Papa God's Waiting Room

While driving through a pastoral area last week in rural Florida, I was enjoying the peaceful scenery of cows, horses, and the occasional pygmy goat herd (aren't they cute?), when something caught me by surprise.

There, standing beside the fence bordering the highway, all alone, was a blindfolded horse.

Knowing absolutely nothing about the care of our equine friends, I was puzzled as to why this fellow had been singled out. None of the other half-dozen or so horses in the field wore blindfolds. They moved around freely, navigating their own paths.

Was he being punished for something he'd done? Was it to keep him calm? Could it be that he had a longtime dream to run free and had tried to escape one too many times? Or maybe he had a tendency to harm himself and the blindfold was deemed necessary by the powers that be for his own good.  

He struck me as a forlorn figure, standing there rather droopy and spiritless, sporting this annoying blue plaid eye cover that he was completely powerless to remove. He seemed to be waiting for ... what?


He appeared lost. In broad daylight. What's next? the caption begged to read. Where do I go from here? 

As I drove on my way, Papa God, as He so often does, spoke to me through the scene I'd just witnessed. I can so identify with that blindfolded horse. I've walked a mile in his horseshoes. And so have you.

We all go through periods of blindfoldedness, when our vision is occluded for any number of reasons, and we become lost in broad daylight. Our internal GPS (God-Powered Satellite) shorts out and we don't have a good feel for where we are now or a clue about which direction we should head next.

So we wait. We sit in Papa God's waiting room and wait for the medical test results; for the new job to come through; for the illness to finally end; for forgiveness from that friend we offended; to be smitten with true love; for the gratitude we feel we deserve but have never received. So many things to wait for.

Sometimes it's a very l-o-n-g wait.

The blindfold starts to chafe and itch. Sometimes it even creates a miserable pressure sore. It itches, oozes, and bleeds, but we're helpless to rip the blindfold off. We're not the ones who put it there. We only have hooves when it requires hands.

So what do we do while we're hangin' (in several senses of the word) in Papa's waiting room? A good example from the Bible is found in Acts 1:14 when the lost-in-broad-daylight disciples were anxiously waiting for their next direction after Jesus had ascended into heaven: "They all joined together constantly in prayer..." (NIV).

Based on this scripture, what should we do while we're waiting on Papa God's next move?
1. Reach out to connect to other believers; do not alienate yourself - you need their support.
2. Keep busy; no standing around swatting flies with your tail. 
3. Pray, pray, and pray some more.  Join hands with Papa God - you'll be better able to feel the gentle tug on your bit when He begins to lead you to your next destination.
4. Wait for Papa, not His answer. Focus on His nature, His marvelous attributes, His person. Learn to experience and appreciate Papa's presence, not what He can do for you.

That blindfolded horse needed nothing less that his Master's presence to remove his blindfold.

So, my friend, do we.

   

Dream On

When I was a young high school tennis player, I dreamed of greatness ... Wimbledon, The French Open, Arthur Ashe Stadium.

My grandmother used to tell all her little old friends that I was as good as that there Chrissy Evert.

The only caveat was that Granny had never seen me play.

But her vote of confidence went a long way in stoking my daydreams and keeping me out there sweating it out at practice.

Those were the days when coaches didn't believe in water breaks - they thought it made athletes soft. The result was that I looked a lot like this feline sweetie on the right after every sweltering two-hour after-school practice.

Actually, I still look like that today whenever we go three sets in the two tennis leagues in which I participate. The ole gray tabby, she ain't what she used to be.

I never did become a great tennis player, but I did become a memorable one, or so I'm told by my opponents, although I think they may be referring to my socks, which vary from wild red and pink hearts to psychedelic neon. To borrow a term from my writer friend Rick, if you can't be revered, you can still be you-nique.

Some dreams just aren't meant to be fulfilled. But other are. Those are the dreams that should never be forgotten.

This thought occurred to me the other day as I was studying the life of Joseph in the 37th chapter of Genesis. Joseph had a dream. As the youngest of eleven sons, he dreamed that his father and brothers would one day bow down to him. Then problems arose. Major obstacles. He was stripped, ridiculed, and sold into slavery far, far away. It was a no brainer that he would never see his family again.

That dream must have sure seemed stupid while he toiled away as a slave in a foreign country. While he endured imprisonment year after year for something he didn't do. While he kept getting older, kept hoping, kept trusting for God to exonerate him.

And then, as irony would have it (don't you LOVE Papa God's surprise ironic twists in our road?) it was a dream that bailed him out of jail and kick-started his new life as ruler of a nation of which he wasn't even a citizen.

I can't help but wonder if Joseph thought about that first improbable - no, impossible - dream between the time he was inaugurated as Egyptian second in command and when his brothers finally arrived to beg and grovel before him. Just as God had predicted. Just as Joseph had imagined. You can bet he thought about it the moment his the faces of his brothers swept the floor in a low, humble bow.

He was so ripped with emotion, he couldn't speak. His dream had become reality.

I'm so very glad that Papa God still makes dreams come true today, aren't you? Maybe not flimsy unrealistic dreams like whooping Serena Williams on a sunny day in Melbourne, but dreams like being cherished by people who love you. Or becoming Papa's hands and feet on earth. Or finding and embracing true joy in this life.

Or like Martin Luther King Jr.'s dream of equality and freedom for all mankind. 

These are the dreams that should never be forgotten.

What, dear friend, are your dreams?

Hats Off to Ya!

England's Prince William

I'm a hat girl.

You already know this if you've read any of my books or know me at all. Hats are one of my favorite hobbies, my passions. My closet looks like the Cat in the Hat exploded.

People I pass in stores often comment on my headwear and I never cease to be amazed at the smiles from perfect strangers solicited by my creative toppers. I'm an oddity in American culture, but at least a humorous one. I often feel as if I were born in the wrong country. Perhaps even the wrong century.

I felt quite at home during Spouse's and my anniversary UK tour several years ago - every other British Tom, Dick, and Harriet sported classy head coverings, many more ornate or clever than my own. Hats are an important and integral part of everyday life for them. One glance at the flashy haberdashery worn by British elite at the Royal Wedding a few years back substantiates my claim.

Hey, I lusted after a few of those flowered monstrosities.

So you can imagine my amusement when I came across this little ditty about the scandalous introduction of the top hat into proper society back in 1797.

In bold, brassy bravado, English haberdasher John Hetherington donned his newly created fashion statement and strolled about the streets of London, leaving chaos in his wake. According to the daily post (newspaper, not FaceBook), "pasersby panicked at the sight. Several women fainted, children screamed, dogs yelped, and an errand boy's arm was broken when he was trampled by the mob."

Over a top hat???

Can you imagine the poor traumatized citizens of the day reacting to today's toenail-to-hairline tattoos and circus-hued spiked hair? It would most certainly be a riot, in more than one way.

Genius-ahead-of-his-time John Hetherington was dragged into court for wearing "a tall structure having a shining luster calculated to frighten timid people." Can't say whether he was imprisoned or not, but let's hope he was acquitted on grounds of non-sensible sensibilities.

So when we start to fuss over the newest fad our children - or even grandchildren - adopt, let's remember that like hoola hoops, platform shoes, bellbottoms, pet rocks, shoulder pads, and micro minis, today's horror is tomorrow's hilarity.  

Happy New Year to All and to All a Good Diet

In honor of the exciting new year opening up before us, I'd like to print the audaciously appropriate poem below.

It's been around a while in various forms and unfortunately, the author is unknown - I sure with she would step forward and receive accolades for her genius.

And genius it is.

The gold standard of an exceptional poem is that it has the reader nodding or weeping or laughing in reaction. This poem does all those things for me. The author truly understands my 10-extra-pounds angst all too well after our 10-day anniversary cruise in Sept. followed by the holidays. Blech. I feel like the Michelin Man looks.

Kudos to "Author Unknown" wherever you are!

T'was the month after Christmas,
and all through the house,
nothing would fit me,
not even a blouse.

The cookies I'd nibbled,
the chocolate I'd taste
at the holiday parties
had gone to my waist.

When I got on the scales
there arose such a number!
When I walked to the store
less a walk than a lumber,

I'd remember the marvelous meals I'd prepared;
the gravies and sauces and beef nicely rared;
the dips and the meatballs, the bread and the cheese
and the way I'd never said, "No thank you, please."

As I dressed myself and struggled to zip
the skirt that was gaping askew on my hip,
I said to myself, as only I can,
"You can't spend a winter as wide as a van!"

So away wih the last of the sour cream dip.
Get rid of the fruitcake, each cracker and chip.
Every last food that I like must be banished
till all the additional ounces have vanished.

I won't have a cookie, not even a lick.
I'll chew only on this here green celery stick.
I won't have hot biscuits or cornbread or pie.
I'll munch on a carrot and quietly cry.

I'm hungry, I'm lonesome, and life is a bore ...
but isn't that what January is for?
Unable to giggle, no longer a riot;
Happy New Year to all, and to all a good diet.  

5 Incredible Christmas Words

The young woman holding the guitar looked nervous as she took her place on the stool at the front of the auditorium where 400 women chattered, all seated around beautifully decorated tables for the annual church Christmas banquet.

An expectant hush fell over the room as hot tea-sipping women dressed in their holiday finest turned their eyes toward the morning's entertainment. They had come to expect only the best in this musically talented church.

But something was wrong.

The young woman fumbled the first few chords, then haltingly plucked the familiar introduction to "O Holy Night." When she began singing, her voice was far too soft and didn't project well even with the microphone.

O holy night ... the stars are brightly shining. It is the night of our dear Savior's birth.

Oh, no - there was another guitar clunker and her voice slid off key yet again. I squirmed in my seat, growing uncomfortable for her and wishing she'd practiced a little more. I could see other women around me having the same worried reaction.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining, till He appeared and the soul felt its worth. 

After several halting mischords, she suddenly she stopped altogether. Collectively not knowing what to do to ease her embarrassment, the audience applauded lightly, hesitantly. But her response was not one we would ever have expected.

"Oh, do you want me to stop now?" she asked in childlike sincerity. "I could be finished if you want me to."

A bit of murmuring broke out in the audience as she set her guitar aside and leaned toward the microphone to speak. Her words shot like an arrow straight from her heart to ours.

"I know I'm not a singer," she said in a shaky, apologetic voice, "but I really wanted to share this particular song with you today. You see, I've been diagnosed with a brain tumor and my doctors tell me there's a very strong possibility that I won't be able to speak after my next surgery."

She paused as a stunned silence seized the room.

"This entire Christmas season, I've been thinking about the words to this song, 'O Holy Night' - especially these 5 words: the soul felt its worth. I just want to share with you that if you ever doubt your soul's worth like I have for the past few months, just remember what Jesus did for you. There is no greater worth than your soul, for Jesus came as a babe and then 33 years later died on the cross ... just for you. Because your soul was worth that much to Him. There is great joy - regardless of external circumstances - in knowing the true worth of your soul that was proven on that holy night in Bethlehem. So please, please allow your soul to feel its amazing worth this Christmas."

Wow.

BIG wow.

Like you, I've sung that song a thousand times over the years but I can't say that I've ever really considered the meaning to those 5 words before that moment. Maybe it's because I'm currently immersed in Too Loved to be Lost, the new book I'm writing about Papa God's incredible, limitless, unconditional love for us that this young woman's revelation resonated within me so deeply. I've thought about little else since. And it's made for the most happy and holy of Christmases for me. 

Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

So I invite you, even though it's the day after Christmas and you're up to your eyeballs in turkey carcases, wadded wrapping paper, and creative leftover recipes, to ponder those 5 incredible words when you get a free moment. And allow the beauty and wonder and pure awe of His bottomless love for you to bathe your heart with joy.

Everyone Needs a Papa

I've had several recent requests from readers to explain the origin of my use of the term, "Papa God" in my books. I'd be happy to oblige.

I guess it's one of those things you do that is so much a part of you that you don't think about it anymore. Like parting your hair on the left. Or tucking your shirttail in when the rest of the fashion world wears theirs out (I'm aware only because my daughter often rebukes me for this).

Anyway, it all started back in 2004 when I began working on my first book, The Distant Shore, which released in 2007. Up to that point, I had only written considerably shorter pieces in the form of magazine and newspaper articles, so expanding my thoughts into a full sized book was quite a challenge.

The main story line is based on the true story of a young girl who is sent away from her family - for reasons unknown to her at the time - to live on the then remote, untamed Merritt Island of 1904. Emma-Lee finds life with crusty spinster Aunt Augusta very lonely and discouraging until she is befriended by kindly Captain Stone, a freighter captain.

Captain Stone is a godly man and introduces Emma-Lee to his beloved Heavenly Father, who Emma-Lee embraces as her surrogate father ... the heavenly Papa who will never abandon or forsake her like her earthly papa has done. She begins referring to Him as Papa God, and seeing the Almighty through the lens of the unconditional love of a faithful parent fills a gaping hole in her heart.

One of the things I really wanted to portray in the book was the personal relationship we can have with the Lord, our Abba as one of the ways the Aramaic Bible refers to Him. Abba is the intimate form of Father, which translates loosely as Daddy, or in my mind as Papa.

So as Emma-Lee discovered the loyal, limitless, lovingkindness side of her Papa God, so did I. I've referred to Him as Papa God ever since.


I invite you to join me. I think you'll be surprised how quickly and almost magically the secret deep longing in your heart for nonjudgmental, all-accepting, all-forgiving love will be fulfilled. He's your Papa too.

So tell me - how do you view God? 


P.S. A funny little tidbit for you: After a speaking gig not long ago, a lovely lady from the audience approached me  In her thick German accent, she introduced herself and then said something that 'bout made me drop my teeth. "In Germany," she said, "we say someone is from the distant shore to mean they are gay."
Ha! I guess that particular book won't be translated into German anytime soon, since Emma-Lee is only ten.

Don't Want to Flunk This Lesson

Yeesh, it happened again.

Every single time I teach a children's church lesson, Papa God brings the exact dadgum lesson home to me. He knows all along that I'm the one who needs to hear it more than the kids. And sometimes His timing is, well, unfortunate. 

So there I am, wearing my big floppy flowered "Bible Story Lady" hat, leading a dozen 2 1/2-year-olds in a rousing chorus of The Prayer Song. Our lesson today is, "When someone is mean to you, you don't have to be mean back."

Not exactly R.C. Sproal theological magnitude, but hey, everyone in my audience is shorter than my belly button.That's why I took the job in the first place - no PhD needed. Just KISS and tell. (KISS=Keep It Simple, Sister!)

So there's this one kid in the class - a big boy for his age - who won't sit in his chair. He starts out there but within minutes is up and migrating with the wind currents around the room. Don't know his name. We'll call him Danny.

Everyone in the room is singing with me (except Danny) when my laid-back, sweet, adorable grandson Blaine arrives late as usual (his mama made us late for church every Sunday morning for 18 years). There is not a single chair left in the room except the one Danny vacated. So the teacher directs Blaine to the empty chair, tells him to sit, and walks away.

Blaine Boy has no sooner seated his adorable little self in the tiny red chair and flashes his 100-watt smile at Mimi (me!) - who is still leading the song up front - than Danny's migration pattern comes to a sudden halt because he notices someone sitting in his chair. Not that he wants to sit in it, mind you, he just doesn't want anyone else to.

So with a running start from across the room, Danny charges sweet, unsuspecting, adorable Blaine and wallops him with a flying full body butt, knocking him out of the chair and sending him crashing onto the floor. I'm watching all this happen in slow motion and am unable to do anything about it without stopping the song and disrupting the entire class.

So I helplessly watch the kid I love more than life itself get pummeled by a bully in training pants. My blood pressure shoots through the roof of my head. I can feel my earrings start to melt. It's all I can do not to fly out of my seat and throttle this rotten little kid. But I remind myself he's only two. Even though he looks three.

Little Blaine, looking dazed and confused, slowly rises to his feet and stands there all alone (why nobody comes to his aid, I am completely befuddled) eying Danny, obviously not knowing what happened or what to do now. Danny glares back, and climbs into the chair. Squatters rights. You lose, sucker.

Blaine's adorable little face begins to pucker. Is he about to cry because he's physically hurt? Or because his feelings are hurt? He's a gentle-natured kid, so I suspect the latter. My guts are burning with the molten lava of injustice and I can feel the volcano about to blow. I'm gonna clean nasty little Danny's clock.

And then it hits me. An IM coming right from Papa God.

Helloooooo. When someone is mean to you (or in this case your adorable little grandson), you don't have to be mean back. 

But I WANT to be mean back. Danny deserves it.

Doesn't matter. When someone is mean to you, you don't have to be mean back. I wasn't mean back when they beat me up and shred my skin with whips and thrust a crown of thorns on my head. Aren't you supposed to be becoming more like me?

Oh. Yeah. I guess.

At this point, the teacher brings a chair in from another room and helps Blaine into it. His little body shudders as he fights the tears that threaten to squeeze out. He is successful. He is brave. He is adorable. He gives Mimi a shaky smile and begins to join in the hand motions of the song that Mimi feels will never, ever end.

Danny is off the chair again and paying no attention to the song. And then there's that still, small voice again.   

So now it's time to forgive Danny.

Maybe after the lesson, Lord. After I bring him up front and say, "Okay class, here's a prime example of our lesson today. This is a bully. A mean, bad, rotten little boy. He shoved Blaine out of the chair but Blaine chose not to be mean back. Who does God love more?"

I love Danny as much as you love Blaine.

Yeah, well okay, but he can't get away with busting up my grandson. Somebody needs to punish this kid. Maybe if I humiliate him in front of the class he'll learn his lesson.  

You know you can't do that. He made a mistake. Don't you ever make mistakes?

I think I'm about to right now.

But you won't. Because you love Me. And I love you. And we both love children who are learning to love me too. Now forgive him.

I can't. It's hard to forgive something like this.

Of course it's hard. That's why I'm here. I'll help you. Let's do this thing. And I'll give you an A+ on today's lesson. Let's say it together: When someone is mean to you, you don't have to be mean back. 

Got it.

Good.    

New Give-Away Contest

Fall 2013 Give-Away Contest

I’m tickled pink about the new Too Blessed to be Stressed Perpetual Calendar.

By the way, “perpetual” means the 365 full color pages are dated but have no year, so it can sit on your
kitchen counter forever. Or until Junior sloshes spaghetti sauce all over it.




 And to make sure you’re as tickled as I am, I’m giving away a full DOZEN perpetual calendars!

All you have to do is shoot me an electronic photo of you decom-stressing in your favorite chillin’ zone (exotic location, back yard, couch with Fido, etc.) and I’ll choose the 12 most unique and creative photos as the winners, PLUS the top three will be posted on my blog. Make sure you’re subscribed so you don’t miss anything!

Send your photo to me at this e-dress or via my website www.DeboraCoty.com by the deadline on December 5th and if you're a winner, you’ll receive your calendars in time for Christmas as my gift to you in celebrating the birth of our Lord Jesus.

Grace That's Truly Amazing

It was no use. The $100 bill was gone.

My daughter Cricket searched her pockets for the third time just to be sure. Then she ransacked the tote bag she'd been carrying around the expansive neighborhood garage sale yet again, panic evident on her pinched, bloodless face and wild eyes.

"Oh, no. Oh, nooo! It can't be gone! It was in my pocket, I'm sure of it. I only put my hand in there once, and that was about twenty minutes ago." Cricket and I, garage sale junkie buddies for most of her 28 years, had headed out before dawn to an annual treasure-filled, 200-home combined community garage sale in an upscale neighborhood.

Sale-ing went way back with us. I had fond memories of a wispy-haired blond toddler accompanying me on my Saturday morning garage sale hunting expeditions long before she'd grown up, married, and had a toddler of her own.

But things were not going so well in the present. Adult Cricket had been miffed when I picked her up that morning (my car had more fill-to-the-brim cargo space for our loot than hers so I drove) because her husband had been paid in $100 bills on a moonlighting job the night before, rather than the small bills she had been planning to take garage sale-ing bright and early.We knew from experience that sellers rarely accepted large bill at an event like this, for it would deplete all their change.

Sure enough, nobody during the first hour of our shopping expedition would touch the hunky bill, so she'd folded it and stored it in the place she thought would be safest - her jeans pocket. And now we were halfway home and wallowing in deep misery.

"It won't do any good to go back," I said, trying to be realistic but feeling just terrible for her. "If it fell out of your pocket, it wouldn't be on the ground very long. Somebody will be having a very good day today. Maybe they really needed it."

"They couldn't have needed it worse than me." Cricket's eyes welled up and her hands started shaking. "I can't believe I lost it," she said just above a whisper. "That was pretty much all we had to spend for the baby's Christmas."

So with nothing else to be done about it, we prayed. Gee. Wouldn't you think we'd have thought of that first?

We'd barely begun pouring our grief out to Papa and begging for His mercy and grace when Cricket, in desperation, thrust her hand once again into that same empty pocket she'd already tried repeatedly. Only this time it wasn't empty. This time her hand came out clutching a wrinkled green portrait of Ben Franklin.

"Oh, my goodness! God put it back in my pocket!" Cricket cried, just before we burst into laughter and rocked the car in gleeful celebration.

Ben once was lost but now is found. Just like you. Just like me. That's grace.

Amazing.

Never Underestimate the Power of Prayer

A lovely grace-full church we visited in Mykonos, Greece

Do you ever get tired of those marvelous grace notes Papa God plops in our laps just to prove He's got our backs?

I hope not, because I'm going to share another zinger. And yet another in next week's post.

This one is not my own, actually, but was shared with me by my writer friend Karen.

Karen and I had become friends at a national conference for writer/speakers. As I exited the hotel the morning after the conference ended, I passed Karen in the lobby on her hands and knees dissecting her luggage. There were little piles of clothes, make-up bags, boxes, and books all over the floor.

"What's up, Karen?" I asked, pausing in route to catch my waiting taxi. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh, I'm going batty trying to find my Kindle before my ride gets here," Karen admitted. "I just know I packed it in here but I can't seem to find it. It's got to be here somewhere. I just can't live without that thing."

Unable to loiter and commiserate any longer, I told her I'd be sure to lift her situation up in prayer and proceeded to do so as my driver sped me away to the airport."

The following day, I e-mailed Karen and asked if her Kindle search had been successful. Here was her answer:

"I searched and searched both suitcases four different times before the shuttle got there to pick us up. Never did find it. So while our driver stored our luggage in the bus, I explained my dilemma to the two other ladies from the conference catching the same shuttle. Without a moment's hesitation, one of the ladies launched into a heartfelt verbal prayer for the Lord to bring the prodigal Kindle back home.

"As soon as I got to the airport, while I was standing in line at the ticket counter, I unzipped the same compartment in my carry-on bag that I'd already searched over and over. I'll be dipped if the Kindle didn't pop right up like a jack-in-the-box."

To wrap it all up, Karen finished with a wallop. "Never underestimate the power of prayer."

To that I say, AMEN, sister!  And I'll be dipped.