I Want to be Like Her When I Grow Up

Okay, so it's a week after Valentine's Day, but love never goes out of style, right?

I just had to share with you this awesome story I ran across about a 108-year-old lady who really rocked. It ties in well to the chapter in my new book, Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate, about not being afraid to try new things.

Sadie Galego was born in 1900 in a small town in Maine where horse-drawn carriages were the norm. As a teenager, Sadie packed sardines for 25 cents per hundred cans. She went on to teach for forty years in the same classroom, a stereotypical old maid schoolmarm with a heart of gold for the thousands of students who became the children she never had.

After retirement, she grew tired of the same ole same ole and became a world traveler, hopping on planes to see exotic places and experience new thrills. Then, at age 89, she got married for the first time - to a man 12 years younger!


Yep, Sadie robbed the cradle. Or at least the rocking chair. She had been friends with Frank for more than 30 years when they suddenly decided to get married, surprising their families with the good news only just before the wedding. They lived happily together in a retirement center until Sadie up and outlived her husband by 8 years before she passed away in 2009.

Now's the right time for a brief quote from my book:
"Becoming a risk-taker is, well ...risky. Probably because most of us prefer our safe little lives of relentless repetition. They're just so ding-dang comfortable. Why change something that's no muss, no fuss, to risk appearing ridiculous, or incomepetent, or just plain wrong?

I'll tell you why: because Papa God intended our lives to be abundant: "I have come that they may have life, and that they may have it more abundantly" (John 10:10, NKJV).And living abundantly includes facing a series of opportunities that requires taking risks.

We mustn't be afraid to try something new. Helen Keller said, "Life is either a daring adventure or nothing."

Cinderella, who had never before been to a ball, was overheard marveling, "One shoe can make all the difference."

Noah had never built even a dinghy before he took on the ark.

If you never try new things, you'll turn into a tree stump. And sooner or later the termites of atrophy will gnaw away at you until you're nothing but sawdust. Limp, lifeless, useless sawdust.

Now really, is that the kind of life you want?"

Well, is it, dear reader? I'd love to hear from you how you avoid a tree stump existence.

Top 10 Fears Women Face (part 2)

Photograph by Marian Crawford

*Be sure to scroll down and read the first part of this post if you haven't already. The top ten fears listed in my book Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate are based on a survey I conducted of 500 women between the ages of 18 and 80.

Okay, got your guess of the top 5 fears penned and ready?

They are in descending order:

1. Loss of a loved one (spouse/child/parents)
2. Debilitating illness/terminal disease
3. Failure
4. Old age/senility
5. The unknown/the what-ifs

Other common fears that were repeated but didn't quite make the top 10 were:
- Trying new things
- Purposelessness
- Depression
- The dark
- Flying
- Public Speaking
- Disappointing others

So how do your personal fears compare with those of your peers?

You know, our fears spotlight what matters to us most ... those hidden corners of our life in which we trust Papa God the least.

Those are the hot spots we need to work on. Because fear first worms its way into our thinking processes, then it affects our actions. If we allow fear to continue to wreak havoc in our lives unimpeded, it can eventually erode our self esteem, relationships, and even our faith.

But remember, we can't embrace change until we let go of fear. And change is a product of the power, love, and self-discipline referred to in 2 Timothy 1:7: "For God has not given us a spirit of fear and timidity, but of power, love, and self-discipline."

We need that change, don't we? A change from imprisoning phobias, destructive anxiety, and unproductive fretting. A change from worries that keep us stretched tighter than size 8 jeans over a size 12 tushie.

A change that will enable us to boldly step up to our fear monster, grab his beard, and as his mask falls away in our hands, realize that what's beneath there isn't really as frightening as we thought.

Top 10 Fears Women Face (part 1)

In honor of the recent release of my new book, Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate, for the next few months I'll be interspersing posts based on excerpts from the book. I'd love to hear your feedback! Here goes ...

In my travels as a speaker, I've encountered countless women like me who have spent years running from their own personal fear monsters.

Some fears have names and specific countenances; others are faceless, frightening creatures that lurk in the shadows just out of sight. But we know they're there. We feel them. And we yearn to boldly step up to those fear monsters and yank off their masks.

In order to pinpoint real fears women struggles with on a daily basis, I conducted a survey of 500 random women between the ages of 18 and 80. I was surprised at the results - I fully expected fear of being alone to rank among the top two or at least three, but it was number six!

There are five other fears that dog us gals even more.

Okay, just for fun, before you read any further, take out a pad and pen and see if you can guess what the top ten fears of all the women polled were. Dollars to doughnuts your own personal fear monsters will show up somewhere on that list.

Ready to see how good a guesser you are? Here's the bottom half of the top 10 list in descending order:

6. Loneliness
7. Dependency on others
8. Rejection
9. Specific critters (e.g. snakes, roaches, rats)
10. Being judged unfairly

So what do you think the top 5 fears are? (Now don't cheat and look it up in F3!)

Yup, I'm gonna make you wait until my next post for the answer. But I'll give you a hint: The #1 fear was w-a-y out in front ahead of the others; in fact, double the percentage of women listed it as their worst fear above even the next highest fear (#2).

Holy moley! What do you think frightens women hands down more than anything else?  

Just sayin'...

Deb and daughter Cricket at Canadian Niagara Falls

The masculine sex has finally found their answer to the female's long-time, cover-all-sins catch phrase, "Bless her little heart."


It's long been amusing to me how women - especially southern gals - can say anything they want about someone, no matter how catty, scathing, or gossipy, and as long as they end it with "Bless her/his little heart," it's completely socially acceptable.

It's the vocabulary equivalent of ketchup.  

One of my college gal pals from Alabama was the queen of this acquired skill. She could roast a rival crispy over an open verbal fire but because she always closed with a smile so warm it could melt butter and gushed a "bless her sweet little heart," no one took offense. Quite the opposite. We even considered her extraordinarily compassionate to be blessing all those hearts all the time.

And now I see males have finally gained equality. They've taken up a slang phrase that enables them to disagree, speak their minds, spew venom, and even to ruthlessly ridicule without apology. And it's not only publicly acceptable, it's considered completely hip. Ultra-cool. Tooled. I'm just sayin'...

In case you're not completely hip, ultra-cool, or tooled, I'm not just saying nothing here ... that's the phrase: "I'm just sayin'..."

It's all over FaceBook and Twitter, used by women too, but I notice it seems to be more prevalent among guys. And rightly so - how many of the muscled, macho, hairy gender can get way with "Bless his tiny, mangy, blood-sucking heart" when they disagree with someone? Now they can rent, tear, and rip apart other people with a smile on their face just like us girls.

Recently I've seen statements like:
"That's the stupedest thing I've ever heard. I'm just sayin'..."
"You can't believe anything he says, he's such a liar. Just sayin'..."
"You're not really going out with her? Just sayin'..."

It might behoove us all to remember one of my favorite scriptures about now: "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." No, wait. Oops. That's the gospel according to my mother.

Actually, it's Proverbs 21:23 (NLT): "Keep your mouth shut, and you will stay out of trouble."

Now there's some sage advice. Plain. Wise. Always hip.

And if you refuse to heed it, you deserve to be stung by ten thousand angry bees and swell up bigger than the Good Year blimp.

Just sayin' ...

   

Rising Above Haves and Have-Nots

I felt my face prickle with heat but this time it wasn't a hot flash. It was the humiliating realization that I was a Have-Not in this particular place and time and there was nothing I could do to change that.

We all know they exist: the Haves and the Have-Nots.

First there are the Haves. Those who are accepted in a specific environment - the peeps, the gang, the Sistahs. They're quietly respected; the natural leaders who others seem to automatically fall in line behind.

Often they're the ones with the highest skill level or who have achieved the most acclaim or accomplishments within the tribe. They aren't necessarily boastful or cocky; some are actually quite humble. But they definitely belong and everyone knows it. It's a given.

Then there are the Have-Nots. They're the ones who might hang out with the group, but somehow are not the same. They're on a different level - a slightly lower level - and although the Haves may be friendly enough, and include them as part of the whole, there's an invisible barrier that separates them and they're never really in the group, only with the group.

You know exactly what I mean. Right?

We've all been in situations where we're the Haves, and other situations where we're the Have-Nots. Naturally, we gravitate toward the former and avoid the latter if at all possible. Nobody wants to feel like a K-Mart purse in a rack full of Pradas.

I recently came across the terrific advice, "Go where you're celebrated, not where you're tolerated."

A good idea to bolster sagging self-esteem, surely, but not something we can always do. Sometimes, the circumstances of life toss us into groups of people where we may be unknown, disrespected, unappreciated, and dreadfully uncomfortable. But we must stay there for one reason or another.

I was in one of those just last week. In fact, it won't be the last time; I'll be affiliated with that same group of people superior to me for many weeks to come. After I came home feeling wretched from being repeatedly stuffed onto the bottom shelf, or worse yet, ignored completely, I realized that I was going to have to find some way to endure the situation, because it wasn't going away.

It was going to feel like being chosen last for the 8th grade kickball team every single week for the entire school year.

So I prayed. Lord, throw me a life preserver - some sort of tool that will help me hold my head up and shoulders back when I'm with these people. I know they're better than me at this particular activity, and my best never will be good enough from their perspective. So please help me endure. No, not just endure, but enjoy myself ... if that's even possible.

And wouldn't you know? He sent me a message. A very important message that helped me glory in my smallness. A special reminder that Papa God delights in making small things great.

"His mighty arm does tremendous things! How he scatters the proud and haughty ones! He has taken princes from their thrones and exalted the lowly," Luke 1:51-52 (NLT).

So I'm going to return to that group this week with a new attitude. I will be smiling. I will be gracious. Because I have a secret. I know something they don't. It's okay if I'm on the bottom rung of the ladder, because one day we lowly's will be exalted. And I may even get to be the kickball captain!        

Shedding the Snakeskin

You know, now that I'm past that half-century mark in age, I wake up in the morning, look in the mirror, and realize that the new me is now the old me.

Sigh.

I guess this thought crystallized last Saturday when I arrived at my first Senior tennis match of the season. Yes, Senior.

Senior.

In tennis terms, that means 55 and counting. But the two gals my partner and I were playing against sure didn't look like seniors. They looked like hard-bodied, uber-energetic thirty-year-olds who had forgotten their moisturizers that morning. I mean really, until you got up close enough to see a few crows feet and forehead creases, you'd never know these trim, pony-tailed, cellulite-free gals were past the potty training years.

I had to fight the temptation to demand they cough up their driver's licenses.

Without meaning to, I became acutely aware of the gray sprigs sproinging wildly from beneath my terrycloth headband and the ample thigh skin that kept jiggling long after I stopped running.

Hey - why can't women shed old loose skin like snakes do? Every spring, we could simply scrape that saggy, baggy, crinkly wrapper encasing our youthful insides off on a sharp rock. We could start over fresh, with unmarred, supple, beautiful new skin, soft as a baby's bottom.

Reminds me of the day last April when I walked out my back door to empty a trash can and encountered a perfectly intact four-foot snakeskin caught in the vines atop our wooden fence. It was the perfect shape and markings of our serpent friend, Servius (Spouse and I named the pleasant reptilian fellow who likes to drape himself along the top of the fence). Only Servius wasn't in there. He was about 3 yards further down the fence basking in the sunshine. He looked so happy and carefree - as happy and carefree as snakes can look - to be rid of that itchy, peeling, confining shell that probably felt like a too-tight sausage casing.

He appeared so jubilant, I thought he might burst into song at any moment, "I feel pretty, oh, so pretty ..." 

How utterly wonderful for him, I thought. He gets a chance to start all over. To discard any flaws, pimples, age spots, or imperfections that might have marred him in reptile world, and enjoy a do-over. Better luck next time. A full body make-over.

But alas, for some reason, Papa God didn't think this system would bode well for us humans. Pity.

So instead I'll have to figure out ways to encase the jiggling thigh-u-lite in spandex, squeech out the facial wrinkles with alligator clips behind the ears, grow bangs over the forehead furrows, and invest in vats of moisturizer.

And be grateful that the new old me is still here to distress over it :D

Celebrating the New Year

While reading Michael Hyatt's "Intentional Leadership" blog post this week (if you don't subscribe, you really should!), I was skewered by a life specific principle Michael quoted from his mentor, best-selling author Robert D. Smith. It went like this:

"Eat dessert first. Learn to celebrate life and then live out of that celebration."

I think the reason these wise words resonated with me is because of the "Life Saver of the Month" (like Flavor of the Month but much sweeter) scriptures I had recently written on the first day of each month on my 2013 calendar.

Life Saver of the Month scriptures are an idea I came up with to help me focus on a short, pithy, powerful new verse each month of the new year, so that by next December, I'll have 12 new weapons to add to my spiritual arsenal. On the first day of the month, I jot the Life Saver verse on sticky notes and post them in all the places I'll be sure to see them daily ... my bathroom mirror, car console, the Godiva stash in my desk drawer. You know, the go-to  hot spots.

Then, every time I run across the Life Saver, I repeat it aloud and let it marinate in my mind. Savor the Saver. Suck the joy out of that spiritual treat until it's completely digested and permanently implanted in my innards. 

As I encountered Robert Smith's clever advice, I was struck with how very similar it was to several of the Life Saver's I'd chosen to focus on this year. I noticed a repetitive theme: praise and celebration of life. The concept is obviously as important to Papa God as it is to Mr. Smith.

"Let your living spill over into thanksgiving." (Col 2:7, MSG)

"Let's not sleepwalk through life like those others." (1 Thes 5:6, MSG)

"May the Master pour on the love so it fills your lifes and splashes over on everyone around you." (1 Thes 3:12, MSG)

"It's the praising life that honors me." (Psalm 50:23, MSG).

Altering my pessimistic thinking so that my mood stays out of the gutter is something I've always struggled with, and I suspect that's why I was attracted to these particular verses for my collection of Life Savers during my quiet times throughout 2012.

And then Papa reinforced that more celebration needs to be my New Year's focus by the pertinent words of Michael and Robert (both vibrant Christ-followers).

Okay. I get it. Thanks, Lord. Simple but profound. And very do-able.

So how about you? During this time of listing New Year's resolutions, have you decided what's going to be your New Year's spiritual focus? I'd love to hear it.

The Candy that Says it All

Earlier this month, as I was getting in the spirit of celebrating the birth of the Christ child, I bought a dozen candy canes to hang upon my snowman decoration standing with his little wooden arms outstretched for such a festive purpose.

I was surprised, upon inspection of the candy cane box, to learn the following about the delightful holiday confections.

The candy cane was invented back in 1670 by a German choirmaster, who partially melted and bent white stick candies into the shape of a shepherd's staff to amuse the antsy children in his Christmas choir during the long service.

The custom spread throughout Europe during the following centuries, and came to America with a German immigrant named August Imgard in 1847, who was the first to decorate his tree with the still-all-white candies.

Sometime around 1900, a candy maker in Indiana wanted to create a Christmas confection that bore witness to the true significance of the occasion, so he added red stripes and advertised the following associated symbolism:

White: represented the virgin birth and sinless nature of Jesus.
Red: represented the blood that was shed by Jesus on the cross so that we could have the promise of eternal life.
"J" shape: represented the name of Jesus, as well as the staff of the Good Shepherd, who sent his son, Jesus, into the world to be the sacrificial lamb for the sins of the world.

It's unknown if this same Indiana candy man added peppermint flavor at this time, but someone did at the turn of the 20th century and the rest, as they say, is history.

So the next time you find yourself nibbling on a candy cane, take a moment to thank Papa God for your most precious gift this Christmas!

Wishing you and yours a happy and holy celebration of the Christ-child's birth.

Pass the Iguana Repellant

Does Deb look as scared as she feels?

As I climbed the six steps to the stage that Saturday in December, my hand shook as I reached for the handrail and prayed I wouldn't stumble over my unaccustomed high heels and go sprawling.

I was about to speak to 400 hot-tea-and-scone-satiated women who had paid real money to be there.They expected something worthwhile in return. From me.

Gulp.

Over the past half hour, I'd become intimately acquainted with that dreadful Spirit of Fear the apostle Paul warns about in 2 Tim 1:7 (more about this later). 

In truth, I'm not usually so spirit-aware. It was probably because I'd been recently re-reading Frank Peretti's incredibly graphic novel, This Present Darkness, about spiritual warfare happening unbeknownst to us, right under our noses, that the reality of the situation became so apparent. I could almost picture that scaly, sulfur-breathing fear iguana-creature clinging to my back, whispering self-esteem shattering lies into my ear.

Who do you think you are speaking to these women? They need someone with real wisdom like Beth Moore or Joyce Meyer ... not a flawed fake like you. 

You're going to let them down. They'll all ask for a refund. 

God never called you to do this, you know. You're not a speaker. You're going to FAIL big time. 

Trouble was, there was a glimmer of truth in that last one. And a partial lie is always harder to combat than a blatant lie.

I had never signed up to be a speaker, only a writer. Nine years before when I had answered Papa God's calling to write, I never dreamed it would come to this. The irony of me speaking to audiences was obvious to those who knew me well - I'd always struggled to express myself verbally, to find the appropriate word, the right phrase while the person with whom I was conversing waited patiently (or not) on me to finish my sentence. Words just wouldn't come to me when I needed them most.

A speech therapist called it anomia. I called it a curse.

And then came my call to write. One thing led to another and I began finding myself on stages, trembling behind podiums. Are you serious, Lord?  

So as I tentatively made my way across the stage that winter morning, I prayed desperately. And help arrived. First in the truthful promise of 2 Tim 1:7, which thankfully I'd memorized and was therefore loaded and ready for battle in my spiritual warfare arsenal: "God has not given us a spirit of timidity, but of power and love and self-discipline."

Power and love and self-discipline. Just the ticket. Say it again, Deb: Power and love and self-discipline.

And as if on cue, the first person who caught my eye in the vast audience was one of my Bible Study sisters who knew of my struggles and had promised to pray for me. One look at her broad smile, and I knew she hadn't just promised ... she was doing it AT THAT VERY MOMENT. In fact, six other heart-sisters and my prayer warrior husband came to mind, and I knew they were all praying too. Power!


In an instant, I felt that evil iguana-creature's claws retract and cause it to loosen it's grip on my mind. It fell to the floor with a thud and a lovely warmth like Holy Spirit honey poured over my skittish heart, calming me and filling me with the confidence and discipline I lacked.

Looking out at the full auditorium, I felt an overflow of love for those women, many hurting, many searching. They didn't need a perfect speaker. They needed someone they could identify with in the trenches. They needed flawed, struggling, imperfect me.

I was here as Papa God's ambassador. It didn't matter how poorly or wonderfully I spoke, He would take care of the outcome. Those listening would each hear only what He wanted them to hear, whether I said it with words, or the Holy Spirit spoke it directly to their hearts.

To my amazement, I didn't have to stare at my notes as I had during my last rehearsal only an hour before. I didn't stumble over words and say bizarre things that make no sense, as I usually do. Thoughts came in perfect sequence and with such little effort on my part, I knew without a doubt this message wasn't coming from me. For His strength is indeed perfected in my weakness.

I had a lot of help. Supernatural help. And some iguana repellant. 

"Be strong and courageous, and act; do not fear nor be dismayed, for the Lord God , my God, is with you. He will not fail you nor forsake you" (1 Chronicles 28:20, NASB).












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Goodness Gracious Me (Part 2)

This is the finale of the story I began in the previous post about trying not to morf into a toad in response to an encounter with a particularly ungracious toady person. Got one (or more) of those toad-people in your life? I'd love to hear how you handle them.

In the meantime, please scroll back to Part 1 to refresh your memory before you continue reading.



- - - - - - - -
Mrs. Persimmon’s tirade about the equipment I’d inadvertently broken droned on. I couldn’t have felt worse about it but no matter how apologetic I was, she couldn’t get past it.

Then suddenly, like a heavy brocade curtain dropping, she stopped in mid-rant, turned to the class and said, “Today is the Great American Teach-in. This lady is here to talk to you about whatever it is she does.” She then returned to her desk. We all stared at the back of her crimson neck as she turned her back to us and began pounding an agitated rhythm on her computer keys.

So the ball was in my court. I felt about two inches tall. I was a bad girl. Bad, bad girl. And everyone present knew it.

My first impulse was to pack up my things, take my toys and go home. But 30 pairs of adolescent eyes were looking expectantly at me. I couldn’t tell if they were waiting to see me burst into tears (which is what I feared might happen at any moment), or if they truly wanted to see how a grown-up person should handle an embarrassing situation.

When did I become so grown-up anyway? I may be fifty-something on the outside, but on the inside I’m often still a kid. This, however, was a time I knew I had to fake it and act mature.

So with face blazing, I fumbled forward. It was the most flustered, disjointed presentation I’ve ever given, but at least I made it through to the end. And oddly enough, the kids loved it.  

Mrs. Persimmon, who had kept typing non-stop during my program, remained frosty when the bell rang and the first set of students was exchanged for another. She basically ignored me.

“Get out your books and read,” the new class was instructed as I stood at the front waiting to be introduced and begin my next presentation. After five minutes, I finally sat down and looked to Mrs. Persimmon for some sort of explanation or instruction. None was forthcoming. She continued to peck at her keyboard.

Am I being punished? I wondered. Or has she forgotten I’m here?

When ten minutes of my 50-minute allotted time had ticked away (she was well aware that my PowerPoint took every bit of 50 minutes), I approached her desk and asked how much longer it would be until I could begin.

Sheepishly, she answered, “A few more minutes. I guess I should have told you that this group always reads during the first portion of class.”

“That would have been good to know, yes,” I replied.

Looking directly into my eyes for the first time since our initial explosive encounter, she added in an almost-pleasant tone, “By the way, the media specialist just e-mailed that the broken equipment can be replaced immediately, so everything will turn out fine.”

“Well, I’m very glad to hear it,” I said, resisting the temptation to say, “Fine? You call the humiliation you’ve caused me fine?” Try as I might, I was having a terrible time not biting back with the same hostile tone with which she’d earlier lambasted me. I wanted so badly to tell her just how rude she’d been and that I would never, ever, EVER do another classroom presentation because of her.

But in a flash of insight, I realized that if I did, I’d actually become the 12-year-old I felt like at that moment. I had to let this anger go. I needed to BARF.

BARF is the anger-management tool I talk about in my book, More Beauty, Less Beast, and the upcoming Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate. It’s an acronym that stands for:
B: Back Off
A: Admit
R: Redirect
F: Forgive  
   
So I BARFed. I excused myself to the restroom (backed off; put physical distance between my offender and myself) and admitted to a roll of toilet paper that I felt so disrespected and belittled that I wanted to stuff it’s very self where the sun don’t shine on Persimmons.  

I had to wait on the last two steps for awhile, but it turned out to be easy to redirect my intense feelings when I went to pack up my equipment and found that my projector case had been stolen and Mrs. Persimmon sympathetically promised to try to track it down (it was found the next morning thrown into the bushes behind one of the buildings).

So did BARFing make my bad experience turn into a good one?
No.

Did it change anything that had happened or alter my offender’s actions in any way?
No.

Did it drain away my seething resentment toward Mrs. Persimmon and pour a little much-needed graciousness into my spirit? 
Yep. It absolutely did. And graciousness is the hardest thing in the world to come by in responding to ungraciousness, isn’t it?

Our commonly perceived definition of “gracious” is “marked by kindness and courtesy.”  But Webster adds, “godly” and “compassionate” and “generosity of spirit” to the portrait of graciousness. As my friend Marian reminds me, even the bad stuff – maybe especially the bad stuff – serves to make Papa God increase within us as the “I” decreases.

Gracious is what I want to be, what I aspire to be. But it’s very tough to be gracious when the Persimmons of this world bring out the 12-year-old in me. Handling a toad often makes me turn into one too. But it doesn't have to be that way.

With a little more BARFing, I hope that one day my insides will grow up to match my outsides.