The 56th Cake

A few weeks ago it was my honor and privilege to speak to a large local gathering of women. As those of us on the program met beforehand to discuss the upcoming evening, I overheard the term, "the 56th cake" mentioned several times in hushed, reverent tones.

My curiosity finally won out and I had to ask, "Will someone please tell me about the 56th cake?"

And what a story it was.

The church hosting this community women's event celebrating chocolate had been advertising and selling tickets for nearly six weeks. Many, many prayers had been sent up, asking Papa God to bless the details of this event honoring Him. A week prior to the event, 400 tickets had been sold and 50 fancy chocolate cakes were ordered from a local bakery to serve as the centerpieces of each table, and dessert for the ladies sitting there after dinner.

These were not just your run-of-the-mill chocolate cakes, they were culinary works of art, adorned with chocolate curls and doo-dads and ornate decorations that would make your saliva run like a fireman's hose when you merely glanced at one.

But in the days just before the event, a rush of orders came in for tickets, and the good ladies just couldn't bring themselves to turn anyone away. Another five cakes were rush-ordered and were to be picked up right before the event was scheduled to start.

As the designated cake-picker-upper drove to the bakery on the afternoon of the event, she received a frantic call from the church. Ten more last minute tickets had been purchased. There were nearly 500 now sold. Another table would be added. Another cake would be needed.

"But there's no way the baker can make another cake that fast," she told the caller. "And those 55 cakes were custom decorated just for us. I'll just have to try to look in their display case and see what they've got that's already made. I may have to just get a plain one. If they have any at all. Pray hard."

As she waited for the five boxed cakes to be handed over the counter, she saw that there were no other chocolate cakes in the display case remotely close to the same size or splendor of the ones they'd ordered.

In a quandary about what to do, she admitted to the lady in the white apron behind the counter that she really needed another cake. Was there anything at all they could do?

A big smile spread across her face. "I'm the baker," she said. "I have a surprise for you." She disappeared into the back room and reappeared holding another beautifully decorated cake exactly like the other 55.

"Something told me I should make an extra cake. And so I did."

Wow! Don't you just LOVE a grace note story like that? I sure do. It's a reminder that Papa God loves us dearly and is involved in every detail of our lives. Involved enough to whisper sweet somethings into the ear of a baker in order to meet a need that wasn't even a need yet.

I'd love to hear about a grace note in your life this week!    




   

Marching

While I was pedaling my bike on my usual Sunday afternoon trek this week, I saw something ahead in the road. It was moving.

Braking my bike, I noticed that recent rains had elevated the level of the pond on the left side of the road and the swamp on the right, so that they were now nearly conjoined, separated only by eight feet of black ribbon road.

And there, on the hot asphalt swatch betwixt the two watery worlds, a turtle was determinedly marching.

I use that word, marching, intentionally, because this little fellow wasn't plodding, or poking, or loitering, as turtles tend to do. He was rhythmically lifting those squat spotted legs high and forward so that his his heavy shelled body was pushing forward at an impressive pace. For a turtle.

Since my bike route is rural and there were no cars coming at the moment, I stopped for a spell to watch the little guy, wondering where he was going in such an all-fired hurry. His shell was mottled with green slimy algae, indicating that his usual abode was likely beneath the surface of the waters in either the swamp or the pond.

It occurred to me that he was out marching on foreign midday asphalt this fine day for one of three reasons:

• Adventure
• He was running away from something 
• He was running toward something

Now not to wax too anthropomorphic, but I thought I detected in his resolute trek down the yellow line a trace of excitement. It's adventure then, I thought. I'll bet he's never been out of Water World before. This is his first chance to see the big wonderful Earth and he's making treks before the water recedes and his opportunity is gone.

But he was in the highway. The highway. Where cars and trucks and mini-vans run over and crush flat little adventurous turtles. And wouldn't you know it, at that moment, a green pick-up appeared in the distance, heading our way.

I tried to herd the fellow over to one side of the road, but when he saw big lumbering me, he instantly closed up shop, retreating head and legs into the protection of his shell.. There he sat in the middle of the highway, thinking that he was safe from harm, not realizing his shell was no match for the two-ton vehicle of steel and chrome that would soon be bearing down on him.

So I quickly ditched my bike in the shallow water on the pond side of the road and picked him up, holding that hard place beneath the shell between his front and back legs. His head shot out immediately, snapping at me, and his legs began furiously scratching at my hands. But I hung on long enough to place him in the murky waters of the edge of the swamp, where he splashed away until he reached waters deep enough to glide beneath and disappear.

You know, I think I'm like that turtle in some ways. I need a good reason to take advantage of the opportunities presented to me, because I'm way too comfortable in in my own little Water World. And when I finally do venture out of my comfort zone into the unknown, I tend to march off without a clue of my destination.

I don't know where I'm going, but I'm sure in a hurry to get there.

At the first hint of danger, I crawl into my shell, where I perceive I'm safe, without realizing there are a whole lot of things that I know nothing about in this wide, wide world that could cause me harm.

And that's why dependency on Papa God is so important. He has a much broader view than I do. I must learn to trust Him to pick me up and move me to where I need to be, even though sometimes I snap at His fingers and try to scratch my way out of His grasp, not seeing that His intervention is for my own good.

How about you? What's your motivation for marching out your comfort zone today? Are you looking for adventure, running away from something, running toward something, or maybe just sitting in the middle of the road in your shell?  

The Gate Swings Both Ways

A few weeks ago, I was taking a shortcut through a subdivision I'd never entered before when something interesting caught my eye. There, in an overgrown garden at the side of an overgrown house, was a gate.

Not a fence and a gate. Not a barn gate, or a corral gate. Just a gate.

A gate that served no apparent purpose. It didn't lead to a path of any sort. It wasn't the entrance to anything observable, or the exit either. It just stood there in the middle of the yard. Calling my name.

Now I wouldn't have ever believed a simple gate could be so compelling, but as I slowed to take a better look, I could hardly contain myself. I just had to walk through that gate.

Of course the idea was silly. Why in the world would I trespass in a stranger's yard to walk through a gate to nowhere? But I'll be darned if I didn't want to. Badly.

Instead of following my irrational whim, like the law-abiding, sensible, grown-up, mature woman that I am, I pressed the gas pedal and pressed on to my appointment, for which I was already late.

I thought about that gate again this morning, and wondered what would have motivated me to want to jump out of my car, race across the lawn, swing it open and step through the threshold. Oddly enough, the moment I pictured that gate in my mind's eye, I felt my countenance lift and my heartbeat quicken. I felt ... what do you call this sensation? Excited. Yes, that's it. I felt excited.

Has it been that long since I've felt that emotion to recognize what excitement feels like?

And then suddenly I had my answer. THAT's why the gate compelled me so. It was the mystery, the fun, the adventure that the gate represented. Visions of other exciting gates in my past swirled in the periphery of my subconscious - gateways to other worlds like Narnia, visiting Mrs. Who, Mrs. Whatsit, and Mrs. Which in A Wrinkle In Time, and cavorting through old stone London gates with the Artful Dodger in Oliver.

The gate in that yard wasn't just a gate to me. It was an opening for the imagination. A place I've always loved to go, a place that always refreshed my spirit and renewed my zeal for living. A place that I just haven't had the time to visit lately with the responsibilities and drudgery of adult life.

I realize now that I need that gate. Well, maybe not that gate, but a gate. My spirit yearns to be set free in the glorious freedom and frolic of imagination symbolized by stepping through the gate.

So maybe I'll do it. Maybe I'll rig up my own gate ... in my mind. It'll look just like the gate Dorothy stepped through into the Emerald City. And maybe I'll make it a point to step through my gate now and again. Then maybe the responsibilities of adulthood won't seem like drudgery.

Heartbreaking Destiny

As I pedaled my bike down the quiet country road on my regular Sunday afternoon exercise jaunt, something I saw on the side of the road made me hit my brakes.

I hadn't noticed it in a very long time, and on this particular day, its image of stark loneliness struck me as morosely sad.

It was a mighty oak tree, several feet in diameter and as tall as a three-story building. The oak had matured in the twenty years since I first laid eyes on it, back when it was a mere impressionable teenager, and so terribly in love.

Yep. Completely, totally, in love. Smitten. And not afraid to show the world.

For the oak had sprouted right beside a young palm tree, and the two had grown together, intertwined as it seemed, for all eternity. The oak had grown around the base of the palm, so that the palm seemed to spring from its very center. And the oak had wrapped two small branches around the palm, with digit-like twigs that strongly resembled fingers extending from the ends of those winding, clinging branches, exactly like arms embracing a lover.

It was remarkable, really. You couldn't pass by without an AWWW escaping your lips and feeling a warm fuzzy feeling somewhere deep in your innards. Love was their destiny and it was a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I always intended to take a picture of the tree-lovers, but I somehow never did.

And then one day, it was too late. The palm tree was gone. Severed from the arms that surrounded it with such passion. The new owners of the property must have thought the palm would eventually threaten the health of the oak, so they'd chain-sawed it away. Boy was I angry. No, more like livid. How could they be so cruel to ruthlessly separate the lovers like that?  

The poor pathetic oak stood there with its arms frozen in an empty embrace, encircling, loving, protecting ... nothing. I felt like my heart was ripped in half every time I saw it from then on, so in the passing years, I'd disciplined myself from looking in that direction.

Until this particular day. And would you believe it? After all this time, that oak tree still had it's arms locked in the same empty embrace? The hole in its center had never filled in, leaving the imprint of the long-gone palm tree as if it were still there. Loved. Protected.

I couldn't help but think of the funeral I had just attended that week. Married over three decades, *Justine and Mark had been high school sweethearts who never dated anyone but each other. They were both my classmates, and there was never any doubt that they were meant for each other. They clung to each other through the bad times and drew strength from each other during the good.

It was their destiny to be together.

Until Mark suddenly fell over with a heart attack at age 56.

Justine appeared to be in shock at the funeral. She was surrounded by her children and the brand new grand-baby that Mark had absolutely doted over. She hugged them over and over, she hugged her friends, she hugged everyone who came to offer their condolences. But I knew her embrace was empty, like the empty embrace of this mighty oak, left to live alone without its lover.

And twenty years from now, I'll bet the imprint of Justine's own palm tree will still be in her center as clearly as this brokenhearted oak tree. It's their destiny.

*Names changed for privacy.


 

Nurturing Us to Our Bloomingest

I've never had much of a green thumb - it's more brownish black. But you wouldn't know it by looking at my yard.

That's because I've learned the fine art of harboring only plants that thrive on their own without any help from me. Survival of the fittest. Lord of the Venus Fly-traps.

One of those hearty independent souls in my yard is the hibiscus. Three years ago I planted two 8-inch high variegated-leaf hibiscus (okay you spelling fanatics, is the plural version hibisces, hibisci, or hibiscuses?) in a spot in my side flowerbed vacated by the last victim of neglect. The lovely little plants were covered with beautiful red-orange blossoms sticking out long orange tongues bejeweled with tiny yellow sparkles.

Yep. Three years ago I planted them, and three years ago was the last time I saw them bloom.

That's not to say they haven't grown - not at all. One look at the 7-feet-tall lush plants would make you believe they're actually thriving. I notice my neighbors fertilize theirs several times a year and the crazy things bloom constantly all the way through the summer. They also prune their hibiscus back to short bare stalks each winter, but I've never bothered with all that. And mine just keep getting bigger and bigger, so they must be doing okay, right?

But they never bloom.

I don't get it. Isn't that what flowers are supposed to do?

And then yesterday I walked outside after a rainstorm to find my jumbo hibiscus plants lying flat on the ground. Apparently they'd grown so tall, their long lanky stems couldn't withstand the additional weight of rain collecting on their leaves and they finally gave way beneath the strain.

Oh. Could that be why my neighbors cut theirs back?

As I stood there shaking my head at their pitiful plight, the thought occurred to me that people are a lot like those hibiscus. We may grow and look like we're doing fine, but if not given enough fertilizer, we may never bloom. And if we're not pruned and cared for properly, we'll collapse beneath the weight of storms we simply can't endure.

Thankfully, Papa God is a MUCH better gardener than I am and He knows how to nurture us to our bloomingest.

On a happy note, we were able to save the spunky little fellas. Spouse chopped them in half and within a day, they were standing erect again, looking mighty happy to be there. And I thought I heard the littlest hibiscus stalk whisper, "Please, sir, may I have some gruel?" I think he meant fertilizer.

Exciting Announcement PLUS New Contest!

Congrats again to the 10 sweet gals who won free copies of my Too Blessed to be Stressed 2014 Planner! (Scroll back to find the names of the winners.) And kudos to Pam from Florida, the grand prize champ, who also scored the entire 3-book Take On Life series.

Okay, now for more good news!

I'm still in shock and trying to process the incredible news I received earlier this week: The Too Blessed to be Stressed Planner has sold 6,000 copies in the 6 weeks it's been available in bookstores and online.

Can you BELIEVE it? What an enormous YAY GOD!

Many, many thanks to all of you sweeties who made that happen by picking up a Planner for yourself and a friend. If you haven't yet, it's not too late - you can help me reach my goal of 10k by Christmas! (Just Google Too Blessed to be Stressed 2014 Planner if you're ordering online.)

That's my good news; now for YOUR good news!

To celebrate hitting 6k in 6 weeks, I'm going to give away 6 more Planners! 

To enter this new drawing, just subscribe to my blog if you haven't already, and invite a friend to subscribe too during this upcoming week (Aug 20 -27). Then shoot me an e-mail at deboracoty@gmail.com giving me the names of you and your friend as my new best blog buddies.

If you're one of the three names drawn out of the hat and announced on August 28, you AND your friend will receive a brand new autographed Too Blessed to be Stressed 2014 Planner absolutely free. Plus, in honor of my last book, Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate, I'll send you both a sample of my new favorite chocolate - the absolutely smoothest, creamiest, richest chocolate you've ever wrapped your tongue around!

I hope to hear from you soon!

Waxing Eloquent

"What did you say?" I couldn't quite make out Spouse's words. My ears had been clogged since I'd taken a dozen or so laps underwater at the pool on our vacation a few days before.

"I think we should try candling your ears." Spouse exaggerated the words as if speaking to a deaf person.

"Candling my ears? What you smokin, mon?"

But he was serious. My well meaning, health-food-nut husband who loves to buck the traditional system was always open to trying alternative methods. If you want proof, just re-read the "Shoving the Envelope" chapter in my book, Too Blessed to be Stressed, when he Hiroshima'ed our home by juicing a bushel of garlic.

So for lack of any better ideas, I allowed him to pull out the 8-inch "candles" he had purchased years before, stick them in my ears, and light 'em up.

Before you think we've altogether lost our minds, let me inform you that candling is actually an ancient practice that is supposed to remove excessive ear wax. No kidding. Somebody a long, long time ago came up with the idea of creating "candles" of fabric impregnated with beeswax that when lit on the ends, supposedly create a vacuum that serves to soften and disintegrates errant ear wax clogging the ear canal.

Spouse even pulled up a couple of video clips of pleasant looking Asian people lighting fires on these things in each others ears, while smiling and saying things to the camera like, "Don't move head while candle lit or you burn hair off head."

Although my heart did skip a beat or two at this last admonition, I trust Spouse (most of the time) and was more than over not being able to hear the smoke alarm go off when dinner was ready. So a' candling we go.

Unfortunately, it didn't work. After 20 minutes of blowing warm crackling smoke into each ear, I could hear no better. In fact, it actually got worse. I think the candle heat must have melted the ear wax into into a solid cork.

So after a sleepless night, the next morning found me in line at the local Walk-In clinic. When the 15-year-old doctor finally made an appearance (I swear the kid had never shaved), he peered into my ears with his magnifying thingie and remarked. "Yep, it looks like ear wax all right. But there's a strange round black spot on the ear canal wall that I've never seen anything like before."

I figured Doogie Houser had probably never seen anything like it before because he just got out of med school last week. "It's most likely singed hair follicles from candle smoke," I replied cheerily.

His little freckled face looked confused.

"Candles," I explained. "You know, candling. You put candles in your ears to remove the ear wax. Only it didn't work."

"W-W-WHAT?" Doogie sputtered in disbelief. Something akin to horror played across his young innocent features. I could tell he was picturing me with lit birthday candles sticking out of both sides of my head. "You put candles in your EARS??"

So I tried to explain the legitimacy of the whole thing, but he couldn't stop shaking his head and muttering something that sounded like, "inconceivable." I wanted to tell him that that I saw that movie too and, "I don't think it means what you think it means" in a Spanish accent, but he seemed to be in a big hurry to exit the room.

Shortly afterwards I heard, through the closed door, a chorus of "What?" from the rest of the medical staff in the hall. Then a 12-year-old MA came in with an awesome little pressure washer gizmo and blasted those ear wax corks right out of there. I asked if I could borrow it to use on my driveway, but she didn't bite.

So goes another episode in the Coty stump-the-medical-profession game. You thought I couldn't top the doctor fainting dead away on the floor during my colonoscopy, didn't you?  (Scroll back for that post.)

Life is such an adventure. Can't wait to see what's next!  

Offbeat Phobias

As a follow-up to my recent series of posts related to my new book, Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of

Chocolate,  I ran across these real fears that people have on the bizarre end of the spectrum.

At first glance, we may think they're too weird to be taken seriously, but seriously, folks, people all around us have all kinds of crazy fears looming over their heads. Fears as real and threatening to them as the little pooch in the picture. (Do I hear a collective AWWW here?)

So the next time you think anxiety is whipping your behunkus, think about those poor souls limping through life struggling with:

Pentheraphobia: Fear of your mother-in-law. Yikes! NOT a recipe for a long and happy marriage.

Arachibutyrophia: Fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth. Symptoms include excessive sweating, itching, and even convulsions when peanut butter is nearby.

Cathisophobia: Fear of sitting. Not just for hemorrhoid sufferers, this disorder is sometimes rooted in excessive childhood punishment, or the unfortunate event of sitting on sharp or painful objects one too many times.

Novercaphobia: Fear of your stepmother. This one was likely founded by a little Cinder girl with an affinity for glass footwear.

Deipnophobia: Fear of dinner conversation. I would imagine this disorder runs rampant in people who firmly believe that you don't look stupid until you open your mouth and prove it.

Blogophobia: Fear of blogging. Okay. I made this one up, but I think I might be coining the phrase very soon.

What's your most obscure fear?

*Special shout out to Jamie Frater, founder of www.listverse.com  for his input on offbeat phobias.

Contest Winners!!!

Yoo Hoo Girlfriends!

I just couldn't wait another minute to post the winners of a Too Blessed to be Stressed 2014 Planner, and the grand prize winner who not only wins one of these adorable planners, but also my 3-book "Take On Life" series, which includes:

Too Blessed to be Stressed
More Beauty, Less Beast
and
Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate!

If you find your name on this list (Spouse drew the names, so if you're not on here, blame him!), please e-mail me (deboracoty@gmail.com) your mailing address so I can send your prize!

If I don't hear from you by Saturday, Aug 17, I'll have to choose someone else to take your prize, so don't delay!

Thank you - ALL of you - for entering! I wish I could send every single BFF (Blessed Friend Forever) who entered a prize. Hey, maybe I can! Stay tuned for more contests coming up this fall.

Okay, here goes ... and CONGRATS everyone!

Lori Drake
Phyllis McKinley
Cindy Morrow
Lisa Gingerich
Abi Buening
Bethany Lancaster
Ruth Babel
Michelle Stroup
Candy Gesemyer

And the grand prize winner: (DRUMROLL RRRRRRRRRR): Pam Edmonds

Life After Financial Death

Ever feel shackled by debts? Spouse and I do!

Be sure to scroll back through my previous post about the same subject before you proceed. 

Okay, here are some tried-and-true tools, gleaned from different people who've been there/done that, to help you grow trust in Papa God on your journey through the valley of the shadow of financial death:

• Don’t give up hope. He will continue to be faithful to us no matter what. “If we are not faithful, he will still be faithful. Christ cannot deny who he is” (2 Tim. 2:13, CEV). 

• Separate your needs from your wants. Sometimes we get confused and pray for a Mercedes when what we really need is a bicycle. But Yahweh, Master of all things great and small, knows the difference. “You can be sure that God will take care of everything you need” (Phil 4:19, MSG). 

• Sweeten your bitter words. You might have to eat them one day. Don’t dwell on the unfairness of your poverty. Be careful what you say; be careful what you think. “Fix your thoughts on what is true, and honorable, and right” (Phil. 4:8, NLT). 

• Keep communication lines open. “Pray without ceasing” (1 Thes. 5:17, NASB). Talk to your heavenly Father – even cry out your frustrations. Then dry your tears and thank Him for the blessings you do have. If you need a little perspective on your blessings, visit a surgical ward. Or a homeless shelter. Or a battered woman’s center. 

• Remember what God has done for you. He gave you the ultimate sacrifice: His Son on a cross. Salvation. Eternal life. Quote John 3:16 to refresh your recall. 

• Keep serving others. Even if you feel that you’re the one needing service. “God is not unjust. He will not forget how hard you have worked for him and how you have shown you r love to him by caring for other believers, as you still do” (Heb 6:10, NLT). Give of yourself to the poor or needy even when you think you don’t have anything to give. The best blessing you can give someone is your time. Use your downtime to bless someone. 

• Keep your eyes fixed on Jesus. Do the things you know you need to do to honor your Savior, even if you don’t feel like it. “Look straight ahead, and fix your eyes on what lies before you” (Prov. 4:25, NLT). Go to church, hang out with believers, study your Bible, listen to Christian music … because feeding our faith starves our fears.

 Hey, I know all too well that ominous dread that seizes your heart when official-looking men with clipboards appear at your door. Or when your electricity is turned off. Or when you run out of answers when your kids don’t understand why they can’t go places and do the same things their friends do. And you’re bone tired. And more discouraged than you’ve ever been in your life.

I really do know. I’ve been there. And I want to offer you hope. There is life after financial death. Cling to hope, dear one, because fear is devoid of hope and hope is devoid of fear. And as Lazarus discovered, hope is what Papa God does best.

More about defeating fear in my new book, Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate (Barbour Books). Excerpts, reviews, and more at www.DeboraCoty.com