Journey to the Center of My Girth

Everybody said it wouldn't be bad at all. No problemo. They'll knock you out and the painless procedure will be over so quickly you'll wonder if you ever had a colonoscopy at all, they said.

Completely routine medical procedure these days. No muss. No fuss. No sweat.

They said.

And I believed them.

But I was wrong. Drag up a stool (pun intended) and let me tell you about my recent experience.

Of course, you must remember this whole thing was a complete fluke and would never happen to you. Or anybody else in the world, for that matter. Just me. I have come to accept my lot in life as one who hears at every turn, "Oh my goodness - that's never happened before!" or "I can't believe this ... I've worked here 30 years and have never seen such a thing!"

I believe it's Papa God's profound sense of humor in providing fodder for my writing, which I was lured into by well meaning people who repeatedly coerced, "Wow - what a crazy story! Who would believe it? You should write that down!"

Okay, so back to my colonoscopy from Hades.

The clincher (a little sphincter humor there) is that I wouldn't have known about any of it if my blood pressure hadn't tanked after the nurse injected my first little dab of woozy juice. Because my BP flatlined at 80/40 and the infrastructure had already been breached (meaning the little camera thingie was already on its way through the maze that was my guts), they couldn't give me more sedative until my BP crept higher. It never did. Therefore I was 100% awake and ever-so-reluctantly alert throughout the entire ill-fated procedure.


So there I was lying on my side watching a red-tinted version of Journey to the Center of the Earth taking place in my own little planet on the monitor in front of me. My bare tush was protruding from the hospital gown and blanket that covered the rest of my shivering body as the male and female MD's took turns guiding the little inner-space ship through the tight, twisting tunnel that was my colon.

About ten minutes into it, I felt a sudden jerk on the camera tether followed by a strange thwomp sound behind me.

"What was that?" I asked the nurse sitting on a rolling stool in front of me, monitoring my BP. She rose to her feet and peered over my backside, her eyes wide as dinner plates.

"Um, I think we're going to have a slight delay," she said, forgetting to close her mouth after the last word.

"What do you mean?" I asked, feeling the little inner-space vessel turn upside down and ram into my spleen. Or maybe it was my liver.

Turns out the female MD fainted. Yep. Passed out. Boom. Right on the floor. In the middle of my colonoscopy. We had to stop the show as a team of people in scrubs rushed into the room, revived her with smelling salts, and had a little tea party within inches of my naked derriere.

In an act of good will, I even offered a peppermint from my purse on yonder chair if it would help.

As they helped the stricken doc out of the room, she mouthed a silent, "I'm so sorry" in my direction. I couldn't help but think, Not as sorry as I am, toots.

So the male MD took over. With a vengeance. I don't know if he was trying to make up for lost time, or if his breakfast burrito had too many chili peppers, but he was jamming that joystick, baby. Full speed ahead. And I was feeling every speed-bump, crook, and cranny. Why on earth Papa God has to put so many sensory receptors where the sun don't shine, I'll never know, but I was Ooooh'ing and Whoaaaaa'ing with more and more intensity when we encountered the first 90 degree turn.

Try as it might, my little inner-space traveler couldn't stay on the road to make that sharp angle. During the third effort to muscle through the curve, I arched off the table with an honest-to-goodness scream and the doc decided to call it a crash and burn.

The mission was aborted. The ship returned to the launch pad.

So now I'm back home feeling somehow guilty over the whole thing. Guilty that my guts were too twisty. Guilty that I couldn't tough it out. Guilty (with a dollop of anger) that the gallon of revolting lax-laced Gatorade I chugged down the day before was for naught. But mostly guilty that sticking a camera up my nether-regions would knock somebody who does it FOR A LIVING completely out.

Geesh.

Now that hurts.        

Early Morning Grace Notes

Don't you just love grace notes?

I sure do. Papa God sent me a doozy this past weekend.

It was just before sunrise when I finished my second lap on the narrow road encircling the rustic campground bordering a lake where I was speaking at a women's retreat later that day.

I'm an early riser - I'm talking really early riser, like 4:30 or 5 a.m. - and it's become my habit to spend the wee, dark hours before the world awakens taking my first prayer walk of the day.

There's just something incredibly intimate about spending time with your Heavenly Father when you know you have His undivided attention.

In this slice of the planet, anyway.

But on that particular day, my soul was weighted down with some baggage I just couldn't seem to jettison. I had been walking along praying for a little help lightening my load when I noticed the horizon just beginning to pink up.  

Up ahead, I spotted an empty wooden dock protruding over the lake with built-in seats at the far end. Was it calling my name for a front row seat to a brand new day?

Ooh, yes, please. 

So I made my way post haste across an expanse of dewy grass and began crossing the creaky, worn planks of the dock when something dark and moving quickly on my right side entered my periphery. It was a flock of at least 25 birds swooping in to cover the handrails and benches at the end of the dock, just where I was headed. (I know they weren't hawks, titmice, owls, cardinals, or pterodactyls - I know what those look like, but I can't tell you exactly what brand of birds these were.)

Boy were they close. Even in the dusky dawn I could see the curiosity in their eyes. They weren't one bit afraid. In fact, they seemed peculiarly friendly. I stopped in my tracks so not to startle them. Then before I could blink a single blink, another large flock of 30 to 40 birds descended from nowhere to completely cover every square inch of the dock before me as thoroughly as gravy on pot roast.

That's strange, I thought, staring at the vast array of docile winged creatures staring benignly back at me not ten feet away. Don't wild birds usually fly AWAY from people, not TOWARD them?

At that moment, the huge glowing ball that was the rising sun broke above the treetops and bathed the whole scene in a surreal orange-brown light. We all turned as one to drink in the beautiful sight. Yep. A battalion of birds ... and me. Witnessing the miracle of a glorious new day together like old and dear friends.

Somehow that warm, orangey light seeped into my heart, and then my very soul as my winged friends and I worshiped our Creator together. I can't explain how I knew they were worshiping. I just knew.

And the weight of my inner luggage suddenly was no more. My heart took flight. I felt free and unburdened and loved. Sort of how a bird must feel as she soars above the mountains on a cool breeze.

Indeed, it was a grace note - a little touch from Papa to remind me, when I need it most, that He cares about me personally, and is still large and in charge. Regardless of how high I allow the baggage to pile.

Have you experienced a grace note of your own? I'd love to hear about it!    

   

It's Just Good Horse Sense

I was pedaling past an open pasture on my bicycle the other day and came across a remarkable sight.

Two horses were standing side-by-side, facing opposite directions, simultaneously scratching each others' backs. Each was diligently chewing/scraping his teeth along the mid-to-lower back of the other and they both looked like they were about to spout out a satisfied, "Ahhhh!" Mr. Ed style.

And there's nothing quite as satisfying as a scratched itch, is there? 

It was the most clever thing! I almost fell off my bike doing a double-take.

So tell me, did humans make up that old saying, "You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours," or did we get that from our creative equine friends?

I suppose I shouldn't have been so astonished at the ingenuity of these marvelous creatures. My 35-year-old niece, a dedicated horse-woman since childhood, mentioned once that training horses takes 200 repetitions of the desired behavior. And smart horses take longer.

Longer? Why? You'd think it would be the dumber ones that would take longer.

Nope. If you let them get away with doing the task incorrectly after 192 times doing it right (and if they're smart, they WILL test you), you have to start all over. From scratch. Ground zero.

Come to think of it, we're not so different than our horsey friends, are we? In trying to replace a bad habit with a better one, we can toe the line and do it perfectly for 192 days straight. We can stick to 1200 daily calories, floss faithfully, read the Bible, or run a mile every morning and think we've got it nailed. But somehow, on that 193rd day, for some strange reason we cannot seem to grasp, we sneak an extra Krispie Kreme, or put off buying another roll of floss when we're out, or read The Hunger Games instead of Genesis, or run two blocks (just today so I don't get my hair sweaty).

And then it's much easier to break the new habit the next time. And the next. And before we know it, it's not a habit at all.

"Ask the animals, and they will teach you," (Job 12:7, NIV).

So I guess when we're creating a new habit, it pays not to fall off the wagon. Even once. Especially a horse-drawn wagon.

What good habits are you trying to form? 

  

Get Your Bad Self Down

Deb on her He & Me Retreat

I think we all reach a point in our lives when fifteen minutes of quiet time in the morning just isn't cutting it. We're exhausted physically, frazzled emotionally, and parched spiritually.

We need an extended time of renewal in every sense of the word.

After nearly completing work on my newest book, I was at that point recently and was completely blessed to sneak away for a five-day spiritual retreat. Alone. Yes, girlfriend, that's what I said: Five days alone! 

No whining kids, inquisitive husbands, nagging bosses, gossipy workmates, chatty friends, borrowing neighbors, nosy mothers ... just me and Papa God. I call it a He & Me Retreat.

As I described in my book, More Beauty, Less Beast, a He & Me Retreat is a time to break away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and imbed yourself in our Father's pure, unmarred creation. To listen for that still, small voice that often gets drowned out in the cacophony of life. To rest. To revitalize. To refuel our tanks.  

My He & Me Retreat was located at my favorite spot in the world - our remote Smoky Mt. cabin, deep in the quiet woods about 3/4 of the way up a mountain where the 4200-foot elevation provided a refreshing 60 degrees in the mornings and evenings, quite different than our 92 degrees with 90% humidity at home.

After a long sunrise prayer walk (rain or shine), I spent my mornings reading, marinating, and recording insights about scripture, crooning praise songs aloud in the woods with no audience except the One I was singing to ... along with a nosy chipmunk or two. I danced with wild abandon to toe-tapping, spirit-swellin' songs played on dulcimer, fiddle, mandolin, and banjo.

I picked bouquets of wildflowers in mountain meadows by the Christmas tree farm, and rode my rootin'-tootin' four-wheeler, Sir Lancelot until it got too dark to see the twisty path. Then I chased lightening bugs in the forest clearing like I once enjoyed as a 6-year-old.

And I ate chocolate. A LOT of chocolate. And never felt guilty one single second.

My little recouping get-away was fun. It was fulfilling, It was essential to sanity. But it certainly wasn't original with me. There are many scriptural examples of Jesus stealing away alone to retreat sites like the mountains (Mark 6:36) or the seaside or lake (Matthew 13:1).

I figure if it was that important to him, it should be that important to me.

So how about you? I strongly encourage you to consider the benefits of a He & Me Retreat for yourself: uninterrupted time to get to know yourself again, to touch base with the marvelous creation Papa God made in you, and to embrace the opportunity to relax and enjoy His rejuvenating presence. As an added benefit, you'll revive your enthusiasm for the Word.

You'll fall in love with Him all over again.   

It's something you really can't afford not to do.

Love: Do You Speaka Dat Language?

I arrived home yesterday from a three-week, self-prescribed sabbatical in the seclusion of our remote Smoky mountain cabin, where I was working feverishly to finish Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate, my newest book.

F3 is due at the end of this week, although it doesn't debut until Feb. That's how publishing works: hurry, hurry, hurry only to wait and wait and wait some more.


So I pulled into the driveway and dragged my haggard carcass through the door after a 9-hour, nonstop, ate-a-crate-of-cookies-to-stay-awake, ran-out-of-audio-books-two-hours-ago drive. I was whipped.

All I wanted was to throw my luggage in a heap on the floor and myself into a heap in the bed.

But something happened to change all that. An unexpected twist to my twisted day that made my heart yodel and my feet break into a happy-dance.

There, in a neat stack nearly the height of a cereal box, on the kitchen table, were every single comic painstakingly cut from every single newspaper that had been delivered while I was gone. We're talking 25 days here.

That's a LOT of comics.

So many that it took me over an hour to sit down and read them all. But read them all I did. Why? Because I heard, felt, smelled, touched, and tasted love in every word. And I just can't get enough of that. 

Spouse knew my love language is "Acts of Service," meaning that the way to speak love to me so that I actually hear it is to perform some small service for me. One that will either save me time, money, or energy, or an act that shows that he's thinking of me - my personal needs or preferences - in the midst of the relentless busyness of his life.

He knew that the funnies are the only reason I subscribe to newspapers.
He knew that I'm too isolated from civilization (no net access either) in our mountain cabin to see a daily paper. 
He knew that it would bring me no small joy to catch up on my funny-paper friends.
He knew that regardless of how many times he said, "I love you," or "I miss you" while I was gone, that I would really know it was true by this simple, wonderful, birds-chirping-and-sun-shining deed that proved that he cares about the little, insignificant things that I care about. Because I matter. To him.

And he was absolutely right. 

What a guy.

If it's been a while since you've thought about Dr. Gary Chapman's 5 Love Languages (which was first published in 1992), I encourage you to remind yourself that we don't all speak the same love languages, and sometimes when you think you're speaking love to your spouse, friends, or children, they may be hearing - or not hearing - the message you intend. Because you hable in twisted tongue they no savvy.

Here are the five love languages Dr. Chapman identifies:
1. Words of Affirmation
2.  Quality Time
3. Receiving Gifts
4. Acts of Service
5. Physical Touch

The thing is to identify your own love language - what speaks love to you - and the love language of each of your loved ones. 

So tell me: What is your love language?

 

  

 

What's in a Name?

Rainstorm in the English countryside

"This is all your fault!" my unsmiling neighbor leveled at me yesterday as we crossed paths while picking up moss, limbs, and other grungy debris strewn across our yards.

"My fault?"

"Dang storm's named after you, isn't it?"

Oh. I suppose it is.

This wasn't the first time I'd heard my name taken in vain since the arrival of Tropical Storm Debby earlier this week. She arrived in a snit and decided to hang around annoying Florida all week, pounding us with rain, high winds, mayhem, newly opened sinkholes, closed roads, property damage, canceled plans, flooding everywhere, and lots of great headlines that make me somehow feel responsible:
Go Away Debby!
Damage in Debby's Wake
Debby Scary, Even From a Distance

Now, my head knows these unpleasant sentiments are not about me, but for some reason my gut takes them personally. Like everybody in my state hates me. And can't wait for me to leave.

I hear people all over muttering the name Debby in hard, angry tones, and I feel like I should apologize to ... to someone. To everyone. I don't know.

Who chooses storm names, anyway? Why couldn't they have named the thing Dipsidumquat? (That's pronounced dip-si-dum-quat.) I bet there's not a single Dipsidumquat in the state who would be the least bit offended. Heck, they'd probably even be flattered.

But look at all of us Southern Debby's. And Debbie's. And Debi's. We're not flattered. We're not amused in the least.

It's not like a whole rash of new babies will be named Debby, reminiscent of the phenomenon that happens when a name suddenly becomes famous, like Madonna ... or Pippa ... or Barak. Well, maybe not Barak.

But the point is, instead of popularizing a name by plastering it all over the media, it actually depopularizes a perfectly good moniker when a storm is named after you. Not good for a writer/speaker who is trying to get her name out there. In a positive way.

I wouldn't be surprised if traumatized Floridians don't wince, shake their heads, or spit in the dirt whenever they hear my name for the next six months. Maybe even years. Hope my book sales don't take a dive.

But perhaps that's preventable.Maybe it's not too late. I need your help.

Will you join me in my grassroots campaign to begin referring to this unfortunate name-destroyer as Tropical Storm Dipsidumquat from now on? If enough of us do it, maybe it'll catch on with the media and fine citizens of this fair state. Go ahead - practice it a time or two until it rolls off your tongue slick as buttered okra.

Okay, I'm heading out right now to see if I can name-drop a little with my irate neighbor. Hey, come to think of it, his mama's name is Dipsidumquat ...

It's Your Serve (Prayer, part 2)

Last week we talked about prayer being like a tennis match. You hit the ball over the net, Papa God hits it back. Over and back. Over and back.

You know, the truly amazing part is that Papa God wants to play with us at all. I mean, He certainly doesn't have to. He could just rush the net and smash, smash, smash every shot. But instead He chooses to rally.

Just think of it: the creator of the universe actually desires to spend time listening to us. And responding.

Doesn't it blow your mind that He wants to hear our deepest thoughts, feelings, disappointments, yearnings, wishes, and dreams when most of the other flesh and blood people-creations like ourselves don't seem to care? Even with the entirety of creation demanding His attention, the Almighty takes a personal interest in you ... and me.

Whoa. Hard to wrap your head around, isn't it? Such a compliment. Such an honor.

Yet we sometimes consider prayer a chore ... something nearly forgotten that we need to squeeze in before we fall asleep so we don't feel guilty. Or maybe we're just so  busily preoccupied with living our life that prayer is reduced to cougar-on-a-ski-slope desperation tweets to NeedGodNOW.com. (Yep, the cougar thing actually happened to me.)

I've found it enormously helpful to keep a mobile prayer list of people and needs I want to pray about. Mine's a little pocket-sized pad that travels with me. I find it especially handy in my car - my rolling cathedral - so I can pray instead of scream at red lights and traffic jams. Much more productive on several levels.

I highly recommend it.

But if you do, be sure to record the answers to your prayers as well, so you'll never again doubt that prayer is the nerve that moves the muscles in the hand of God.

Hey, it's your serve!

Q of the Day: Where is your favorite place to pray?

Spiritual Punctuation

Effective conversation is like a tennis match. (Yes, you're absolutely right - this metaphor occurred to me as I was whacking a little yellow ball around a court.) You hit the ball over the net, then your partner hits the ball back.

And you keep it going. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Prayer is supposed to be like that. An ongoing conversation between the Creator and the created.

We speak to Him in prayer and He speaks back to us through various means, scripture being a primary one. He speaks, we listen. Then we speak and He listens. Back and forth like a little ball over a net.

It's a love match.

So how come on some days, "Help!" is the only word God ever hears from us? We don't even use up all 130 characters of our prayer-tweets.

Sometimes we think praying is enough. We just don't have time ... or energy ... or motivation to spend time in the Word. But you know what? It simply doesn't work if you constantly feed balls over the net and never wait for your partner to return them.

Just ask Rafa Nadal after his 7th win at the French Open. Back and forth, back and forth.

It has to go both ways for conversation to take place. 

That means, of course, that prayer and daily scripture reading go hand-in-hand. Like peas and carrots. Peanut butter and jelly. RC and moon pies.

Otherwise it's not effective communication. It's a monologue. 

Prayer is designed to be a 24/7 dynamic, organic communication with a living, loving Savior that we grow to depend upon as much as the air we breathe. Not just an occasional occurrence, but a way of living every hour of every day. A lifestyle. Woven into the fiber of our very being.

Prayer is not just spiritual punctuation; it's every word of our life's story.

So how do we cease merely dotting our i's and crossing our t's in the prayer department? How do we transition from a guilt-prayer squeezed in late at night before zzzz'ing out to a "Pray without ceasing" existence?

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

More about prayer next time ...  

My Favorite Transformer

Last week, I asked my incredibly imaginative Facebook friends to help me come up with a title for a chapter I'm writing about grace for my new inspirational book, Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate (set to release in Feb, 2013 by Barbour Books). My creative FB buds had done such a slam bang-up job with suggestions for my guilt chapter several weeks ago that I thought it only prudent to squeeze the utters of the proverbial idea cow once again. 

That was not an attractive metaphor. Sorry. It's early.

So to my surprise, in less than a day I receive a suggestion from the 9-year-old son of Lynn, one of my work associates. It was the BEST EVER! I still can't get over it.

Here's the suggested chapter title straight from the amazingly astute mind of Logan, my own personal Yoda (I suggested that Lynn change his name to Yogan):

Grace: The Ultimate Transformer. Per Logan, this phrase should be accompanied by a photo of Optimus Prime wearing a t-shirt that says, "Forgiven."

Now I'm not all that hip, rad, or the least bit cool about kid-speak these days since my kids are grown with their own kids, and their kids aren't yet out of the sippy cup stage, so I was at a loss as to the identity of said Mr. Prime. Lynn graciously accommodated me with a link to Optimus Prime, the leader of the ever-so-popular robotic Transformers.

Apparently Optimus Prime, a main player in Logan's world, is known for his compassion, strength, and willingness to sacrifice himself for others.

Wow. BIG wow. Who does this description sound like to you? Not unlike the epitome of grace who, out of a strength we cannot fathom, willingly sacrificed himself on a cross through the greatest of compassion for lost souls like you and me.

And this kid, this 9-year-old boy, gets it. He has wrapped his head around the concept of grace better than many adults. Hey, if this doesn't light a blaze of hope in your innards for the next generation, your wood's wet.

Dang, that stupid tear is trickling down my face again. I hate it when that happens before my morning cup of hot tea.

Regrettably, I can't use Logan's terrific idea in my book; my audience of other non-hip, rad-less, uncool middle-aged women like me wouldn't understand it without an explanation. And my editor always says, "If it needs explaining, it shouldn't be there." But it was so awesomely worthy of recognition that I just had to share it with you through my blog.

I hope your mediocre morning is transformed into a grace-filled, optimally prime, to-die-for day!   

Living in the Shadow of the Hawk

I live in a thickly wooded area and my backyard is home to many critters. Last week we had a very noisy skirmish between the possum clan and red fox tribe that drew Spouse from his nice warm bed to screech like a banshee and whack a baseball bat against the metal door at 3 am. 

His little performance did produce a temporary truce, but by the next morning a casualty of war ended up beneath our porch drawing flies.

Death is part of nature's cycle, I know, but I don't want to smell it beneath my floor boards. Or witness it either.

Which is why I've developed a strong aversion to hawks. We have 'em by the squadrons around here, dozens at a time cruising for prey, honing in on the innocent baby squirrels and sweet birdies that call my yard home.

All my little furry babies will be scampering about, tweeting merrily, playing chase up and down tree trunks or frolicking across wooden fences when they suddenly freeze. A dark shadow passes over the yard as a menacing  hawk stalks overhead. Suddenly everyone dashes for cover, but not before the lightning-quick carnivore swoops down and snatches one of my poor babies away, squealing in terror. 

When the ominous shadows begin crossing the yard, I've tried yelling, banging pans with a metal spoon, even chasing them with a stick. But nothing deters the determined winged predators.  I've even seen one buzz the Maltese next door, swooping down low enough to cause the little dog's white hair to fly up.

So my woodland friends have learned to fear the shadow of the hawk.

I suppose I've become more introspective since I've been writing a book about fear, but it occurred to me today that many people live in the shadow of a hawk, too. Maybe not of the flesh and feather variety, but nonetheless a predator that instills fear in us by its deadly beak and razor-sharp talons. For some, it's constantly cruising overhead, casting its fearful shadow that immobilizes momentum and steals joy.

Hawks can be unemployment, fear of disease or illness, rejection, loss of looks, or even loneliness. Long-time conflicts, dread of pain, the unknown future can loom large over our heads, making us worry constantly that this hawk or that one will swoop down when we least expect it and snatch us away.

I'm tired of cowering in fear in the shadow of my personal hawks. So I'm thinking of getting a BB gun.
Or maybe a bow and arrow. Or a cruise missile.

What do you think? What type of weapon would be the best protection when the shadow of the hawk darkens your path?