Who Has Your Back?

I was incredibly blessed with not just one but two grace notes this week. Just in case you're not aware, that's the phrase I coined in my book, Mom NEEDS Chocolate, for the special little touches from God ... His fingerprints on our lives.

Yep, they were amazing grace notes all right, because they showed me exactly Who was orchestrating the everyday events of my life. The little things that seem like coincidences at first glance. The occurrences that may not seem important or earth-shaking at the time, but that end up making up the real stuff of life.

Grace note #1 crept up on Wednesday, the day I arbitrarily chose to drive over to Sarasota to:
a) Pick up my books that had been consigned to a particular bookstore
b) Stop by and meet the new manager of a different bookstore
c) Get together with a dear friend I don't get to see very often for lattes

As I walked into the (a) bookstore, I was surprised to see a radio booth set up beneath a sign, "The Authors Connection." An author interview was being taped at that very moment. As the bookstore manager was checking me out (my books, not my bod!), the producer of the web radio show heard by 10 million listeners in 142 countries walked over to where I stood with my stack of titles and said,

"Oh, my goodness, are you an author?"

"Um, yep," I answered like the brilliant wordsmith I am.

To which she replied, "Wow - I can't believe our luck! We only come here one afternoon a month to schedule back-to-back half-hour author interviews for our show; but we have an unexpected opening at 3:30. (It was 2:30 at the time). I was just trying to figure out what to do. Could you possibly wait around?"

Gulp. Could I? Are you kidding me? Where do I sign up?


Outwardly I paused, pretending to consider. Stay calm, cool, collected. Try not to cheer. "Well, I suppose so," I acquiesced, then turned around and secretly pumped my fist.

The interview was a blast; the balding, dignified man who interviewed me about my upcoming women's book Too Blessed to Be Stressed: Inspiration for Climbing Out of Life's Stress-Pool turned out to be a girlfriend in disguise and fed off my offbeat chic chat flawlessly with wit and finesse. Our chemistry was great. About halfway through, the producer signaled for the interviewer to keep going, so we ended up taping a full hour. It will air June 21 from 11 am - noon on RadioEarNetwork.com.

Now for grace note #2.

On Friday I left for a hand therapy conference in Orlando, where therapists and orthopedic surgeons from all over Florida gather once yearly to learn about new procedures and catch up with old friends. Well, although there were many colleagues with whom I enjoyed reconnecting, there was one particular therapist I did NOT want to see.

Karen (name changed for privacy) and I had a falling out almost two years ago. We had a history of being co-workers and friendly acquaintances for twenty years at that point, but I was wounded by a series of actions on Karen's part and felt justified in cutting off all communication with her when I left my position for a new job.

This was the first time we had been under the same roof in all that time. I noticed her sitting on the opposite side of the large meeting room and when we chanced to pass in the hallway, we both averted our eyes.

Friday night in my comfy hotel bed, I felt duly convicted and argued with Papa God about the injustice of the situation. I was the one who had been wronged! Why did I have to chew my pride like tough gristle and be the one to gather the hammer and nails to build a bridge?

But I knew what I had to do.

All morning Saturday, I looked for a chance to speak privately to Karen, but there was no opportunity. During one of the last presentations of the conference, I snuck from the meeting room to check out and take my suitcase to my car. On my way, I shot up a little "I-tried-but-it-didn't-pan-out" prayer and added, "Lord, if you want me to say something to Karen, you're going to have to make it happen."

Two minutes later, while I was en route from the parking lot back into the building, wouldn't you know who was standing just outside the door -  all alone - checking her phone messages?

I nearly cried right then and there, not because I was able to finally set things right with Karen, but because it was undeniably apparent that my Papa God does indeed care about the details of my life.

And yours.

What a huge relief to know Who has our backs!

Hoof Prints Across my Heart

Ahh. I just adore the peace and rest I always find in my favorite getaway on earth ... our little cabin nestled deep in the bosom of the Smoky Mountains.

There are just so many footprints of the Almighty everywhere I look: layer upon layer of purple, hazy mountain peaks, crystal clear streams gushing and gurgling happily down their rocky creek beds, tee-tiny titmice warbling, hummers humming and chipmunks scurrying to and fro doing whatever it is chipmunks do.

And deer almost sending our car off a sheer cliff.

No kidding.

As we drove the 20 miles down the winding, twisty mountain road just last Sunday morning to a church on the other side of our mountain, my husband Chuck and I unexpectedly came face to face with eternity.

We were cruising along, tapping our toes and singing along with 70s music by the likes of Elton John and Norman Greenbaum. Good stuff, that. Easy to forget your worries and lose yourself in the groovy beat.

Just as we rounded a curve, a large deer bounded out of the woods bordering the narrow, two-lane road and stepped out onto the pavement directly in front of our car. Unable to stop that suddenly, the only response left to Chuck was to swerve into the other lane. But that option was not an option at all, for although we hadn't seen another vehicle all morning, wouldn't you know a car was rapidly approaching from the opposite direction.

Miraculously (and I use that term intentionally), the animal paused, turning his head first left, at us, and then right at the approaching car. Then, as if making a calculated decision, he spun around and fled back from whence he came, his white-tailed haunches disappearing  into the dense brush of the virgin forest.

This all happened within the span of about three seconds. Like hoof prints across my heart.

The pinched, white face of the other driver as he passed confirmed what we already knew: any alternative move on the part of the deer would have likely sent one or both of our cars careening down the side of the cliff yawning rail-less on the other side of the road.

Gulp.

Good-bye Yellow Brick Road.
Hello Spirit in the Sky.

But as my granddaddy would say, it just wasn't our time. We continued on to church - a little more trembly and a lot more aware of the fragility of life. It could all be over in the flash of an antler.

It was a major grace note - my term for God's little everyday miracles that prove He's got our backs. That all the details of our lives matter to Him. That Psalms 121:7 is not an idle promise: The Lord will keep you from all harm - he will watch over your life (NIV).

And if He's on our side, honestly, who can be against us? Not even Bambi.

  

  

Death is a Door

My daughter is 8-months pregnant with my first grandchild - a joyful and wondrous time for all of us as we watch the miraculous formation of new life.

But that joy was seriously shaken this week when one of my daughter's friends gave birth to a precious baby boy, Nathan, who lived only one hour. I'd like to share with you an excerpt from a poem Jessie wrote for his mourning wife Anna (names changed for privacy) and read at the baby's memorial service.

Please open wide your heart and pray for this grieving young couple who, right here at Easter time, can truly comprehend the grief of our Heavenly Father upon the death of his dearly beloved Son.

Little Did I Know

Little did I know ...
That one day in a doctor's office, I would see my wife fall to pieces,
all the hurt and all the pain without any reasons.
God did not ask, and God did not tell, that days ahead would seem to us like a living hell.

Why us?
Why him? she asked.
But not twice, not even once did she beg for it to pass.
To be a husband and to be helpless is one thing I will never forget.
But to be married to my wife is something I will never regret.
We cried, and we prayed and looked to each other for protection,
but before long we knew that's why God sent his Son in our direction.

Little DO I know
why, on April 15th, we would see ourselves begging at His feet.
The anticipation of the unknown was so hard to bear,
some would ask did God ever hear us or did He even care?

The day was here and the time had come for us to give back our little son.
As she held him in her arms, and touched his little face, there was not a sound in the room,

Beloved son, Nathan

only peace in that place.
An hour went by as we enjoyed his short life,
and I stood by amazed at my beautiful wife.

Everything I know tells me all the prayers and late night calls were not in vain,
Because God still prevails, God is still our ALL.
We might not ever know the reason for Nathan's death,
but rest assured it was not his last breath.
We will stay strong in our faith during the days ahead
because we know that our God is alive and our God  is not dead.
Nathan only had a few breaths of life, but his last here was his first with our
Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Everything I know still won't answer why
Our faith was put through this test,
but I never doubted once that He gave me the best.

My Heart's in the Arts

My daughter Cricket

I had a rather disturbing conversation recently with a co-worker in children's church. At least it was for me, although he seemed unfazed.

I was preparing to show a clip from the overtly Christian movie, Facing the Giants, at the end of a David and Goliath lesson for over 100 elementary-aged kids. When I mentioned how the last football scene in the movie always gave me chill bumps and misty eyes, Sean (name changed), my "co-host," abruptly stated that he'd never seen the movie and probably never would.

"Why not?" I asked, astonished. I knew he had a son and daughter who were the perfect ages to benefit from the tremendous application message in the film about honoring God in sports (and life) no matter what - win or lose.

"Because," he stated rather smugly, I thought, "the acting and directing are reportedly sub-par. As an actor myself, I can't abide movies or plays that don't achieve the highest standards."

"Oh, I see. So you've never been to your children's school plays? Or any church productions?"

"It's not the same thing. They're not professionals."

"But what is their end goal - their purpose (as believers) for performing?"

"To glorify God, of course."

"And what is the purpose of Christian producers, directors and actors in the mainstream arts?"

Sean paused. "To glorify God, I suppose." The irony of his answer seemed to sink in as his face colored slightly. "But when I'm spending money to see a film, I want to spend it on something that will edify and challenge me. Not something that I could have done better myself."

"I thought you said you'd never seen it."

"I haven't."

"Then how do you know God wouldn't use it to touch your heart, or edify and challenge your wife or your children through a movie that was completely created and dedicated to His service? The first time I saw it, I thought some of the acting could have been better, but in the end, it didn't matter one whit. I was so caught up in the story and the wonder of God's miraculous intervention in the lives of the characters that I was intensely moved, more than by any movie I've seen in a long time. In the Bible, God speaks through donkeys and chickens. Why would you assume He can't speak through arts created by gifted people who love Him?"

Sean shrugged and turned away, but I noticed later while the clip was playing he was riveted to the screen along with every other eye in the room.

I feel very strongly about supporting faith-based arts. I'm not saying we have to pretend to like them all, but I feel that we owe it to our brothers and sisters in the Lord to support their efforts to use their talents and abilities in His name. After all, He intentionally gave them their talents and abilities for just that purpose.

I want my money to speak for my choice to dwell on things that are true and honorable and right; things that are pure and lovely and admirable (Phil.4:8). I want Hollywood to know by my attendance - numbers ares the only way to speak their language - that I support movies that make me think about that which is spiritually "excellent and worthy of praise."

And I'm willing to plunk my Andrew Jacksons down as proof.

I haven't yet seen the newest big screen phenomena, Soul Surfer, but I plan to as soon as Spouse emerges from tax week and we can manage to carve out a date night. I've heard good things about it, but even if I hadn't, I'd go to make a moral statement. And I hope you will too.  

 

Even the Rocks Will Cry Out!

Had a wonderfully uplifting weekend worshiping, learning and just plain goofing off with a delightful group of ladies at an international Free Methodist women's conference.

Representatives of three cultures were there, with interpreters simultaneously speaking during my talks. That was a first for me.

One group had headset translators, with a male translator sitting in the back of the room doing his best to translate unique Debbie Coty terms like "joy-sucking dully-funks" that are sprinkled throughout my presentations. I apologized to him afterward for my girls only talk that included the three B's: boys, boobs and babies. Thankfully, he had a robust sense of humor.

The other translator spoke aloud to her group, which created an interesting echo whenever I paused for breath. After the first twenty minutes, I got (sort of) used to focusing on what I was saying instead of standing mesmerized like a deer in headlights watching her lips fly. I'm quite sure I never got the hang of speaking slowly enough, and want to take this opportunity to express appreciation to hard-working, under-appreciated translators everywhere.

The sing-along songs were a real hoot. I almost always include one of my original funny sing-along songs in my presentations, and it was quite an experience when half of the group could't read the lyrics (in English) and therefore couldn't follow the gestures either. It was really hilarious watching everyone do their best to copy the hand motions of their neighbors without knowing what in the world they meant. The Haitian ladies did an especially good job ad-libbing.

But I'm telling you - there's nothing quite like singing spirited praise songs in a room full of simultaneous languages. Everyone came together in a unity of spirit that was incredible. God must have been smiling. I know I was.

Throw Open the Drapes!

Oh. My. Stars. I've just had an epiphany. A revelation. A break-through in understanding my oh-so-strange self.

Early this morning I posted a funny piece about being recognized this week by a reader solely because of the crazy hat I was wearing (see my writer's blog: www.gritfortheoyster-book.blogspot.com). I closed by asking my three readers if they thought my hats could possibly be my brand, since the buzz these days from my editor is that every writer needs a brand (something to set him/her apart from the herd).

I got some great responses but one in particular made my jaw drop, my heart pound and my wide-open eyes finally see something I haven't been able to see for 40 years. No kidding. I felt like somebody pulled up the shades of my brain and light finally beamed into a corner that's been dark most of my life.

Okay. Here's what happened.

A childhood school chum, Vicki, responded to my hat question with a question of her own: "Just curious - are you the daughter that didn't remember to brush her hair? I started carrying a brush in my purse after your mom (my teacher at the time) told our health class how important it was to keep your hair brushed. She said she had a daughter that she always had to remind of this ... was it you?"

I was suddenly transported back to middle school and relived in writhing agony a memory I had apparently blocked soon after it happened. I was a gorky sixth grader at the time and was quietly slipping into Mama's classroom to stick something - I don't remember what - in her purse. I was tip-toeing and holding my breath, trying so hard not to draw attention to myself while she was up front teaching.

Suddenly, she stopped her hygiene lecture cold and told everyone to turn around and look at my hair as an example of "poor grooming habits." They were 7th graders - a whole year older than me - and of course I didn't know any of them, so I was absolutely mortified. And horror of all horrors, there were at least ten boys in that room. I ducked my head and dashed out the door just as the first giggles began to titter around the room.

Forty years later, sitting in my computer chair reliving this long-oppressed memory, my face flushed and I wanted to crawl beneath my desk. Another niggling thought made me cringe: That wasn't Vicki's class, so Mama must have told more than one of her classes. Gulp. 

But then all of a sudden the angels began singing that full-bodied, eight-note "Ahhhh" chord that means something important just happened and the light bulb popped on in my head. THAT's why I have a hat fetish! Now I get it! I've never been able to explain to my family why I keep wearing those confounded " embarrassing" hats that my kids used to beg me to hide when their friends were around. Why I just have to buy every cute and perky hat I see. Why my closet looks like the Cat in the Hat exploded.

What an "Ah-ha" moment!

One of my deepest mysteries is now uncovered. Revealed. Divulged. And it makes me wonder how many more of my quirky behaviors result from some squirreled away childhood incident.

Righty then. Now that I've spilled my guts, I want to sift through some of your guts too! How about it? Are you brave enough to go there? What odd little behaviors can you trace back to your past? Maybe something you remember your grandmother doing or a comment your dad made that changed the way you look at things. C'mon, dig deep.

Don't fret - I'll keep thinking too. The next goofy behavior I want to understand is why I put salt on my watermelon.

Activating Change

We continuously hear the term "political activist" batted around the media, sometimes as an accolade, sometimes with a distinct sneer (depending upon who's reporting and what side they're on).

Recently, I've become aware of a different kind of activist; someone whose goal is not only to change their city and country, but to change the whole world one heart at a time.

A spiritual activist.

This kind of activist is not motivated by political gain or partisan power, but by a deep, visceral drive to help others in the single most important way a person can. By saving their eternal lives. By introducing them to peace and joy and hope that can't be found anywhere else on this earth.

I recently attended the funeral of one of these spiritual activists. His name to us was affectionately, "Rev." David Nicholas was the cool/hip/rad minister of a (at the time) small church in Boca Raton, when my husband Chuck attended high school in the early 70s. Rev led Chuck and then his entire family to the Lord, and went on to grow a mighty evangelistic church and make a huge spiritual difference in the lives of many generations.

Another spiritual activist is Cookie Gray, a gracious woman who has touched the hearts of thousands of women through her ministry at Brandon Florida's LifeCare Center. Cookie, a polio survivor, selflessly councils women in the throes of devastation due to unexpected pregnancy, STD's, financial ruin, and a host of other life-altering problems. She does it from her wheelchair. And always with a sweet spirit, open heart and kind smile.

I look at these awesome people - Rev and Cookie - and become at first humbled and then motivated to become a spiritual activist myself. Some might say, "Aw, they're just doing their jobs," but in truth, activism became their jobs because of the conviction of their hearts.

We can all be spiritual activists - ministers, really - regardless of our profession. There are no greater evangelists than garbage collectors, store clerks and bank tellers whose actions profess their faith louder than words on an everyday, every hour basis. In faith, like in writing, showing is always more effective than simply telling.

I look at my role as a hand therapist and author, and my mind is flooded with memories of times I wasn't much of a minister. In fact, I'd categorize my inner thoughts and outward responses as more like Rambo than Mother Teresa.

But I can do better. And I will.

(That's one of the best things I learned from years of tennis lessons: Instead of beating myself up over past mistakes, adopt the positive manta, "I can and will  do better." It's much more productive!)

How about you? Can you do better? Who's your spiritual activist role model?

Rip Off

Thou shalt not steal.


Those four simple words echoed through my brain recently when my brand new website was kidnapped and held for ransom.

No kidding.

Naively, I never knew such a thing existed until my longsuffering husband Chuck woke up at 7 a.m. (after working on the website until 2:30 the night before) and logged on to add a few finishing touches.

Instead of his wife's intricate website he'd spent more than sixty hours pouring his time and energies into, he found a blank screen. Letter by eerie letter, a profanity-laced message appeared stating that the site had been heisted by "Hacker Ali." If we ever wanted to see it again, we must arrange payment through the French e-dress listed.

Intellectual Property Theft. A shattered sense of security.

It happens more often than many of us realize. Just ask those who've had their identity stolen and have been forced, through no fault of their own, to forfeit scads of precious time and money attempting to regain what was rightfully theirs in the first place.

In many cases authorities have no recourse. Our policing technology of online theft has not kept pace with the ingenuity of the bad guys, such as Hacker Ali, who hide behind layers of protective screens and cleverly leave no discernible trail.

Stealing. Taking what is not ours. Why is the eight commandment so widely ignored in our society? Scripture forbidding stealing includes not only Exodus 20:15, but also Leviticus 10:11. And Exodus 22:3 goes even further to say that if thievery occurs, restitution must be made to the extreme of the thief being sold into slavery if redemption of property is not possible.

God takes stealing seriously. And so should we. Even seemingly innocuous, everyone-does-it transgressions like pocketing the extra dollar the clerk mistakenly gave in change, taking office supplies home from work, or fudging on income tax.

Why is it such a big deal? Because stealing dishonors the name of our God (Proverbs 30:9).

Not only is He watching, but often little eyes are soaking up our example of living out real Christianity regardless of social mores that diss integrity and idolize pirates, cool criminals and "gangstas."

If we don't live our faith, they won't.

And that would be the most tragic rip off of all.

BB Gun Stand-Off

"Oh, aren't they adorable?" I asked Spouse just yesterday as we stood in our front yard observing the new crop of baby squirrels that appear every spring about this time.

Carefree little furry rodents chased each other around our big oak tree, scurrying up to perch on low, spreading limbs to peer at us peering back.

At that moment, a shadow passed over us as a red-tailed hawk circled overhead, casing the joint for lunch. The clueless baby squirrels were easy prey and more than once I'd watched helplessly as a hawk swooped down to skewer one of "my" babies with its razor sharp talons.

The evil beasties won't even release the poor squealing squirrel when I throw whatever is handy, or even if I run screaming right at them.

"I'm really going to get a BB gun this year," I threatened for the 100th time. I say that every year but Spouse convinces me that I'd end up in the slammer for one reason or another if I start messing with guns. No doubt he's right.

So this morning on my neighborhood walk, I come upon one of my neighbors traipsing around his yard with a BB gun, looking up into the tree branches. Aha! Now this guy's got the right idea!

Before I can open my mouth to commend him and ask if I can borrow it for the horrible hawk infestation on my street, he points the gun upward and fires. AT A SQUIRREL!

"What are you doing?" I cry, when I really want to say, "That's not a hawk - is your eyesight really that bad or are you just an idiot?"

"Gotta get rid of these pesky squirrels," he says, like he deserves a medal or something. "They're wrecking my pool enclosure and stipping my blueberry bushes. We need to import more hawks to get rid of them."

All I could do was stand there with my mouth hanging open.

It reminded me of my tennis buddy who disagrees with me on every single social or moral issue right down the line. She's hardline liberal and I'm hardline conservative and never the twain shall meet. Yet we consider each other friends and enjoy playing tennis together often. How? We agree to disagree and leave politics off the court.

I guess sometimes neighbors have to agree to disagree. That or give everybody BB guns and let them shoot it out until there are no squirrels or hawks or even people left and although everybody wins, nobody wins.

As they say, there are always two sides to every issue, and if we're emotionally involved, it's tremendously hard to see the other side.

Kind of like the two sides of the aligator issue. We Floridians have learned to live with gators and respect their habits and habitats. After all, they were here first. They can't help who they are - we have to just accept that they devour fluffy little dogs that come near them and keep our dogs away. And during mating season, they get aggressive, so we give them extra space. LOTS of space.

But some northerners don't get it and think they should be wiped out completely - why tolerate a killer species that serves mankind no useful purpose? (That point is certainly debatable.)

During my conversation with such a person, I found it difficult to see his side until I realized he was speaking from fear. Fear of the unnknown and fear born of ignorance. He knew very little about gators except all the bad stuff he read in the newspaper on the rare occasion when someone is killed by one. So his opinion was formed by unbalanced data. Information weighted to one side of the issue, with nothing for counter-balance.

Which means, I suppose, that we must take it upon ourselves to become educated about both sides of an issue before we stake our position. Or break out the BB guns and be the last one standing.

Chillin' with Your Peeps

What a fun girls night out!

A group of us neighborhood girlfriends put on the ritz and strutted our bling at a stage play performance at our local Performing Arts Center. Boy were we stylin' - even though someone told me I looked a bit gangsta in my new $7 pinstiped suit (YAY for consignment shops!).

No matter. Nothing was going to spoil the night. I can do Bonnie and Clyde if it means chillin' with my peeps.

It's so important for women to make girlfriend time a priority, but it's not something most of us do on a regular basis. Pity. We miss so much when we don't spread our wings with the flock.

Girlfriends are our link to levity when reality becomes too intense, our safety nets when we're freefalling. They're the distributors of grace when we're fragile, tears when we're broken, and warm hugs to begin fitting the pieces back together. (Excerpted from my upcoming book, More Beauty, Less Beast).

Aristotle said, "The anecdote for fifty enemies is one friend."

Just think what six friends can do for you! These gals are actually part of our neighborhood Bible Study group that meets every Friday at rorating houses. We average ten and although we started meeting for an hour at our inception two years ago, we can barely stop after two hours now.

I think that's because everyone needs a soul sister, a kindred spirit who offers unconditional love and acceptance. A safe place where we can store our secrets and be sure they won't leak. What a blessed bonus if you're dedicated to studying and applying scripture together! Too cool. Someone to travel the life road with - speed humps, potholes, sharp turns and all.

Did you know that fun is actually contagious? A British medical journal concluded from social experiments that happiness transferred between people can last up to a year. A year! So it's true - when you smile, the whole world really does smile with you!

So who are your peeps? Do you have a soul sister or a possibly a group of kindred spirits? If not, how about starting one?

Trust me, you'll never regret it.