Generating Mercy

Last week in tennis, I was paired as a doubles partner in a USTA match with a gal who was playing for the first time in four months because of a neck injury. She could barely turn her head, so you can imagine how impaired her court movement was, not to mention how much her timing was off from not playing for so long.

I wasn't surprised that we lost, but how we lost was an eye-opener.

Once our opponents realized that my partner wasn't up to par, they intentionally picked on her, relentlessly pounding the ball just out of her reach so that she was forced to repeatedly dive to her bad side, putting herself at risk of re-injury.

Now I know this level of competition is fierce and many women are out for blood ... to win at all costs. But I was taken aback at this blatant display of what all of life would be like without compassion.

Without mercy.

In contrast, the next day I watched my 2-year-old grandbuddy Blaine wrestling on the floor with his 200-lb daddy. When Blaine was gently manipulated into a pinned position he couldn't break with his own limited strength, he cried, "Mercy! Mercy!" and his daddy released all pressure and helped him up. The two laughed together and then had at it all over again. 

Blaine willingly entered into the struggle knowing that if he got into trouble and asked for mercy, he would receive it. Because love was present.

What a difference it makes in our behavior ... our relationships ... our courage ... when love is present. 

According to Webster, mercy is, "Compassion shown to an offender." In other words, not giving someone what they deserve. And why would anyone not pay back what is due to a guilty person? To someone who has hurt you? Tread over you? Disrespected you? Humiliated you?

Only one thing comes to mind: love. The underlying reason why all Christ-followers should treat others with respect, courtesy, and yes, mercy. We receive love from Papa God. We, in turn, must choose to extend it to others.

To everyone, yes, but especially the guilty. The ones who don't deserve it.

So this is my weekly lesson from Papa God. I am determined to do better. To be more merciful to my offenders - the lady who threw the barely veiled insult at me, that perpetually cranky neighbor who gets under my skin, the man who ignored the stop sign and came within an inch of crunching my car.

Because even if they're not yelling "Mercy! Mercy!"on the outside, if I listen hard enough with my spiritual ears, I can hear the cry from a deeper place when Papa God's love is present.

New Contest Celebrating New Release!

I'm thrilled to announce the April release of The Bible Promise Book: Too Blessed to be Stressed Edition.

Want to know what Papa God has to say about specific issues like how to deal with difficult people, relentless worry, and coping with loss? This adorable little book features over 100 scriptures related to inspiring themes and excerpts from my book, Too Blessed to be Stressed. 

Yep, oodles and oodles of Bible verses related to things we women struggle with every single day. (Including tons of additional scriptures not included in the original book.) 

You'll find yourself pulling this scripture reference off your shelf again and again when a problem arises and you need answers.

Or you just can't remember where that particular verse is in the Bible.

Or you'd like to support a friend going through a hard time with an uplifting promise straight from Papa God.

To celebrate the release of my bouncing literary baby*, I'm giving away ten copies! To be included in the drawing, all you need to do is complete this sentence: 

"My favorite Bible promise from Papa God is ..."

In other words, tell me your favorite Bible verse that contains a promise.

E-mail me your answer at gracenotes@deboracoty.com and not only will you be eligible to win a free book when I draw the winners on April 30 (you'll have them in time for Mother's Day!), your name and promise fave will appear right here on this blog in early May. If you're not already subscribed to my blog, be sure to subscribe now (look to your right for the subscription box) so you won't miss it!

Thanks, dear friend, for sharing in my joy and awe of another amazing grace note from our Papa! I hope to hear from you soon.



*This is the fourth of six babies birthed by my book Too Blessed to be Stressed (all available at www.Amazon.com):
The 2014 TBTBS Planner
The TBTBS Perpetual Calendar
TBTBS Spanish Edition
The TBTBS Promise Book  

And next up:
The TBTBS 2015 Planner  (releasing this July)
TBTBS Journal (releasing this Sept)

 


 

Bringing Home the Bacon

Swiss Olympic Gold Medal Prize

You, I'm sure, were as amused as I when it was made public that for representing his country so well at Sochi, Swiss cross-country double gold medalist Daris Cologna received a pig. Yep, a cute little pink porker.

In the publicity photos, Daris appeared very pleased. He was quite gracious to his benefactors, smiled broadly and promptly named his prize Sochi.

This while Russian athletes each received $120k cash + a $146k Mercedes SUV for a gold medal, $76k cash + $99k Mercedes for silver, and $52K cash + $59k Mercedes for bronze.

Americans didn't fare so badly either, receiving $25k for gold, $15k for silver, and $10k for bronze. No luxury vehicles, though. Not even a Vespa.

But Daris got a pig. And then he hit the slopes to begin practicing for the next Olympics.

Why does he do it? What drives him to continue grueling training when the reward is so meager?

Hmm. Why do you do it? Why do you continue that specific activity - you know, the one that eats (like a pig) all your time, attention and energy - although the pay-out is miniscule?

We all have them. Projects/jobs/dreams that we pursue week after week, month after month, sometimes for years on end, that we just can't let go. The activity isn't particularly lucrative; in fact sometimes quite the opposite - it drains our piggy banks dry. The return for our investment may not be in dollars; it may an intangible benefit like improving yourself, satisfaction for a job well done, knowing that you helped someone, or maybe even proving something to someone.

Whatever the motivation, it's there, it's strong and it keeps us going.

Writing is like that for me. I write despite the money, not because of it. Contrary to what most people think, Christian writers do not get rich. Most can't afford to quit their day jobs. I recently went to a book signing for a hugely known, award-winning, bestselling author of over 100 books (several hit the New York Times bestselling list) who confessed to recently starting a photography business to make ends meet.

The other authors in the room (including myself) all nodded in complete understanding like a conveyor belt full of bobble-head dolls.

Yet I keep writing. Book #14 is due to come out this fall and since 6 o'clock this morning (and yesterday and all the days before that), I've been parked in front of my monitor developing CCCB (Computer Chair Cauliflower Buns).

Why? Because I can't not write. Because what's most important to me is to produce the fruit of my passion and follow my life calling. Whether it brings home the bacon or not.

I might just call my next book Sochi as a reminder that some things in life are worth buns of dough instead of buns of steel. Just because.

What's your little pink pig?


 

Open My Eyes and Close My Mouth

Deb and Chuck doing what they do best

I love to eat out, don't you?

Nothing better than kicking back and enjoying the food someone else has prepared in pans that you don't have to scrub served on plates you don't have to wash and put away.

But I recently heard a story about a dining out near-tragedy that made me quiver in my boots.

My friend, Laura, attended a church affiliated  planning meeting of fifteen people, including her husband and herself, at a local pancake house. The speaker stood at one of the clustered tables set for four and began speaking while the food was served.

Laura was seated at a table with her husband and another couple. My friend had only taken a couple of bites when she suddenly began choking. She struggled for the next ten minutes, holding her throat (the universal sign for choking) keeling over, turning purple, gasping for air, gurgling and coughing up food and water.

One of the people seated at her table was the group's trained "CPR" person, but he never noticed Laura's predicament. He was her husband. Although he was right across the table from her, he never saw or heard a thing.

As Laura choked, the speaker was standing right behind her and kept right on speaking as if nothing was wrong. In fact, for inexplicable reasons, only one person in the entire group saw what was happening to her. He later said he had never seen anyone go through something like that and it thoroughly upset him.

But he never tried to get anyone's attention while she was struggling.

I wonder if this thoroughly upset guy would've just apathetically sat by while she died right in front of him. Why on earth he never attempted the Heimlich - or alerted someone else to - is a sad testimonial to the passivity of mankind. Or just plain laziness.  

Laura's husband and the other attendees were stunned when they learned of her horrible experience right beneath their noses. Laura could find no explanation except Satan's wickedness as to why an entire roomful of Christians were somehow blinded to her "attack" and she had been kept in total isolation while suffering in plain sight.

Besides avoiding pancake houses, my takeaway from this story is that I vow to be more aware of those around me. I pray for Papa God to open my eyes to needs of others that should be evident ... if only I'm looking for them. Because I never, ever, ever want to be so blinded that I don't see someone suffering in plain sight.   

A Debbie by Any Other Name

Can you name this yummy lunch I had in Barcelona?

Our whirlwind tour last fall of 5 European countries in 15 days began in Barcelona, Spain.

The day Spouse and I arrived with our friends Bob and Sandi, we were hungry and oh-so-tired after our 10-hour plane ride. So after checking into our hotel in the heart of the city, we snoozed a few hours then hit the sun-drenched street in search of sustenance.

We came upon a lovely little bistro exuding mouth-watering smells, so we gathered around a marker board at the entrance that listed a dozen or so lunch items.

Well, dang. They were all in Spanish. Go figure.

There were random food pictures on the walls, but we didn't know the names of anything we wanted and by reading the menu, we didn't know what any of the written names meant. So we ended up taking a stab in the dark by ordering heaven's knows what based on which words we could pronounce best. Luckily, mine turned out to be a pizza-like thing that was every bit as delicious as it looked (above).

Everyone knows you're a tourist when you start taking pictures of the food on your plate.

Names are important, aren't they? I realized just how true this is when I visited my parents' church last Sunday and my 88-year-old father introduced me to his friends by my sister's name. No doubt it wouldn't have mattered to them, but I was surprised at how much it mattered to me.

"Daddy, you only have two daughters and I'm not that one," I gently rebuked him. "I'm Debbie."
"Well, you sure are, are you?" he replied, squinting to get a better look at me. I had been sitting beside him for the entire hour-long church service.
"He's never known how old I am either," I said to Daddy's little old friends.
"How could I?" Daddy quipped back. "It changes every year."

I recently did a personal Bible study on the name of Jesus and was struck anew by just how important His name is to those of us who call Him Lord. Here are a few reasons why:

• Jesus was given His name by an angel before He was even conceived (Luke 2:21).
• We are gifted with eternal life by believing in the name of Jesus (John 20:31).
• We're baptized in the name of Jesus to signify our commitment (Acts 2:38, Acts 8:16, Acts 19:5).
• There's healing power in the name of Jesus (Acts 3:6, Acts 4:10, Acts 4:30, Acts 16:18).
• We find courage and boldness by using the name of Jesus (Acts 9:29).
• People risk their lives in the name of Jesus (Acts 15:26).
• We dedicate our lives to the name of Jesus (Acts 21:13).
• The name of Jesus joins the hearts of believers together (1 Corin. 1:10, 1 Corin. 5:4).
• We find grace through the name of Jesus (2 Thess. 1:12).
• We're forgiven and remade by the name of Jesus (1 Corin. 6:11).
• We are able to love the unlovable through the name of Jesus (1 John 3:23).

Yep. There's power in a name. Especially that name.

P.S. I'm considering investing in a silver plated name tag as a subtle reminder for my next family gathering - what do you think? 

Even Dirty, Dirty People Need Valentines

Chuck and Deb enjoying a Barcelona sunset

After 35 years of marriage, you think you know everything there is to know about your spouse, right?

Nay, not so.

Why, just last week I learned something I never knew about my main man Chuck.

It happened when I walked into the bathroom to find Chuck standing there staring at the towel rack with a befuddled look on his face.

Now our towel rack is actually a free standing hat rack that we converted to towel usage because two measly little wall mounted metal bars just weren't enough. Apparently we are dirty, dirty people.

The towel rack stands in the bathroom corner draped with my two pink towels and his two brown towels. They're usually spread apart just enough for drying purposes. Usually. But not always. (Incidentally, in case you care, the point of his towels being brown is because he seldom remembers to throw them in the wash. After a while, his previous white terrycloth robe turned brown anyway, so I cleverly went ahead and bought brown towels this go round.)

I told you we were dirty, dirty people. 

Anyway, back to Chuck's conundrum as he stood there presumably watching the brown towels sprout green fuzz.

"What exactly are you doing," I asked."Teaching the towels tricks?"

"I just don't know what to do," he answered, shaking his head and stroking his silver chin hairs.

"About what?" I responded in my best trying-to-sound-interested voice. The following revelation astounded me.

"Well, I always hang my towels in the east-west positions. I use the east hook towel on odd-numbered days and the west hook towel on even-numbered days so I don't use the same one twice in a row. But today's the 9th and I took three showers yesterday, one already today and I'm about to take another. I'm just not sure which towel to use."  

Oh. Wait. What?

I can't believe I've lived with this man three and a half decades and never realized he had such a complex towel usage system. I mean, I toss my pink towels up there and they land willy-nilly wherever they may. Sometimes they even land on - GASP - another towel. The towel I choose for use next is completely random. Really, does it matter? I have two. I figure when a hole gets worn in one, I'll start using the other.

I suppose it shouldn't surprise me; I've always known we were opposites since the day we met in 1975. It was my very first day of college. I was 17 and he was 20 and he arrived just as we did in a car driven by the boyfriend of my only friend at the university.

I'll never forget it. These hunky college boys pulled into the parking space next to ours. My heart zinged at first sight of the cute fellow with long wavy hair brushing his shoulders, carrying a guitar and wearing jeans and a flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves.

It took nearly a whole semester to make him notice me (he was, after all, a lofty senior and I was a mere baby freshman), and another month or so to reel him in for the catch. But then the rest, as they say, is history.

It's been a wild ride these 35 years and more fun than a barrel of hoppy toads.

I must say I find it exciting to keep learning new things about my husband after all these years. Can't say I've ever been bored. Now excuse me while I make a run to the store for a few new brown towels for my dirty, dirty Valentine.     

Tribute to a Legend

Karen and Richard Carpenter

This morning over my bowl of granola, I was tapping my toes as my den clock chimed one of my favorite oldies from The Carpenters, "I'm on the *(downbeat) top of the world looking *(downbeat) down on creation ..." when I came across a tiny notice in the newspaper that today is the anniversary of Karen Carpenter's death in 1983 at the age of 32.

Coming of age in the 70s as I did, the Carpenters played an enormous role in my life as the backbone of my dating life, romantic fantasies of the man of my dreams waiting out there somewhere for me, and even just fun, feel-good music to bop to with my best girlfriends in my living room while we nibbled on Sugar Babies and sipped coke floats. 

To this day, The Carpenters Christmas Album in my seasonal fave.

Somehow a tiny obscure notice doesn't seem like enough to memorialize Karen Carpenter.So I did a little research and put together a few interesting tidbits about the life of one of the most amazing honey-voiced contraltos the world has ever seen. 

• Karen Carpenter was born 3/2/1950 and died at age 32 of heart failure related to anorexia and bulimia.
• As a child, Karen loved playing softball as a pitcher. She continued that hobby throughout her life, pitching on the Carpenter's official softball team at the peak of their popularity in the mid-70s. 
• Karen played drums in high school and according to her brother Richard, always considered herself a "drummer who sang." 
• The first two albums cut by Karen and Richard had Karen singing from behind the drums. Producers finally coaxed her out front to a microphone against her will and wouldn't let her go back, replacing her with another drummer.
• Those same producers constantly goaded her to lose weight, although she was 5'4" and weighed 145-lbs.in 1968. By 1975 she weighed 91-lbs. 
• Karen collected Disney memorabilia and lived with her parents until she was 26.
• She considered singers Olivia Newton-John and Dionne Warwick her besties. 
• The Carpenters had to take a year off recording during the early 80s while Richard got his drug addiction under control.
• Karen dated Tony Danza, Mark Harmon, Steve Martin, and Donny Osmond's older brother Alan. 
• Desperately wanting to have children by age 30, Karen was married for 14 months to a real-estate developer who hid the fact from her that he'd had a vasectomy.
• After a slight decline in their popularity (largely because they'd disappeared from the limelight due to Richard's drug problem), by 1982 Karen and Richard were working hard on a comeback when Karen suddenly died of heart failure at her parents' home. Her death brought about increased public awareness about the dangers of eating disorders, which were largely unheard of at the time.

Who were your entertainment heroes growing up? I'd love to hear some of your happy memories!

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.