Interview with an Aligator

My little buddy...

Smile for the camera!

Picture Perfect

There's nothing quite like holding pictures of your loved ones in your grubby little hand.

Call me old fashioned, but I just can't get the same warm, fuzzy thrill out of looking at cold electronic photos. It's too much like viewing someone else's life, too far removed from that private place inside that croons, "Awwww" when you're caressing a fave memory. Something crucial and not really easy to explain is missing when you can't respond with your tactile senses.

Stroking a computer screen just doesn't cut it.

Anyhow, I mentioned something like this to Chuck the other day. Actually, it was more like, "I hate not having real pictures anymore." I wasn't even sure he was listening, but the dear man just plunked an 8-inch stack of several hundred printed photos on my desk. They must be every digital photo we've shot during the last year. Wow.

Pitter pat goes my heart. I love that guy!

Guess it's time to unearth the old albums and have some fun.

True Love is Black Duct Tape

Last Friday I was in a huge rush to make it to our neighborhood Bible Study on time.

I'd rushed home from my tennis match (which I lost, leaving me in a bit of a blue funk to start with) with no time to shower. I spashed on some fruity-smelling body wash over my sweaty tennis clothes, dabbed a little make-up over my newly sprouted sun-induced freckles, threw my purse, Bible, and study book into my bicycle handlebar basket (yes, yes - I have a basket like the Wicked Witch of the West) and careened down the sloped driveway already ten minutes late.

As my front tire hit the gutter at the base of my driveway, the flimsy gizmo connecting the basket to the bike popped off, flinging my purse out and spewing the contents all over the road directly in front of my tires. As I ran over my new leather Coach purse (the only one I've ever owned, which now sports a tire tread down the center), I heard tubes of lipstick crack and all my other essential items of life spread out through the cul-de-sac like a rock slide.

Miraculously, I didn't crash, but the sudden stop caused by sticking my legs out catapulted my Bible onto the asphalt. It ended up spread-eagled upside down, flying bookmarks and ripped pages flapping in the breeze.

With none of the grace of my inbred Southern heritage, I heaved that aggrevious basket as far as I could into the bushes and left the stupid bicycle lying prostate in the gutter. I think I even kicked it.

I hope somebody steals it, I thought, angrily stuffing my broken stuff back into my poor violated handbag. Or maybe the garbage men will pick it up. I never want to see it again. I climbed into my car and tore off, a living testimonial to Christianity at it's finest.

By the time I arrived back home from the Bible Study, I was in a better frame of mind. I didn't even notice that the metalic offender was gone. In fact, I never gave that bike or basket another thought until the following day when, having forgotten all about my vows to forsake two-wheeled transportation forever, I entered the storage room to hop aboard for my regular 5-mile weekend bike route.

I was already astraddle before realizing the basket was somehow back in place and the tires had been reinflated. Now how did that happen? Are there bicycle fairies flitting about?

Glancing down, I had to smile at the black duct tape winding round and round the handlebars securing the basket in place until you-kn0w-where freezes over. Awww... my eyes teared up.

Apparently my husband Chuck had witnessed my Lance Armstrong fiasco through his office window and without saying a word, had gathered up my shattered Humpty Dumpty and painstakingly put all the pieces together again.

Now that's true love with a sticky back.

Repelling the Dagger

I had just finished my little speech at the women's banquet and was trying to catch my breath before manning the book table at the back of the room. A well-dressed lady whose lips were smiling but her eyes were not approached me, gushed a bit about how much she'd enjoyed the presentation, and then grabbed my arm like you would an old friend.

"Oh, Debbie," she said in an everybody-listen-to-me-now voice, "I thought what you said about losing 40-lbs was amazing. What do you plan to do to make the skin shrink back up?"

Gulp.

There's always one in every crowd. Someone who just can't find it within themselves to encourage rather than discourage. Someone who thinks their candle will shine brighter by blowing out yours.

I hope graciousness isn't becoming a relic. I value good manners and sincerely hope that a genteel countenance isn't just a cultural trait. Having been raised in the South, I have wonderful memories of two lovely white-haired ladies in floral dresses sipping mint iced tea while gracing me with their undivided attention in a room full of adults. A true gift when one feels invisible and unworthy. They were blessed with the talent of making a person feel good about herself - even a shy, chubby ten-year-old with nothing much yet to offer.

Since I've circulated more among strangers as a speaker during the last two years, I've been insulted intentionally and unintentionally many times. Thankfully, early on I learned the value of Proverbs 10:19: "Where there are many words, transgression is unavoidable, but he who restrains his lips is wise."

A simple smile in response goes a long way toward learning not to take yourself so seriously. It really doesn't hurt a bit and nobody's the better when bitterness is exchanged. Surprisingly enough, I've actually made inroads into lasting friendships when a foot-in-mouth comment or two were overlooked.

So next time someone decides to point out that I'm a human river of wrinkles, I think I'll throw my arms up in the air and let my underarm Dumbo flaps speak for themselves.

Ah, Glorious Spring!

Chuck and I just returned from a wonderful get-away week at our little cabin nestled in the mountains of N. Carolina. Spring was just dawning in our tiny yard about 3/4 of the way up a 5,000 ft peak, although it was in full swing in the valleys beneath.

So unlike our home in Florida, where the only trace of spring is often barrels of oak pollen, I was thrilled to see tulips and daffodils nosing upward from the frozen earth, soft dogwood blossoms of pink and white (sometimes grafted onto the same tree!), and multiple shades of brilliant green as hostas emerged to fill out desolate flower beds.

The creek beside our cabin fairly danced with glee as it gushed with runoff from the 60" of snow that blanketed our mountain this winter.

All small things, sure, but it was sublimely refreshing to have the time to take delight in the small things that often escape my attention in this busy life. On my long morning trail walks in the crisp 40 degree air, I intentionally thanked Papa God for each and every flower, chirping bird and ray of sunshine.

What a difference it makes to have an attitude of gratitude! My entire day was lived from a different perspective - one of humility and awe at the myriad of blessings before me, rather than worry, hurry and regret at things not accomplished.

I think that's why God makes spring. So the renewal of His earth can demonstrate to us the power of renewing our minds.

Sooo excited to be a guest blogger on Margaret McSweeney's Pearl Girls blog today!

Check it out at http://margaretmcsweeney.blogspot.com

The Real Test

The call from the Women's Center was surprising: "We've got a homeless woman here who lives in her car. She's written a book and would like to see about getting it published. Since you're an author, we wondered if you'd mind speaking with her."

I cringed quietly (didn't want the counselor to know how annoyed I was) and replied, "Well, I'm kind of busy right now, with two speaking events coming up next weekend to prepare for and a book proposal my agent wanted yesterday."

No reply.

Enter conscience. I had volunteered to help the charity "in any way I can." And I had just finished writing in my speech on "Becoming a Barnabas" the incriminating statements, "A true Encourager must be willing to be used whenever, however, and for whomever God places in her path. That means willingness to be available, even if it means interrupting our own busy schedules for unexpected developments."

Yikes! Time to put my conviction where my mouth is.

So regardless of my private eyerolling and preconceived ideas that this would be a waste of valuable time, I met with "Lynn" in the lobby of a church where we could sit in air conditioned comfort to discuss her manuscript.

To my utter astonishment, it was good. Very good. She was a bit rough around the edges in appearance (who wouldn't be, living in a car?) but was articulate and well educated. Lynn had been working on her memoir for nearly two years and had painstakingly typed it into book form on a computer at the public library.

I found her story fascinating and well written, and with some good editing, I believe it has commercial potential.

When we first met and she reluctantly turned over her well guarded manuscript to me, I could read the fear in her eyes. Or was it distrust? Probably both. Her tension was palpable. For a moment, I thought she might snatch the bundle of papers out of my hands and bolt for the door. But after I completed the first chapter, I'll never forget the light in her eyes and relief on her lined face when I assured her it was one of the best first drafts I'd ever encountered.

Her smile was absolutely radiant!

I was able to offer a few tips and recommend a professional editor I know. But most of all, despite my initial selfishness, I was able to encourage this aspiring writer who had received much discouragement and disappointment from life in recent years. I gave her a copy of my book, Grit for the Oyster: 250 Pearls of Wisdom for Aspiring Writers and invited her to our monthly writing group and a free writing mini-workshop I'll be doing at a local bookstore soon.

We hugged as kindred spirits when we parted ways, me to my nice home in a safe neighborhood and her to her rusty car packed with all her earthly possessions.

Yet I was the one most encouraged.

Sometimes it's Just Roadkill

Did you hear about the Pennsylvania man who was arrested after trying to resuscitate a possum on the side of the highway?

Nope, I ain't funnin' ya.

According to the article in the 3/27/10 Florida Times Union, a 55-year-old , um, gentleman (and I use the term loosely) was a apparently bit tipsy on his way home one afternoon. Several witnesses called in a report of a man kneeling in the road before the deceased animal, attempting to give it mouth-to-mouth resucitation.

You just can't make up stuff this good.

While we may never understand his motives, one can only assume that he was an animal lover with passions gone awry. Or eww-y in this case. A possum? Have you ever seen a possum up close and personal? That species must have been last on God's to-do list and he ran fresh out of eloquence. A wee, cuddly puppy or an adorable fawn I might understand, but a possum?

It wasn't like our guy had just hit the thing with his car; witnesses said the possum had been "dead a while." Wouldn't you love to read that police report?

Anyway, it occurred to me that trying to revive one of my old manuscripts is kind of like that. I pulled the thing out of its bottom drawer with the intention of infusing it with life and giving it one more shot at a future. After all, I spent many hours of effort and energy on that ill-fated plot years ago; why just bury it without first pulling out the electric paddles?

But you know what? It was too far gone. It had no pulse. No heartbeat. No dying breath. So I got out the coffin.

As much as writers hate to admit that every single thing they write isn't golden, we must face hard, cold facts. Sometimes it's just roadkill.

Bunny Revenge

Although I've never before observed the tradition of Lent, as I was studying the subject five weeks ago, Papa God whispered to my heart that He wanted to teach me more about personal sacrifice. I was okay with that.

Until He mentioned that chocolate - gasp! - was the sacrifice.

SIX WEEKS WITHOUT CHOCOLATE??? You've got to be kidding!

He wasn't.

The problem is that I'm a world class choco-athlete (I prefer this term over chocoholic; sounds healthier somehow). I've not missed a single day without the creamy, delicious, delightful stuff for thirty years, with the exception of four months in 2008 when I was dutifully bound by a strict no-fat diet (wonder why?)

How could I possibly give up my life blood? My reason for living past 3 PM every day? Surely I misunderstood. Instead of chocolates, maybe God said to give up socklets or wallclocks.

Only those things hold no great affinity for me and I know the purpose of Lent is self-sacrifice, reflection anad repentance. Originating before AD 1500 as a preparatory time for Easter, Lent is the forty-day period beginning on Ash Wednesday during which believers commemorate Jesus' forty-day pilgrimage into the wilderness (Matthew 4:1-2) by fasting, praying and rededicating themselves.

I realized that it was no personal sacrifice if the item I was fasting held no special meaning to me. If it wasn't melted into my very soul with its luscious Godiva tentacles wound around my heart and caressing the comfort center of my brain. Sigh.

And so I entered the Lenten season kicking and screaming, wrestling the overwhelming hourly urge to indulge my little secret vice. When you can't have something, it screams your name even louder.

With only a few days to go, you can well imagine that I'm a bit, well, on edge. Actually, I fear it's withdrawal: My hands shake, my head jerks like a squirrel's and I'm even more ornery than usual. I know this because my family and friends are now baking me brownies and begging me to take just one nibble of fudge. I don't think they can stand me much longer.

But I'm holding firm.

How pathetic that Jesus could suffer and die for me and I struggle to give up this one little thing when He asks me to. Every time I open my computer drawer containing my stash of Cadbury bars, I breathe in the heavenly aroma and remember His sacrifice for me.

It doesn't quell the craving but at least it redirects my thoughts and fills me with humble gratitude.

Another added bonus, I have definitely learned more about that prune in the fruit bowl of the spirit: self-control. But I still plan on biting the heads off every chocolate bunny I can find Easter morning.

Smiling in the Dark

I'm soooo excited that Everyday Hope has been nominated for a Retailer's Choice Award! It's such an honor even to be nominated, but the down side is that it's up against a Max Lucado book. Yikes!

It would take a real miracle to win. But hey, God's in the miracle business, right?

May I share a letter excerpt from a reader of Everyday Hope?

"I went into the grocery store and this beautiful little book jumped into my cart! It must have known how many people in my life are struggling with hope. I shared your devotion, 'Smiling in the Dark' with a friend whose mother-in-law fell two months ago, which resulted in her becoming blind. My friend couldn't believe the words that seemed meant for her:

'Hope isn't just an emotion; it's a perspective, a discipline, a way of life. It's a journey of choice. We must learn to override those messages of discouragement, despair and fear that assault us in times of trouble and press toward the light.

Hope is smiling in the darkness. It's confidence that faith in God's sovereignty amounts to something ... something life-changing, life-saving and eternal.'"
~ Nancy Stoppelkamp, North Carolina