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Ping

Dec2

It’s been growing- not a gnawing, worrisome feeling but instead a whisper of restlessness, an undercurrent of discomfort. I’m not sure when it started exactly or when I became aware of its presence. But it’s here- causing me to think deeper, bite my bottom lip more often, and look up into the heavens longingly. It’s Time.  I’m not sure about Time. I’m not sure I’m using my allotted days well.  Let me rephrase that- I’m not sure I’m using my allotted days in an engaging, beautiful way. So here I am trying to decipher what I want to do with my Time- whether I have 5 years or 50- I want my days to count, to be filled with purpose, joy,  and laughter.

As Bob Goff says, “What pings you? … What’s your next step? I don’t know for sure, because for everyone it’s different, but I bet it involves choosing something that already lights you up. Something you already think is beautiful or lasting and meaningful. Pick something you aren’t just able to do; instead pick something you feel like you were made to do, and then do lots of that.”

For decades I carved my identity from the mantle of motherhood and teaching.  The three home-grown children are…well…grown. I stepped out of the classroom almost three years ago.  Teaching young children was all-consuming, rewarding, and delightful- most days. That chapter of my life was meaningful- packed with purpose- and while I loved those days- that chapter has ended. And amazingly, I am okay with that. I am ready for a new story. But what is the title?

I love writing- maybe I will become an author. I love helping people- maybe I will become a counselor. I love my God- perhaps I will travel the country and share His Word with women over 50- because women over 50 are my favorite.  I am falling in love with exercise- maybe I will train for a competition.

Time has a way of dancing to its own temp0 and I want to keep in step- I don’t want to run out of Time. So, I am taking stock.  I am listening to that whisper, I am heeding that discomfort. I am growing up.

As Maya Angelou said, “Most people don’t grow up. Most people age. They find parking spaces, honor their credit cards, get married, have children and call that maturity. What that is, is aging.”

So, if you see me at the grocery, the gym, or church and I am biting my lip with a quizzical look on my face- don’t mind me- I am taking that next step.  And I might just shout, “Ping!”

 

Gratitude: A Tutorial

Nov22

Thanksgiving is almost upon us. There is a distinct chill in the autumn air and one can detect the faint scent of snow. As another holiday season commences, I have been contemplating gratitude.  The act or perhaps the art of being or becoming grateful.

Where does this word, ‘gratitude,’ come from? Its origin may be late middle English or old French or even medieval Latin. From the Latin we have ‘pleasing, thankful.’ Medieval Latin also lends us ‘gratitudin’ which is the equivalent to ‘grat’ (us). The old French offers us ‘good will’ and middle English provides us with the ‘feeling of being grateful.’ Gratitude also rhymes with attitude which I am certain is no coincidence.

William Arthur Ward said of ‘gratitude’:

“Gratitude can transform common days into thanksgivings, turn routine jobs into joy, change ordinary opportunities into blessings.”

As I look back over the last year my heart smiles at so many blessings.  My continued health, a husband who loves and supports me in so many incredible ways, children who are growing and learning about life, dogs who pepper my days with warm, unearned affection, and family and friends who paint beautiful colors on my life with wide, generous brushstrokes.  A God who takes my every care, each layer of anxiety, and wraps it in Himself. Life can throw some real curveballs. Family members and friends die, people get sick, a mere phone call can change one’s trajectory. It’s so pleasing, so gratifying to know that The One who is in control is just that- in control. I am not God.

When I land on my past diagnosis of breast cancer, I am incredulous. I made it through. My treatment ended, my scars healed, my spirit was restored. I also feel immeasurable gratitude for the miracles that God has wrought through medical science. Surgeons who are divinely gifted, medications that target cancer’s ugly head, nurses who offer kindness, and research that continues to delve deeper into the abyss of illness.

And while I never thought I’d say this, I must acknowledge this truth. I am grateful for breast cancer. It has offered a tutorial in ‘gratitude’ like no other. Breast cancer teaches you how to be present- really present in the moment. It points to the joy- the warm contentment- that small, seemingly simple things bring.  The scent of rain on a crisp autumn day, the taste of our favorite food, the sound of a loved one’s voice. The deep bond among survivors, the bliss of a long hot shower as you lift your arms to Heaven. The utter dependence on a merciful God, the releasing of control that was never really ours to begin with, and the trust in the hope of a Risen Savior.

Yes, ‘gratitude’…  Three simple syllables packed with so much meaning, such purpose. So this Thanksgiving, look around you- you’ll find it. It’s waiting there in the shadows ready to be brought out into the Light. Gratitude- our teacher, our friend.

“Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good; His Love endures forever.”

-1 Chronicles 16:34

 

 

The Afghan

Nov14

Red, yellow, and some warm earth tones, created with healing in mind. Delivered to my husband and brought home to me. The wife of one of Bob’s employees crafted each row with painstaking care – artful precision. Folded up and waiting on the love seat in our bedroom. I left it there as if leaving it untouched might delay the day of my surgery. Yet the calendar pages turned and without my permission the day arrived.

Coming home from the hospital, my eye acknowledged its vibrant colors. Positioning myself in my friend’s borrowed recliner, I begged sleep to come. I read a new “book-friend” into the wee hours of the night with my pink (Yes, I recognize the irony here) flashlight. Our dog, Gracie, and my Love, Bob, slumbered nearby in our bed. Their gentle rumbles of sleep comforted me. The recliner seemed to hold me together, the drains bumping against the soft fabric. I covered myself with the rainbow of colors, feeling broken and small.

My season of healing faded into a sea of acceptance. I folded the brilliant colors up and stacked them atop the love seat. The recliner made its way back to my friend’s house as my Love and I tried to navigate our way back to Normal. All the while it sat perched upon our love seat, imploring me to touch its delicate stitches. I refused to cross the chasm- if I touched the warm colors I might traverse back to my season of sickness.

Two years have passed and it is a blustery day- the kind of day that begs to be wrapped in hot tea and a rainbow of colors. I walked to our room and saw it there. I touched it. I peered into the doorway of my recovery. I tiptoed in and picked it up. I reclined on our bed for a nap, wrapping myself in its warmth. I didn’t see cancer this time. Instead I saw the afghan. The colors were beautiful and invited me to rest here for a season.

Jesus With Skin

Nov6

Sometimes the telephone rings and you can just feel it- there’s an undercurrent in the air, a shrillness to the ring imploring you to answer- an echo of the words yet to be uttered. Bad news can be delivered in a staccato tone- each word- every syllable- pronounced with crisp, clean precision.

My southern sister was on the line and our Mama was very ill. I needed an airplane ticket and I needed one quickly. My husband Bob became my trusty travel agent and I soon had a flight.  He would drive me to Dayton, where I would fly from Dayton to Charlotte to Atlanta.

The flight from Dayton to Charlotte was uneventful.  We landed in the most ordinary of ways, and I went in search of the room all 50-something women need to visit upon landing.  I called Mama on the telephone and prayed with her. Hanging up, I was relieved to take a seat in the terminal and wait to board my flight to Atlanta.

I should have known something was up as I ambled down the aisle looking for my seat.  A flight attendant quite coyly asked me if I was old enough to sit in the emergency exit aisle.  Another lady about 10 years my senior was already settled there, engrossed in her book. I positioned my purse on the floor, clicked my seat belt, and closed my eyes. I should insert here that my purse was not the best choice for travel.  It was my beach purse and it does not zip or snap. No time to change purses when you have 30 minutes to pack.

A female flight attendant began doing what flight attendants do before take-off and she stopped abruptly by my seat.

“You’ll need to put your purse up top.” (The space under my seat was already inhabited by a bookbag belonging to the gentleman sitting behind me.)

Before I could respond to our flight attendant’s request, I received a text from my sister that Mama was weak and it was going to be a long surgery. This text was met with intermittent messages from my husband and children all wanting  reassuring updates about our sweet Mama. A tiny drop of water squeezed itself out of the corner of my eye.  I began to pray.  I had no eloquent words or Scripture verses dripping off my tongue.  My prayer was simple, brief, and desperate. “Jesus, I know you’re with me but I really need to feel your presence. Help me.”

What happened next would make a great ‘Seinfeld’ episode with me in the role of ‘Elaine.’  The flight attendant repeated her request, this time with a bit more impatience in her tone.

“You’ll need to put your purse up top now.”

I’m not sure exactly what happened next in my frazzled, emotional brain. I should preface this statement with the fact that inside my purse was the ‘golden ticket’ to remaining cancer-free: Tamoxifen.  I wish to also plead my case that by this time we had been sitting on the plane for over 2 hours.  Thunderstorms…   Thunderstorms, hormones, and stress are never a good combo.

A voice bordering on mild hysteria came from within.

“You can’t have my purse. My medication is in there.”

This is probably not the wisest choice of words to utter when one is flying. The lady sitting next to me suddenly looked up from her book. She patted my arm, looked quizzically into my face, and said:

“She’ll give it back.”

She looked into my fully leaking eyeballs at this moment, and asked the million-dollar question: “Is something wrong?”

The volcano erupted.  I told her all about my sweet Mama’s surgery, my need to get to Atlanta quickly, and that my purse didn’t zip or snap.  I didn’t want to lose my medication if my purse started ‘rolling around up top.’

And then… the inexplicable happened.  My flight mate’s name was Kay. She shared that she was a retired nurse and knew all about my Mama’s surgery. She innocently asked (and perhaps with some trepidation on her part) what type of medication was in my purse.

“Tamoxifen.”

“So, you’re a survivor. How long?”

“Two years…”

“Me too.  Ten years…”

“What do you do in your free time now that you’re a retired nurse?”

“I’m a preschool teacher.”

I gulped- most likely visibly. You see- I’m a preschool teacher. I thought back to the prayer I had uttered earlier.

“Jesus, I know you’re there.  But I really need to feel your presence. Help me.”

I sat there stunned. The entire episode of my real-life ‘Seinfeld’  rewound through my brain:  the delayed take-off, the snarky flight attendant, my beach purse containing the precious Tamoxifen, the frazzled text messages, and the lady sitting beside me- Kay. I asked Jesus to show up and quite frankly I wasn’t certain He would.

Not only did He show up, he orchestrated my seating arrangements on that plane.  He placed me next to a nurse familiar with my Mama’s surgery, a breast cancer thriver like me, and a preschool teacher to boot.  Now that is one clever Jesus.

Kay and I became fast friends on the remainder of our flight. She walked with me to baggage claim and to hunt down a taxi.  Before we said goodbye, I told her about my prayer and I thanked her for answering my plea.  She looked me square in the eye and said without missing a beat:

“Don’t thank me. Thank Him.”

So the next time you’re in a tight spot- a situation that you’re just not sure He’s going to handle- look around you.  Take a long, hard look at the people He has positioned in your life at that moment. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll meet your “Jesus with skin.”  I did- her name was Kay…

 

 

 

 

Are We There Yet?!

Feb9

In my younger years I thought every journey must have a destination. If you study hard, you earn good grades. If you put your best foot forward, you attract incredible friends. If you think about the traits you desire in a spouse, you will find the ideal life partner. If you read all the great parenting blogs, you will raise happy, productive children. If you go to all of your doctor appointments, you will remain healthy.  As I grow older, I realize that sometimes… you can study really hard and still not do as well as you hoped.  You can be warm and loving and sometimes still develop a less than stellar friendship. You can have a laundry list of positive spousal traits and still not have a perfect marriage. You may read every parenting blog under the sun and still have a child who is unhappy or not realizing the potential God breathed into them.  And yes, you can go to all of your doctors appointments and be vigilant about preventing disease and still become ill.

The secret of contentment in the midst of the journey actually does not lie within the destination. The secret of contentment, the pure unadulterated joy lies in the sometimes hard-fought acceptance of the mundane, the mediocre, the everyday normal.  When you can accept your new normal- whatever that looks like- you find yourself able to move forward.  Your spirit ceases to look back wistfully at the shadows of your old life.  Instead, your soul pushes you forward to see a fresh new canvas- with some subtractions and some additions to your life.

After you accept the colors and hues of your new life, you must press on and adapt. Just as the chameleon’s color changes to suit her environment, you must change your perspective- the way you see those new colors and what you choose to do with them.

Accept.  Adapt.  And then what?  I would say Depend.  Depend on the strength of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, to carry you through when you’re not sure you can accept or you’re uncertain of how to adapt.  And then my friend you will come to the ultimate realization- the epiphany that the JOY is never, ever in the destination.  It is always found in the journey.