I'd just finished pouring a cup of water over my head and another down my shirt after sweating out two sets of singles in 93 degree heat. Sounds messy, I know, but us diehard tennis players who stubbornly insist on playing through central Florida summers do it often to prevent heatstroke. If you're already slathered in sweat, what's a little more water, right?
So I'm dripping, stinky and exhausted as I slide onto my car seat (and when you're that sweaty, I do mean slide) and check my phone for messages. I was expecting a message from a newspaper reporter whose call I had returned right before my tennis match (we're not allowed to have our phones on court; they disturb other players).
Cranking the car to get the AC blasting my blotchy, beet-red, face, I wasn't surprised to hear a male voice reciting his message. But it wasn't the reporter. It was the male secretary from the rehab center where I work part-time:
"Just wanted to let you know we scheduled a splint patient for you at 11:00 Friday. See you then."
WHAT?? My eyes darted to my watch; it was 10:45. On Friday. My day off.
I punched the center's number in frustration. They shouldn't have done that, but they did. And now a patient who needed a splint for his wounded hand was trustingly filling out paper work.
'I ... you .... Why? ... Listen, I'm not prepared to work today," I sputtered. "I'm a half hour from home and I'm not in work clothes ..."
"Just come as you are!" the clueless secretary responded. "Nobody will mind."
"Well I MIND! You don't know what you're asking!" I looked down at my tiny barely-bum-covering tennnis skirt, the half moon sweat marks beneath my armpits and the soaking white tennis blouse stuck to my sports bra. I had on not a drop of make=up and a clay-stained Nike hat holding back my greasy, soaking hair, for heaven's sake. I couldn't have looked less professional if I'd tried.
My effort to douse the nasty smell enveloping me in a cloud like the dirt from Charlie Brown's friend Pigpen only resulted in a nauseating mix of Spring Bouquet body spray and B.O. I felt like I was back in the high school girl's locker room on flag football day.
But off to work I go. Hi Ho, Hi Ho.
Of course none of the therapists had a lab coat or even an extra sweater to try to camoflage my inappropriateness. And when the patient (a young black man) eyed me warily as I called him from the waiting room, I could only come up with, "I know I don't look like a therapist, but I am one, really. I, um ... I thought this was the day we decided to do Halloween early (try two months early!) so I'm supposed to be Serena Williams."
At least that got a chuckle out of him, but it dawned on me how risky the invitation to "Come as you are" can be. There's no telling what a disgusting mess you might find if people take you up on it.
Yet Papa God extends that very invitation to each of us when He calls us to Himself. Come as you are. With your ugly attitudes, sinfulness, full of pride, unable to help yourself ... come on, dear child, and I'll cover it all up and make you clean as the new-fallen snow. No matter how you started, you'll end up beautiful.
And thank the Good Lord His body wash works inside and out!
Friday, August 27, 2010
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Now I get it.
As a writing late bloomer (I started writing professionally at age 45), it never ceases to amaze me how many people think they can just jump in and write a book without doing their homework. I spent three years researching, writing articles, attending writing conferences and consuming every industry how-to I could get my hands on before wading into the book publication waters, and then it was with fear and trembling.
I started small (articles and submitting short pieces to compilations and devotionals) and worked my way up to books. And I always followed the advice of successful authors (which you can easily find if you just seek) and invested in good editors before submitting my manuscript to agents or publishing house editors.
At the writing mini-workshop I taught over the weekend (one of dozens I've taught at bookstores and libraries), I spoke with several authors of self-published books who hadn't bothered to have their manuscripts professionally edited before turning them over for printing. Unfortunately, this lack of preparation inevitably shows in the quality of the writing, and reflects poorly on self-published books in general.
One of the authors didn't even know his book was self-published because "it was accepted by a publisher," until I asked, "Well, did they require money to print your book?"
"Only three thousand dollars," was his reply.
I wanted to say, "Good heavens! For three thousand dollars, shouldn't you take enough pride in your work to have it edited properly?" I really don't understand.
I'm not just talking grammar and punctuation here. I'm talking 16 pages of throat-clearing introduction before beginning the first chapter. Or not even pre-plotting out major events in a "fictional novel" (a HUGE redundant no-no as a book is referred to as either a novel or fiction, not both), or using real names and real events without asking permission.
When I first delved into books and faced my 9th traditional press rejection for The Distant Shore, I thought about self-publishing. I recall the advice of published authors to exhaust all possibilities in traditional publishing first because of the stigma attached to self-publishing. Sub-quality editing was the difference, they said. I didn't fully grasp their meaning at the time, and thankfully, my manuscript was finally accepted by a small press who provided its own editing in addition to the professional editing I had already procured, which produced a quite acceptable end product (in my humble opinion).
But I get it now.
After wading through beginner model book manuscripts from people who just decide to sit down and whip out the memoir or novel they've always dreamed of without a lick of preparation, I do indeed get it now.
I started small (articles and submitting short pieces to compilations and devotionals) and worked my way up to books. And I always followed the advice of successful authors (which you can easily find if you just seek) and invested in good editors before submitting my manuscript to agents or publishing house editors.
At the writing mini-workshop I taught over the weekend (one of dozens I've taught at bookstores and libraries), I spoke with several authors of self-published books who hadn't bothered to have their manuscripts professionally edited before turning them over for printing. Unfortunately, this lack of preparation inevitably shows in the quality of the writing, and reflects poorly on self-published books in general.
One of the authors didn't even know his book was self-published because "it was accepted by a publisher," until I asked, "Well, did they require money to print your book?"
"Only three thousand dollars," was his reply.
I wanted to say, "Good heavens! For three thousand dollars, shouldn't you take enough pride in your work to have it edited properly?" I really don't understand.
I'm not just talking grammar and punctuation here. I'm talking 16 pages of throat-clearing introduction before beginning the first chapter. Or not even pre-plotting out major events in a "fictional novel" (a HUGE redundant no-no as a book is referred to as either a novel or fiction, not both), or using real names and real events without asking permission.
When I first delved into books and faced my 9th traditional press rejection for The Distant Shore, I thought about self-publishing. I recall the advice of published authors to exhaust all possibilities in traditional publishing first because of the stigma attached to self-publishing. Sub-quality editing was the difference, they said. I didn't fully grasp their meaning at the time, and thankfully, my manuscript was finally accepted by a small press who provided its own editing in addition to the professional editing I had already procured, which produced a quite acceptable end product (in my humble opinion).
But I get it now.
After wading through beginner model book manuscripts from people who just decide to sit down and whip out the memoir or novel they've always dreamed of without a lick of preparation, I do indeed get it now.
Monday, July 19, 2010
An Unexpected Twist in Events
I just returned from two weeks in a mt cabin enjoying the hummingbirds, little brown field bunnies, chipmonks, and 60 degree mornings. It was a very beneficial time of prayer, communion with my Creator within the beauty of His creation, contemplation, study, writing, and spiritual renewal.
Oh, did I mention near-death? Twice within the same hour?
I'd trekked down the mountain to run some errands. Just as I pulled into the grocery store parking lot to grab something for dinner, the sky split wide open and rain fell in buckets. I grabbed my umbrella from the backseat floorboard, tucked my purse against my chest and sprinted toward the store entrance with the umbrella low to my head and angled against the rain blowing in from my left side.
As I crossed the expanse in front of the store, vision occluded by my umbrella, I heard the sickening screech of car tires and a woman standing in the doorway screamed as she pointed in my direction. Suddenly the front bumper of a car entered my field of vision beneath the canopy of my umbrella as it skidded to a stop on the wet asphalt, shiny chrome coming to rest against my left hip.
I laid my left hand on the car's hood, about three inches from my now-trembling body and looked up at the ashen face of the driver, his hand flying to his forehead as he exhaled a long, relieved breath.
Dinner no longer held it's appeal and I pivoted back toward the car. I just wanted to get out of there and back to the snug safety of my cabin.
I sat dripping in my car trying to pull myself together enough to drive. Okay. I'm okay. Just breathe in and out. Thank you Lord; You saved my life. Or at the very least a long night at the ER.
The trip up the twisting narrow mountain road flanked by sheer drops took twice as long as usual in that horrible thunderstorm with dusk closing in. About halfway up, hail began pounding my windshield and I slowed to 15 mph, barely able to make out the center line as visibility decreased to almost nil.
Roundinga sharp curve, I was startled to see, in a timely flash of lightning, an enormous tree falling across the road directly in front of my car. Thankfully, I was moving so slowly because of the weather I was able to brake just in time. I reversed about ten feet and sat staring at the massive trunk and heavy limbs sprawled acorss the exact spot where my car would have been if I'd gotten there five seconds earlier.
Five seconds. The difference between life and death.
Meaningful scripture jumped out at me: If God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, won't he more surely care for you? You have so little faith! (Luke 12:28, NLT).
What you hope for is kept safe for you in heaven (Col. 1:5, CEV).
It occurred to me that if we receive God's prescious gift of salvation through the sacrifice of his son, Jesus Christ, we don't have to fear death. It's merely a door opening to the greatest adventure of all : Heaven!
Oh, did I mention near-death? Twice within the same hour?
I'd trekked down the mountain to run some errands. Just as I pulled into the grocery store parking lot to grab something for dinner, the sky split wide open and rain fell in buckets. I grabbed my umbrella from the backseat floorboard, tucked my purse against my chest and sprinted toward the store entrance with the umbrella low to my head and angled against the rain blowing in from my left side.
As I crossed the expanse in front of the store, vision occluded by my umbrella, I heard the sickening screech of car tires and a woman standing in the doorway screamed as she pointed in my direction. Suddenly the front bumper of a car entered my field of vision beneath the canopy of my umbrella as it skidded to a stop on the wet asphalt, shiny chrome coming to rest against my left hip.
I laid my left hand on the car's hood, about three inches from my now-trembling body and looked up at the ashen face of the driver, his hand flying to his forehead as he exhaled a long, relieved breath.
Dinner no longer held it's appeal and I pivoted back toward the car. I just wanted to get out of there and back to the snug safety of my cabin.
I sat dripping in my car trying to pull myself together enough to drive. Okay. I'm okay. Just breathe in and out. Thank you Lord; You saved my life. Or at the very least a long night at the ER.
The trip up the twisting narrow mountain road flanked by sheer drops took twice as long as usual in that horrible thunderstorm with dusk closing in. About halfway up, hail began pounding my windshield and I slowed to 15 mph, barely able to make out the center line as visibility decreased to almost nil.
Roundinga sharp curve, I was startled to see, in a timely flash of lightning, an enormous tree falling across the road directly in front of my car. Thankfully, I was moving so slowly because of the weather I was able to brake just in time. I reversed about ten feet and sat staring at the massive trunk and heavy limbs sprawled acorss the exact spot where my car would have been if I'd gotten there five seconds earlier.
Five seconds. The difference between life and death.
Meaningful scripture jumped out at me: If God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, won't he more surely care for you? You have so little faith! (Luke 12:28, NLT).
What you hope for is kept safe for you in heaven (Col. 1:5, CEV).
It occurred to me that if we receive God's prescious gift of salvation through the sacrifice of his son, Jesus Christ, we don't have to fear death. It's merely a door opening to the greatest adventure of all : Heaven!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Living by Hope
This is a good week despite marathon work days and lack of sleep.
I received my advance for the 2-book deal offered me by Barbour Books a few months ago. Yay! There's just something about holding that check in your hand that affirms your call to write and swells your heart with gratitude more than you ever thought possible. You stack hope upon hope, but never really believe this moment will actually come one day.
Ephesians 3:20 becomes more real than ever: "To Him who is able to do EXCEEDING ABUNDANTLY BEYOND all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to HIM be the glory ... forever and ever. Amen."
And the hope of a stress respite next week keeps me going. I've been covering hand therapy at three clinics for the last two weeks for a therapist out on maternity leave. I remember the day when I could run, run, run like that without any difficulty but it ain't now. Sheer craziness.
It will be heaven holing up alone in a mt cabin with nobody to answer to but my dog, Fenway. And he's pretty easy going. But knowing me, after a few days of solitude, I'll be more than ready to see the fam when they drive up. It's my favorite place in the world up there - just God, Fenway, the birds, chipmonks, and occasional wild hares on the beautiful mountain trails.
Sure hope Sir Lancelot, my 4-wheeler, is working this trip.
Until next time, here's to HOPE!
I received my advance for the 2-book deal offered me by Barbour Books a few months ago. Yay! There's just something about holding that check in your hand that affirms your call to write and swells your heart with gratitude more than you ever thought possible. You stack hope upon hope, but never really believe this moment will actually come one day.
Ephesians 3:20 becomes more real than ever: "To Him who is able to do EXCEEDING ABUNDANTLY BEYOND all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to HIM be the glory ... forever and ever. Amen."
And the hope of a stress respite next week keeps me going. I've been covering hand therapy at three clinics for the last two weeks for a therapist out on maternity leave. I remember the day when I could run, run, run like that without any difficulty but it ain't now. Sheer craziness.
It will be heaven holing up alone in a mt cabin with nobody to answer to but my dog, Fenway. And he's pretty easy going. But knowing me, after a few days of solitude, I'll be more than ready to see the fam when they drive up. It's my favorite place in the world up there - just God, Fenway, the birds, chipmonks, and occasional wild hares on the beautiful mountain trails.
Sure hope Sir Lancelot, my 4-wheeler, is working this trip.
Until next time, here's to HOPE!
Friday, June 25, 2010
Playing Chicken with a Duck
As I was driving down a narrow, seldom traveled back road today, late as usual, I spied something moving in the road ahead. Partially obscured by tree shadows, it wasn't until I was nearly upon it that I recognized the object in my path as a fat black and white duck waddling toward me down the center of the road.
I squealed to a stop about 10 yards in front of the quacky quacker but undaunted, she just kept bringing it. (I assumed female gender because she exuded an illogical, unmerited superior attitude I've seen before.)
When she wouldn't deviate from her preferred route straddling the center line, I laid on my horn. All she did was stop, stick her stubborn little beak in the air and park her feathered butt to roost right there. She had no pressing engagements; we could be there all day.
What was wrong with this chick? Here's a 2-ton van versus a 5-lb bird and she thinks she can win? Steel and chrome versus webbed feet and tail feathers? C'mon!
And we both obviously felt we were in the right - that we had more right to be there and own the road than the other.
It occurred to me, as we stared each other down, halted at an impasse because neither party was willing to give an inch, that I was witnessing a metaphor of my life.
How many times am I rendered immobile by silly obstacles that I allow to hinder pursuit of my life goals? Obstacles of my own making or even small speed bumps that I allow to swell and loom over me like the Alps?
The thing blocking my path may seem like an immovable precipice to me, but in reality, it's the size of a duck.
In trying to remove this pecking roadblock before me, horns don't work, opponent size doesn't matter, time is not a factor and rank is irrelevant. But there IS a way around. It just takes effort and a plan.
So I got out of the car in the 95 degree heat, walked right up to the obstinant entree, nudged her with my foot and scrambled to avoid her snapping beak. Squawking her annoyance, she finally moved, herded to the side of the road by my perseverant shooing.
My hot and sweaty lesson? Don't waste your time playing chicken with a duck. Regardless of your formidable advantage, you won't win unless you formulate a plan, leave your comfy air-conditioned vantage point, put a little sweat into it and execute.
I squealed to a stop about 10 yards in front of the quacky quacker but undaunted, she just kept bringing it. (I assumed female gender because she exuded an illogical, unmerited superior attitude I've seen before.)
When she wouldn't deviate from her preferred route straddling the center line, I laid on my horn. All she did was stop, stick her stubborn little beak in the air and park her feathered butt to roost right there. She had no pressing engagements; we could be there all day.
What was wrong with this chick? Here's a 2-ton van versus a 5-lb bird and she thinks she can win? Steel and chrome versus webbed feet and tail feathers? C'mon!
And we both obviously felt we were in the right - that we had more right to be there and own the road than the other.
It occurred to me, as we stared each other down, halted at an impasse because neither party was willing to give an inch, that I was witnessing a metaphor of my life.
How many times am I rendered immobile by silly obstacles that I allow to hinder pursuit of my life goals? Obstacles of my own making or even small speed bumps that I allow to swell and loom over me like the Alps?
The thing blocking my path may seem like an immovable precipice to me, but in reality, it's the size of a duck.
In trying to remove this pecking roadblock before me, horns don't work, opponent size doesn't matter, time is not a factor and rank is irrelevant. But there IS a way around. It just takes effort and a plan.
So I got out of the car in the 95 degree heat, walked right up to the obstinant entree, nudged her with my foot and scrambled to avoid her snapping beak. Squawking her annoyance, she finally moved, herded to the side of the road by my perseverant shooing.
My hot and sweaty lesson? Don't waste your time playing chicken with a duck. Regardless of your formidable advantage, you won't win unless you formulate a plan, leave your comfy air-conditioned vantage point, put a little sweat into it and execute.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Balancing Act
A literary agent's blog I follow has been running a series on finding the right balance between accepting criticism and praise (for writers). A thought-provoking conundrum for real life, too, don't you think?
Most of us feel as though we get much more criticism than praise, or at least we remember the criticism more clearly and often have trouble deleting it's repurcussions from our perception of ourselves. It's a shame, really, because in reality, we get praise from all kinds of sources that we barely notice at the time and certainly don't deposit in our self-esteem banks:
"Great dinner, Mom!"
"That looks nice on you, dear."
"I wouldn't trust this important project with anyone else."
"You're my BFF!"
And yet all the implied compliments, love, and trust are wiped out by one flippant negative remark:
"Don't be rediculous."
"You've got to be kidding me - you really don't get it?"
"My grandmother has a skirt just like that."
"How are you planning to shrink the skin back up now that you've lost weight?"
(Believe it or not, that last one was a real comment I received after a speaking gig.)
And so many times we're deathly afraid of receiving criticism - even helpful, necessary criticism that would help us refine, revise and perfect our skills.
An example would be yesterday when I lead group of neighborhood gals in a Bible Study lesson I wrote and wanted critiqued for possible publication. During the six months we've been meeting weekly, these lovely ladies have become dear friends, so what was I afraid of? I don't know, but I sure was. I was nervous as a cat at a dog show and held my breath at the end after the last prayer was said and I knew comments would follow.
Of course they were kind, and the helpful suggestions for improvement were framed sensitively and Oreo'ed between praise. Yet I'd erected my inner steel wall and braced myself for arrows.
It guess life's just a balancing act in many ways, and learning to accept and internalize praise (not brush it off or overlook it) and downplay criticism (all I could do about the weight loss/wrinkle dig was laugh it off) are just part of rehearsal.
Most of us feel as though we get much more criticism than praise, or at least we remember the criticism more clearly and often have trouble deleting it's repurcussions from our perception of ourselves. It's a shame, really, because in reality, we get praise from all kinds of sources that we barely notice at the time and certainly don't deposit in our self-esteem banks:
"Great dinner, Mom!"
"That looks nice on you, dear."
"I wouldn't trust this important project with anyone else."
"You're my BFF!"
And yet all the implied compliments, love, and trust are wiped out by one flippant negative remark:
"Don't be rediculous."
"You've got to be kidding me - you really don't get it?"
"My grandmother has a skirt just like that."
"How are you planning to shrink the skin back up now that you've lost weight?"
(Believe it or not, that last one was a real comment I received after a speaking gig.)
And so many times we're deathly afraid of receiving criticism - even helpful, necessary criticism that would help us refine, revise and perfect our skills.
An example would be yesterday when I lead group of neighborhood gals in a Bible Study lesson I wrote and wanted critiqued for possible publication. During the six months we've been meeting weekly, these lovely ladies have become dear friends, so what was I afraid of? I don't know, but I sure was. I was nervous as a cat at a dog show and held my breath at the end after the last prayer was said and I knew comments would follow.
Of course they were kind, and the helpful suggestions for improvement were framed sensitively and Oreo'ed between praise. Yet I'd erected my inner steel wall and braced myself for arrows.
It guess life's just a balancing act in many ways, and learning to accept and internalize praise (not brush it off or overlook it) and downplay criticism (all I could do about the weight loss/wrinkle dig was laugh it off) are just part of rehearsal.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Want a Bun with that Beef?
I've got a new pet peeve. The cyber-selfish.
I've always felt a bit annoyed when people with whom you're chatting speak only of themselves. You know the type - a conversation consists of you asking them one question after another about their recent exploits because it never occurs to them to ask you anything personal or take an interest in the details of your life.
Sadly, it has been my experience to encounter significantly more of these eg0-centric folk than others-centric. In fact, they are the rule. Exceptions, though quite refreshing when encountered, are few and far between. My family has, upon return from a party or social event, been able to count on one hand the rare caring individuals who delve deeper than "How are you?" and actually listen to the answers.
Well now technology has provided yet another way to make people feel unimportant. I've recently become aware, as have both my husband and grown daughter, of those who blog and e-mail under the guise of friendship only for commercial gain or to promote their cause/book/business/whatever.
I suppose they've always existed - those who join churches or clubs just to have access to a larger clientele pool and such - but for some reason it's extra annoying when they invade my computer space.
It's bad enough when their eyes flit around while they're talking to you at a gathering, checking out who's more important so they don't have to waste any more time on you than absolutely necessary. But it's just as obvious when they never ask one personal question about you, ignore your Facebook comments on their frequent posts, and mention their cause/book/business/whatever in every single correspondence you receive. Which of course, are all mass e-mails or forwards.
Okay, I feel better now.
Do me a favor, will ya? If I ever bore you to tears talking about my life, my books, my granddog (no grandchildren yet but I'm sure that will be an issue too) and neglect to make you feel like a person of interest, respect and dignity, please tell me.
For I truly believe the old adage: People may not remember what you say but they'll always remember how you made them feel.
I've always felt a bit annoyed when people with whom you're chatting speak only of themselves. You know the type - a conversation consists of you asking them one question after another about their recent exploits because it never occurs to them to ask you anything personal or take an interest in the details of your life.
Sadly, it has been my experience to encounter significantly more of these eg0-centric folk than others-centric. In fact, they are the rule. Exceptions, though quite refreshing when encountered, are few and far between. My family has, upon return from a party or social event, been able to count on one hand the rare caring individuals who delve deeper than "How are you?" and actually listen to the answers.
Well now technology has provided yet another way to make people feel unimportant. I've recently become aware, as have both my husband and grown daughter, of those who blog and e-mail under the guise of friendship only for commercial gain or to promote their cause/book/business/whatever.
I suppose they've always existed - those who join churches or clubs just to have access to a larger clientele pool and such - but for some reason it's extra annoying when they invade my computer space.
It's bad enough when their eyes flit around while they're talking to you at a gathering, checking out who's more important so they don't have to waste any more time on you than absolutely necessary. But it's just as obvious when they never ask one personal question about you, ignore your Facebook comments on their frequent posts, and mention their cause/book/business/whatever in every single correspondence you receive. Which of course, are all mass e-mails or forwards.
Okay, I feel better now.
Do me a favor, will ya? If I ever bore you to tears talking about my life, my books, my granddog (no grandchildren yet but I'm sure that will be an issue too) and neglect to make you feel like a person of interest, respect and dignity, please tell me.
For I truly believe the old adage: People may not remember what you say but they'll always remember how you made them feel.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
A Title is Born
Sooo excited to finalize the title of my newest Barbour book this week. After bantering back and forth, my wonderful editor and I agreed on a doozy: Too Blessed to Stay Stressed. It's the first book of a series for frazzled women and I've been amazed about the feedback I've received in the few days since the announcement was made:
'Oooh, I need to read that book now!"
"Want to interview me for your book? I'm the expert on stress!"
"Can't wait to sink my teeth into that one!"
"Hey, I could write a few volumes about stress!"
Just affirms that today's women are trying to keep so many balls in the air, we're feeling the strain. We yearn for relief from the fray. We want to stop the madness!
I'm so happy to be able to share with my frenzied friends some of the things Papa God has been teaching me - practical pathways to everyday peace. Of course, sometimes my foot slips off the path and I end up ragged out and battle-weary at the end of a busy day. But I think that's all part of the plan. We have to experience the worst before we can appreciate the better.
And that's what makes a terrific book - when we pour ourselves and our experiences into print. Our passion transfers and then transforms the reader as we go through our own metamorphosis.
May our blessings overshadow our stressings!
'Oooh, I need to read that book now!"
"Want to interview me for your book? I'm the expert on stress!"
"Can't wait to sink my teeth into that one!"
"Hey, I could write a few volumes about stress!"
Just affirms that today's women are trying to keep so many balls in the air, we're feeling the strain. We yearn for relief from the fray. We want to stop the madness!
I'm so happy to be able to share with my frenzied friends some of the things Papa God has been teaching me - practical pathways to everyday peace. Of course, sometimes my foot slips off the path and I end up ragged out and battle-weary at the end of a busy day. But I think that's all part of the plan. We have to experience the worst before we can appreciate the better.
And that's what makes a terrific book - when we pour ourselves and our experiences into print. Our passion transfers and then transforms the reader as we go through our own metamorphosis.
May our blessings overshadow our stressings!
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Squashed
I was riding my bike out in the country today when something caught my eye in the road. It was a colorful little snake coiled in a patch of sunshine in the middle of my lane. Traffic was very light - almost nonexistant - on this tree-lined back road late on a Saturday afternoon, so of course I had to stop alongside and check it out.
Golly - seems like all I'm doing lately is talking about reptiles, doesn't it?
Now bear in mind I'm a backwoods girl raised by a swamp. Never held much fear of snakes and in fact have had my share of the swiggly things tucked away in a pocket or two.
But as soon as I saw this little guy, I knew he wasn't a pocket-dweller. He was a coral. Red on black won't hurt Jack; black on yellow'll kill a fellow. All swamp rats know how to tell the difference between a harmless scarlet kingsnake and a poisonous coral snake. And we never harm the one and just steer clear of the other.
I stared at him and he stared back at me in mutual respect. Skirting him by a safe five feet, I admired the crystilline beauty of his vivid colors. One of God's masterpieces of design. Coral snakes don't strike or jump at you like other poisonous snakes; they're actually not aggressive at all. You have to practically step on one for it to defend itself and bite, and then it has to sort of chew on you to do any damage.
Anyhow, along comes a truck toward us in the other lane. A shiny silver pick-up driven by a young redneck in a cowboy hat. He slowed down a mite to see what was so interesting to the lady on the bike, and then sped up right as he got to us. Swerving way out of his lane, he intentionally ran his oversized tires right over the little snake, squashing reptile innards all over the road at my feet.
Now I know there are different ways of looking at every issue, and I might feel differently if a coral snake were latched onto the ankle of my toddler, but my blood boiled at the needless taking of this life just because of the color of its skin.
That little snake wasn't bothering anyone. It was just enjoying a little sun-bathing on a warm road. It wasn't encroaching in anyone's habitat, we were in his. I can't believe I'm admitting this but my eyes teared up at the unjust scene of a destroyed creature whose only offense was being himself and a smug self-appointed executioner driving away to his Bud Light.
Makes me realize the sting of prejudice among humankind. The unfairness, the folly of judging someone simply by the color of their skin. Or their tribe. Or their ancestry.
Maybe it's the judge - the guy in the truck and even me sometimes - who ought to be squashed all over the road. There but by God's grace goes each of us.
Golly - seems like all I'm doing lately is talking about reptiles, doesn't it?
Now bear in mind I'm a backwoods girl raised by a swamp. Never held much fear of snakes and in fact have had my share of the swiggly things tucked away in a pocket or two.
But as soon as I saw this little guy, I knew he wasn't a pocket-dweller. He was a coral. Red on black won't hurt Jack; black on yellow'll kill a fellow. All swamp rats know how to tell the difference between a harmless scarlet kingsnake and a poisonous coral snake. And we never harm the one and just steer clear of the other.
I stared at him and he stared back at me in mutual respect. Skirting him by a safe five feet, I admired the crystilline beauty of his vivid colors. One of God's masterpieces of design. Coral snakes don't strike or jump at you like other poisonous snakes; they're actually not aggressive at all. You have to practically step on one for it to defend itself and bite, and then it has to sort of chew on you to do any damage.
Anyhow, along comes a truck toward us in the other lane. A shiny silver pick-up driven by a young redneck in a cowboy hat. He slowed down a mite to see what was so interesting to the lady on the bike, and then sped up right as he got to us. Swerving way out of his lane, he intentionally ran his oversized tires right over the little snake, squashing reptile innards all over the road at my feet.
Now I know there are different ways of looking at every issue, and I might feel differently if a coral snake were latched onto the ankle of my toddler, but my blood boiled at the needless taking of this life just because of the color of its skin.
That little snake wasn't bothering anyone. It was just enjoying a little sun-bathing on a warm road. It wasn't encroaching in anyone's habitat, we were in his. I can't believe I'm admitting this but my eyes teared up at the unjust scene of a destroyed creature whose only offense was being himself and a smug self-appointed executioner driving away to his Bud Light.
Makes me realize the sting of prejudice among humankind. The unfairness, the folly of judging someone simply by the color of their skin. Or their tribe. Or their ancestry.
Maybe it's the judge - the guy in the truck and even me sometimes - who ought to be squashed all over the road. There but by God's grace goes each of us.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Feeling Your Pain
I was preparing to speak about the healing power of empathy last week when God brought the point home in a very moving object lesson.
Our neighborhood ladies Bible Study had just gotten under way Friday when Lynn (name changed) appeared at the front door, visibly shaken and puffy-eyed.
"Can you please pray for me?" she asked, her voice breaking mid-sentence. "I have to put my dog down and the pet hospice vet is coming to the house at 3:00 to euthanize him."
Lynn's beloved Chippy was nearly 14, deaf, and suffering from congestive heart failure. He'd begun having seizures all night and she knew, as shattering as the decision was, that it was time. But knowing it's the right thing to do doesn't make it easier.
We surrounded Lynn and laying our hands on her quivering body, prayed for God to give her His supernatural comfort and peace during this most difficult time. Lynn left immediately afterward, saying she wanted to spend as much time as possible with Chippy.
I couldn't stop thinking about Lynn the rest of the day. She was divorced and her kids were grown; Chippy was all she had. My heart ached for her. As much as I didn't want to relive the searing pain of having to put my sweet dog, Dusty, down several years before, I knew it was time for me to act as Jesus' hands and feet on earth. I cancelled my afternoon appointments and went to Lynn's house around 2:30.
The vet was an hour late arriving, which heaped hot coals upon Lynn's heart as we waited for the dreadful inevitable. But the beautiful part was that during that agonizing hour, one by one, four more girls from the neighborhood Bible Study trickled in to add their support. When the horrible moment finally came, we were a cohesive prayer force.
We cried with Lynn and laughed through our tears over funny stories about Chippy. We were God's love with skin on it.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4 tells us that God never wastes a hurt. He comforts us in our affliction so that we will in turn be able to comfort others.
Jesus demonstrated the healing power of empathizing with those who are suffering when he cried with Mary and Martha in mourning their brother's death, although he knew Lazerus would be restored to life and health in a matter of hours. He chose to enter their grief and feel their pain.
Jesus wept. One of the shortest but most powerful verses in the Bible.
Empathy opens up a channel directly from the heart to the Holy Spirit. It's a ministry we all can be a part of if we put just forth the necessary time and effort.
Our neighborhood ladies Bible Study had just gotten under way Friday when Lynn (name changed) appeared at the front door, visibly shaken and puffy-eyed.
"Can you please pray for me?" she asked, her voice breaking mid-sentence. "I have to put my dog down and the pet hospice vet is coming to the house at 3:00 to euthanize him."
Lynn's beloved Chippy was nearly 14, deaf, and suffering from congestive heart failure. He'd begun having seizures all night and she knew, as shattering as the decision was, that it was time. But knowing it's the right thing to do doesn't make it easier.
We surrounded Lynn and laying our hands on her quivering body, prayed for God to give her His supernatural comfort and peace during this most difficult time. Lynn left immediately afterward, saying she wanted to spend as much time as possible with Chippy.
I couldn't stop thinking about Lynn the rest of the day. She was divorced and her kids were grown; Chippy was all she had. My heart ached for her. As much as I didn't want to relive the searing pain of having to put my sweet dog, Dusty, down several years before, I knew it was time for me to act as Jesus' hands and feet on earth. I cancelled my afternoon appointments and went to Lynn's house around 2:30.
The vet was an hour late arriving, which heaped hot coals upon Lynn's heart as we waited for the dreadful inevitable. But the beautiful part was that during that agonizing hour, one by one, four more girls from the neighborhood Bible Study trickled in to add their support. When the horrible moment finally came, we were a cohesive prayer force.
We cried with Lynn and laughed through our tears over funny stories about Chippy. We were God's love with skin on it.
2 Corinthians 1:3-4 tells us that God never wastes a hurt. He comforts us in our affliction so that we will in turn be able to comfort others.
Jesus demonstrated the healing power of empathizing with those who are suffering when he cried with Mary and Martha in mourning their brother's death, although he knew Lazerus would be restored to life and health in a matter of hours. He chose to enter their grief and feel their pain.
Jesus wept. One of the shortest but most powerful verses in the Bible.
Empathy opens up a channel directly from the heart to the Holy Spirit. It's a ministry we all can be a part of if we put just forth the necessary time and effort.
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