been through I always had God and now He had broken up with me. I couldn’t handle the pressure anymore. I didn’t have any strength. My face was wetter from my tears than my body was from my bath water.
I climbed out and crawled into bed and just wanted to be left alone. Of course, that was not to be. My phone rang and it was a friend telling me another friend was having a bad night and could I please check on her. Are you serious? I am trying to lay here and fade away myself. I didn’t feel like helping anyone nor did I feel like I could. But I said Okay that I would call her and check-in with her. It’s just a quick call, right? The second my friend came on the line I knew she could not be alone. She needed someone. What I failed to realize at that moment is that actually I needed someone too.
Despite her protests, I went to be with her at the minor emergency clinic. We were there until after 2:00AM. During the time I was sitting with her in that little room waiting for someone to come and take care of her minor emergency, something unseen was taking place. God was taking care of my minor emergency. That is the night He reappeared in my life.
Because of her accident, I thought of a book that I wanted my friend to read. I thought it would be helpful and offer counsel to her so I decided to go the next day/that day and get it as a gift. While at the bookstore I discovered "The Hiding Place." I thought it sounded like an interesting story – Dutch watchmaker survives concentration camp, yada yada. I bought the other book too. (Funny thing though, my friend never got her book from me). When I got home I started to read both of them – I can’t give a book I’ve never read can I? I read them both at the same time. I was riveted. God was swarming back in and I could barely keep up.
Still can’t, really. He is now giving me more water than a thirsty girl can absorb. I realize it’s more than anyone wants to know or cares about. But the thing is is that when I thought He was gone, He wasn’t. Silence – or forsaking – doesn’t equal total abandonment. "There is no pit so deep that God is not deeper still," - Corrie ten Boom. The circumstances in my life have not changed since August 22 but everything in me has changed. I have such peace that I never knew before.
Peace. It is such a beautiful thing, a precious gift. And to think it all turned around during such a small event as keeping company with a friend in the emergency room.
God’s funny that way. We think we are helping but we are really the ones getting helped.
When I was five or six my parents gave me a bright shiny new bicycle. It was beautiful. It had a sparkly banana seat and I couldn't wait to jump on it and ride like the wind. We lived on a street that had 2.3 kids in every house – I was the only girl – and I was one of the youngest. That bike was my ticket into the boys club.
When I first laid my eyes on it I envisioned joining the neighborhood pack and racing off on grand adventures unknown. Up to this point I was left out when my big brother and the rest of the street kids went to far off places – like the field behind our neighborhood or the convenience store a few streets away. (Back in the late 60’s it was still safe for a kid to venture to such places). But I would be left out no more; the size of my world just exploded.
To me that bike was more than two wheels, a seat and a chain. That bike was grown up. That bike was freedom.
Problem was I couldn't ride it. I didn’t know how to ride a two-wheeler. I had dreamed of this day and even though I now had my bike my greater world was still beyond my grasp. What I needed was someone who knew how to ride a bike to show me what to do. Luckily, my dad was more than happy to volunteer for the job.
The first thing he did was put training wheels on my bike. I hated those things! They looked so dorky and just screamed “I’m a baby who doesn’t know how to ride a big kid bike.” After a few days or so I asked if we could remove the training wheels. I felt comfortable and thought it was time for them to go. Instead, dad adjusted them so they were uneven, making the bike wobbly. Telling me that since I had handled that so well now I needed to see how I did when the training wheels weren’t so secure. Heavy sigh.
We kept this “adjustment” period up for what seemed to me to be an eternity. It was unbearable after a while. Bikes don't go fast when burdened by training wheels. Finally came the big day and dad agreed that the wheels could come off. But even then I still had trouble keeping the bike upright on my own. So dad did what all great dads do – tried to induce himself into having a heart attack. He must have run up and down our street holding on to me and the bike for miles. I don’t know how many times I crashed into curbs, trees, cars or him. But he was so patient and strong and never got tired.
And he never let go of me – at least not until the very last minute when he was sure I knew how to steer safely and I was strong enough to keep peddling on my own. And when he did finally let go – Oh man, I don’t think I had ever felt such a rush of joy and fear and excitement in all my short six years. I can still picture exactly where I was on the street the moment I realized I was riding my bike on my own. That was one big smile. It’s still one of the coolest days of my life.
Keeping us safe and not letting us get ahead of ourselves – that’s a dad’s job.
We want to grow up quickly and rush out to conquer the world but it is the Dad’s job to slow us down and make sure we are strong enough to steer and peddle on our own. I feel like that’s where I am right now. Riding with training wheels - on what/for what I have no clue. But I know, just like my dad, my Heavenly Father won’t let me go until He is certain I won’t crash and burn. Well, at least not too often but if I do, also, just like dad, He too will pick me up, dust me off and send me back out there.
I don’t know why, but I feel like my world is about to explode and another big smile is coming when it does.
Its a simply stunning Fall day here in Houston. The air is crisp and cool. My dog and bird are frisky and playful this morning (to the extent a bird can be frisky). And the day is full of promise and hope. I don't think I could be in a bad mood if I wanted to be. (Okay I'm tempting fate - or a red ball - on that one but the day is so great I don't care). I'm sitting here trying to put all my thoughts down and I realize the perfect words have already been written. Why improve on perfection?
So with compliments to mr. e.e. cummings, here is what I would have written if I had thought of it first:
65
i thank You God for this most amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a true blue dream of sky;and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes
(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)
how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any - lifted from the no
of all nothing - human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?
(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)
e.e. cummings
Have an awesome day and I hope you do something that brings joy to your heart. Its that kind of day.
I hated rainy days in junior high. First off, my 8th grade class - of 14 people - was housed in a temporary building. You know, the kind that never survives a hurricane, tornado or lightening strike. There was no covered walkway from the classroom to the main building; we were always getting soaked as we puddle jumped through the parking lot to go eat, use the "facilities", etc. Secondly, the rain made it impossible to hear in that tin-can rainy death trap (on second thought maybe that should go in the plus column).
But what made rainy days the worst was the fact that P.E. was held indoors in the gym. That meant a boys and girls "co-ed" activity must be found and that meant Dodge Ball.
Let me clear this up right now - Dodge Ball is not a co-ed game. No 8th grade girl has ever thrown a red-rubber dodge-ball that an 8th grade boy could not A) dodge, or B) catch and then C) throw right back at her at the speed of light hitting her squarely about the head, chest, neck, gut, legs, arms or face.
The girls were mercifully knocked from the game early leaving the boys to duke it out for supreme being of the gym. If we were lucky the games lasted long enough that we only had to play 2 or 3 games in a given P.E. period. But with a class size of 14 the games went pretty quickly and I was exposed to sudden death and danger more times than I would have liked on any given school day.
What is it about the rubber they use in those red balls? Man, it stings when it hits you - no matter where on the body - even when covered by double-knit polyester gym clothes.
Even though I played my last real game of Dodge Ball 30 years ago, there are days when I am so sure I am still back in that gym fixed in a fierce battle of life and death.
From the moment I get up and start my day the red balls start flying:
- Bad hair day a-comin' and no amount of gels, sprays, polymers or shellacs is going to make it look presentable (whizz red ball right to the face);
- Out running errands and every crazy with a license is going where I'm going, driving slow, no signal, cutting me off, stealing my parking space (slam red ball to the chest);
- Check my mail and I get a bill I wasn't expecting - forgot about that stupid insurance co-pay (clunk red ball to the legs);
- Had an argument with a salesgirl over nothing for no other reason than I was in a bad mood (direct red ball punch to the gut);
- Checked my email and found a "Thanks but No Thanks" email response to a resume (2 red balls right to the solar plexus);
- And probably the biggest hit of the day - just needing some comfort after such a rough day/game of life I grab a bag of Oreos and a glass and (BIG WHAM red ball to the neck) no milk in the fridge.
White flag. Surrender. I give up. Dodge Ball you win.
Or perhaps not so fast...
Thing about Dodge Ball is both teams get to throw red balls and I haven't thrown mine yet. And as it turns out, I only need to throw 1. Actually, I'm not going to throw any - I'm giving it to my Teammate to throw for me. He can throw lots farther and harder than I ever could. First though, I'm going to take a Sharpie and write down on my red ball all the hits I took today before I hand it to my Teammate. Now all I have to do is let go of the red ball, let Him have full contol of it and stand safely in His shadow and watch while my Franchise Player makes the comeback of the day for the Team.
And tomorrow my Teammate and I get to start fresh - and hopefully it won't be raining.
It’s just 3 little words. I say it all the time. It’s easy to say. In fact, I’ve been saying it for years; to lots of people, for lots of reasons. But do I really mean it when I say it?
The problem with words is that saying something often does not translate into easy to do, no matter how many times you say it. In fact, sometimes the more you – I – say something the less meaning it actually begins to have and the harder it is to actually do.
But these 3 words are sooo easy to say and are the portal to peace and happiness. Why then do I have such trouble putting it into practice? Well, I didn’t know I did until God set out to show me and correct the error of my ways.
For the last 10 months (a/k/a an eternity to me; the blink of an eyelash to Him) God has been proving to me in all sorts of fun (I use the term loosely) ways that what I thought I knew – I don’t. What I thought I could do – I can’t. It’s been a long dark night, these 10 months without a job, I’ll be honest. I have tried everything I know, looked everywhere I know to look, said every begging, pleading, “I promise to be good. I’ll …fill-in-the-blank…forever/never again if …” prayer I know how to say, I have yelled at God, and I have given God the cold shoulder – and always His response is the same. Silence. Then somewhere I find a penny.
What?! That’s not a response. After you find pennies literally following you around – hundreds of them – you realize that’s exactly what it is.
I began to catch on that God was clearly saying something to me through pennies this past June while I was on vacation in Paris. I was blessed to have been taken there by my partner and we had just visited Notre Dame. While in the Cathedral, I lit a small votive and said a prayer. I had been doing this in each church I visited during that vacation, which had been many, so God had heard the same supplication many times. This time though I really gave my prayer my all using lots of “Please Lords” and “Heavenly Father” and invoking Jesus’ name a couple of times because I was sure once was not enough. The trip was almost over and then it would be back at the whole job-search thing so anxiety was really setting in and I thought Notre Dame was a perfect place for my final “career” request. As we left the Cathedral and were walking down the street we stopped at a street vendor to look at something and I looked down at the sidewalk. Beside my left foot was a coin and as I always pick up coins I bent down to see what kind of Euro I found.
But I did not find a Euro. I did not find a Franc. In the middle of a Paris sidewalk I found a United States penny.
What did this penny mean? What was God saying to me? “Don’t worry Kiddo, I’ve got it all under control.”
He has performed miracles, some tiny some grand, in front of my eyes to show me that He is the One who knows and He is the One who can. 3 little words. They are still so easy to say but they are anything but little. He is teaching me the true meaning of them every time I say them. I mean them more and more each time I say them. There is a lot left to learn about these 3 little words – a lifetime’s worth no doubt. And He’ll keep teaching and leading me one penny at a time even when this season’s lesson finally ends. And this difficult season will end.
God has promised that no wheat gets threshed forever. I live on this promise. And God keeps His promises. How do I know?
I trust God.
I'm not sure this is what God meant when He said to protect yourself by putting on the "whole armour of God." But it sure scared away my dog.
Sushi. It used to scare me. I was scared the first time I tried. In fact, the first time was an accident. I ordered off the wrong side of the menu. The left side was cooked fish, the right side was raw fish. But what I saw was described in such an attractive yummy way - and the name Philadelphia Roll - didn't sound off any alarm bells. But when the tray of odd looking pieces of raw salmon (I was not focusing on the cream cheese or the fact that the salmon was "smoked" at that moment) and SEAWEED wrapped around the whole thing was delivered, I felt clearly out of my comfort zone.
What was I to do? I was the only one in my group who had ordered from the "right" side of the menu. Everyone else was sitting safely with their sauteed whatever. And all eyes were on me - "what is that?" Not wanting to be a goober or worse - flake out in front of my big brother and his roommate (I was a junior in college and had gone to NYC to visit with a friend over Spring Break) I acted all casual like I ate this stuff all the time.
But here's what was really happening: my heart was racing and butterflies the size of 747s were flying crazy patterns in my stomach. I was going to have to eat this stuff! Would it be slimy? Would it be gross and fishy? Would I gag on it and spit it out? (Not cool in front of big brother). And how does one eat a "roll"? And what is Wasabi? (Figured out what that was really fast - wow). Okay, here goes . . . hey, not so bad. In fact, it was pretty good.
That first sushi experience was not bad, in fact it was fun, even invigorating. Over the years I have stepped out and tried other types of sushi rolls and nigiri - sushi on a bed of small rice. What I like most is that sushi is fun. Its a fun food. I never have a bad time when I go out for sushi. And sushi is sociable. I can go with friends or alone but I am never lonely. When I sit at a sushi bar there is always a conversation to join - whether it is with the sushi chef or the fellow diners, the experience is almost always different and enjoyable. And there are so many varieties of sushi; there is something for every palate.
I decided to try something new but was scared I would make a fool of myself in front of my friends. I didn't. To think all I would have missed out on if I didn't take what I considered to be a risk.
I know somebody who is like sushi - seems kind of scary if you don't know Him but really great fun and totally worth the risk. And who will introduce you to wonderful new flavors and varieties - of yourself. You've always known they were there but maybe just needed a Buddy at the sushi bar to help you go from the safety of a California Roll to the excitement of an Unagi-Eel Nigiri to get there.
Next time you're feeling a bit out of your comfort zone think about asking your Buddy to go with you. It just might open your world to all sorts of new taste sensations.
He does it for me. Who do you think prompted me to order the sushi in the first place?
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