The Candy that Says it All

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pass the Iguana Repellant

Does Deb look as scared as she feels?

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

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

Gulp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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












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Goodness Gracious Me (Part 2)

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goodness Gracious Me!

Niagara Falls from the US-Canada pedestrian bridge

This woman was NOT the epitome of grace. In fact, she didn't seem to have a gracious bone in her body.

The school administrator (who was a long-time fan of my books) had asked me to speak to Mrs. Persimmon's (not her real name, of course) 7th grade English class for the Great American Teach-In. I had to scuttle my schedule, but yes, I agreed to do it, remembering the dozens of rewarding times I'd spoken to students about being an author in years past.

So the Teach-In day arrived and I, along with numerous other tote-lugging adults of varying professions, trudged what seemed like five miles across the expansive campus to the school's media center to check in. There, we were each assigned a classroom and a semi-reluctant student to escort us there.

My escort was a curly-haired young man of about 13 who couldn't seem to find it within himself to make eye contact (or offer to carry any of my bulging cases containing my laptop, projector, books, or props) or answer any of my ice-breaker questions with more than one syllable.

I couldn't hold that against him. I was young once and didn't have a clue how to talk to strange adults. And as far as grown-ups go, I guess I'm about as strange as they get.

So we finally made it round the bend, up the stairs, and down the never-ending hallway it to my assigned classroom, only to find it dark and deserted. Hmm. It was 15 minutes before my scheduled starting time, and I had made it very clear in my previous correspondence with the administrator that I needed a minimum of 15 minutes to set up.

"No problem," she had said. Well, it was a problem now.

"What should I do?" I asked my young escort. "If I don't start setting up, I won't be ready to start when the bell rings."

"I dunno," he replied, reaching forward and trying the doorknob. Surprisingly, it turned. So he pushed it open and went in. I followed. Then without a word, he flipped on the light, turned, and left.

I waited an additional five minutes, but still no Mrs. Persimmon. As uncomfortable as I was making myself at home in the classroom of someone I didn't even know, I really didn't see any way around it. So I unpacked my equipment and began to set it up as the students trickled in.

And then the unthinkable happened. As I bent over to plug in my projector, the cord somehow got wrapped around a metallic piece of equipment about the size of my kitchen mixer that was sitting on the table and sent it crashing to the floor.

"Oooooh, are you ever gonna get in trou-ble..." became the taunting chant of a cluster of bug-eyed boys who immediately gathered around the busted high-tech electronic device.
"Those things cost about a million dollars, I think."
"Mrs. Persimmon is gonna blow."
"You better tell her you did it, lady, cause if she thinks it was one of us, we're dead meat."

 I hadn't a clue what it was I broke, but I had a sinking feeling that I was sunk.

So the bell rang, and finally Mrs. Persimmon made her entrance. She marched directly over to me with lips pursed, glanced up at my first slide I was attempting to center on the wall screen, and barked,
"Who are you?"
"What is this?"
"Who let you in here?"

 Taken aback, I replied, "I'm Debora Coty, an author. I'm sorry - didn't the administrator tell you I'd be speaking to your class today? The door was open but no one was here to meet me so I started getting my presentation ready."

"I don't know anything about it," she said curtly. With that she turned on her heel and went over to her desk across the room, where she turned her back to me and began typing on her computer.

The 30 or so students sat mutely staring at me, and I back at them. What was I supposed to do now?

And then I noticed the pathetic broken high-tech mixer-thingie sitting on the table. I knew before anything else happened, I had to do the right thing, if nothing more than to be an example to 30 impressionable kids who were waiting to see how this would play out.

So I walked over to her desk. "Mrs. Persimmon," I said in a voice that sounded extraordinarily timid even to me, "I need to tell you something. While I was setting up, that white piece of equipment over there got knocked off onto the floor and appears to be broken. It was an accident, and I'm truly very sorry."

Mrs. Persimmon's eyes grew to the size of Frisbees as she took in the electronic gizmo with its little head cocked askew. Her face turned this amazing shade of maroon-purple as she leapt to her feet.

"WHAT?'' She shouted. "You broke my machine? Do you have any idea how MUCH they cost? I don't know if we have any more and I use it every day. I can't believe you broke it, OH MY GOSH, how could you be so clumsy? If you only KNEW what you've done! This it TERRIBLE! TERRIBLE!"

And she went on and on for what seemed like an eternity, alternating between fretting, fussing, yelling, and berating me. Right there in front of the students. As If I were a bad dog who'd peed on her carpet. She just couldn't get over it and move on ... the more she stormed, the madder she got.

Okay, since this is getting a little long for a blog post, I'm going to pause here and continue the story next time. So tune in for my next post, same time, same channel!  



 









  

Twists in the Road

While recently reading Stephen King's "On Writing," I was struck by a revelation decidedly not Stephen-King-ish. In fact, the king of horror would probably scoff if he heard me say it, but Papa God brought me to an epiphany of sorts through Steve's life story.

Without really meaning to, in relating the odd events of his early life, Steve verified in my mind the amazing fact that the Almighty is constantly preparing us for our future by the events of our past and present.

This fact is amazing because it demonstrates with no uncertainty that our Creator cares about us personally and has a plan for each of us - a destination in mind for our life-journey that may very well include hairpin turns and hair-raising twists in the road. We can't always fathom their purpose at the time, but they serve to bring us closer and closer to our final destination.

And each segment of highway is divinely intentioinal. Each bump, rut, slick patch, and S-curve is by master design.

For example, one of Steve's early jobs (before he became a bestselling, mega-author and was a poor, struggling writer trying to support a wife and children) was washing hospital sheets and restaurant tablecloths. The dirty linens were often a week old by the time they were delivered to Steve.

Just picture, if you dare, the bloody gore and disgusting nastiness of decaying body tissues and old food crawling with maggots and fungus that he encountered daily (which he describes in revolting detail in the book). Now consider what kind of stories Steve writes today. See a connection?

It made me look back on my own life story at all the seemingly incongruent sub-plots and red herrings that turned out to contribute heavily to the inspirational writing, music, and speaking programs I produce today:

*The decade of piano lessons I fought against with tears, pleading, and gnashing of teeth
*Every voice and bell choir in existence that my parents made me join while I was growing up
*Mr. George, my long-time youth choir director who got me used to being onstage
*The English teachers that pushed me into writing contests in middle and high school
*The class officer elections that forced me to speak to the entire student body with my knees knocking

*The college acting classes that I thought were just for fun, but taught me stage presence
*Countless sermons I heard three times every single week of my life because I wasn't allowed to miss a church service (All that Bible-study seeps into your bored brain whether you mean for it to or not.)
*A front row seat to observing Christianity being lived out loud in real life by family members and friends who kept strong in their faith through struggles, questions, doubts, hardship, and illness
*And I mustn't forget this important one: Being raised in a home where a sense of humor was valued, appreciated, and cultivated. A laugh a day keeps the blues away!

So I owe a nod of gratitude to Mr. King for inadvertently pointing out the obvious: We are a pre-ordained product of the components of our past. And all the twists in the road are there for a reason.

Now I just have to figure out what all these hot flashes are preparing me for :(



 

Journey to the Center of My Girth

Everybody said it wouldn't be bad at all. No problemo. They'll knock you out and the painless procedure will be over so quickly you'll wonder if you ever had a colonoscopy at all, they said.

Completely routine medical procedure these days. No muss. No fuss. No sweat.

They said.

And I believed them.

But I was wrong. Drag up a stool (pun intended) and let me tell you about my recent experience.

Of course, you must remember this whole thing was a complete fluke and would never happen to you. Or anybody else in the world, for that matter. Just me. I have come to accept my lot in life as one who hears at every turn, "Oh my goodness - that's never happened before!" or "I can't believe this ... I've worked here 30 years and have never seen such a thing!"

I believe it's Papa God's profound sense of humor in providing fodder for my writing, which I was lured into by well meaning people who repeatedly coerced, "Wow - what a crazy story! Who would believe it? You should write that down!"

Okay, so back to my colonoscopy from Hades.

The clincher (a little sphincter humor there) is that I wouldn't have known about any of it if my blood pressure hadn't tanked after the nurse injected my first little dab of woozy juice. Because my BP flatlined at 80/40 and the infrastructure had already been breached (meaning the little camera thingie was already on its way through the maze that was my guts), they couldn't give me more sedative until my BP crept higher. It never did. Therefore I was 100% awake and ever-so-reluctantly alert throughout the entire ill-fated procedure.


So there I was lying on my side watching a red-tinted version of Journey to the Center of the Earth taking place in my own little planet on the monitor in front of me. My bare tush was protruding from the hospital gown and blanket that covered the rest of my shivering body as the male and female MD's took turns guiding the little inner-space ship through the tight, twisting tunnel that was my colon.

About ten minutes into it, I felt a sudden jerk on the camera tether followed by a strange thwomp sound behind me.

"What was that?" I asked the nurse sitting on a rolling stool in front of me, monitoring my BP. She rose to her feet and peered over my backside, her eyes wide as dinner plates.

"Um, I think we're going to have a slight delay," she said, forgetting to close her mouth after the last word.

"What do you mean?" I asked, feeling the little inner-space vessel turn upside down and ram into my spleen. Or maybe it was my liver.

Turns out the female MD fainted. Yep. Passed out. Boom. Right on the floor. In the middle of my colonoscopy. We had to stop the show as a team of people in scrubs rushed into the room, revived her with smelling salts, and had a little tea party within inches of my naked derriere.

In an act of good will, I even offered a peppermint from my purse on yonder chair if it would help.

As they helped the stricken doc out of the room, she mouthed a silent, "I'm so sorry" in my direction. I couldn't help but think, Not as sorry as I am, toots.

So the male MD took over. With a vengeance. I don't know if he was trying to make up for lost time, or if his breakfast burrito had too many chili peppers, but he was jamming that joystick, baby. Full speed ahead. And I was feeling every speed-bump, crook, and cranny. Why on earth Papa God has to put so many sensory receptors where the sun don't shine, I'll never know, but I was Ooooh'ing and Whoaaaaa'ing with more and more intensity when we encountered the first 90 degree turn.

Try as it might, my little inner-space traveler couldn't stay on the road to make that sharp angle. During the third effort to muscle through the curve, I arched off the table with an honest-to-goodness scream and the doc decided to call it a crash and burn.

The mission was aborted. The ship returned to the launch pad.

So now I'm back home feeling somehow guilty over the whole thing. Guilty that my guts were too twisty. Guilty that I couldn't tough it out. Guilty (with a dollop of anger) that the gallon of revolting lax-laced Gatorade I chugged down the day before was for naught. But mostly guilty that sticking a camera up my nether-regions would knock somebody who does it FOR A LIVING completely out.

Geesh.

Now that hurts.        

Early Morning Grace Notes

Don't you just love grace notes?

I sure do. Papa God sent me a doozy this past weekend.

It was just before sunrise when I finished my second lap on the narrow road encircling the rustic campground bordering a lake where I was speaking at a women's retreat later that day.

I'm an early riser - I'm talking really early riser, like 4:30 or 5 a.m. - and it's become my habit to spend the wee, dark hours before the world awakens taking my first prayer walk of the day.

There's just something incredibly intimate about spending time with your Heavenly Father when you know you have His undivided attention.

In this slice of the planet, anyway.

But on that particular day, my soul was weighted down with some baggage I just couldn't seem to jettison. I had been walking along praying for a little help lightening my load when I noticed the horizon just beginning to pink up.  

Up ahead, I spotted an empty wooden dock protruding over the lake with built-in seats at the far end. Was it calling my name for a front row seat to a brand new day?

Ooh, yes, please. 

So I made my way post haste across an expanse of dewy grass and began crossing the creaky, worn planks of the dock when something dark and moving quickly on my right side entered my periphery. It was a flock of at least 25 birds swooping in to cover the handrails and benches at the end of the dock, just where I was headed. (I know they weren't hawks, titmice, owls, cardinals, or pterodactyls - I know what those look like, but I can't tell you exactly what brand of birds these were.)

Boy were they close. Even in the dusky dawn I could see the curiosity in their eyes. They weren't one bit afraid. In fact, they seemed peculiarly friendly. I stopped in my tracks so not to startle them. Then before I could blink a single blink, another large flock of 30 to 40 birds descended from nowhere to completely cover every square inch of the dock before me as thoroughly as gravy on pot roast.

That's strange, I thought, staring at the vast array of docile winged creatures staring benignly back at me not ten feet away. Don't wild birds usually fly AWAY from people, not TOWARD them?

At that moment, the huge glowing ball that was the rising sun broke above the treetops and bathed the whole scene in a surreal orange-brown light. We all turned as one to drink in the beautiful sight. Yep. A battalion of birds ... and me. Witnessing the miracle of a glorious new day together like old and dear friends.

Somehow that warm, orangey light seeped into my heart, and then my very soul as my winged friends and I worshiped our Creator together. I can't explain how I knew they were worshiping. I just knew.

And the weight of my inner luggage suddenly was no more. My heart took flight. I felt free and unburdened and loved. Sort of how a bird must feel as she soars above the mountains on a cool breeze.

Indeed, it was a grace note - a little touch from Papa to remind me, when I need it most, that He cares about me personally, and is still large and in charge. Regardless of how high I allow the baggage to pile.

Have you experienced a grace note of your own? I'd love to hear about it!    

   

It's Just Good Horse Sense

I was pedaling past an open pasture on my bicycle the other day and came across a remarkable sight.

Two horses were standing side-by-side, facing opposite directions, simultaneously scratching each others' backs. Each was diligently chewing/scraping his teeth along the mid-to-lower back of the other and they both looked like they were about to spout out a satisfied, "Ahhhh!" Mr. Ed style.

And there's nothing quite as satisfying as a scratched itch, is there? 

It was the most clever thing! I almost fell off my bike doing a double-take.

So tell me, did humans make up that old saying, "You scratch my back and I'll scratch yours," or did we get that from our creative equine friends?

I suppose I shouldn't have been so astonished at the ingenuity of these marvelous creatures. My 35-year-old niece, a dedicated horse-woman since childhood, mentioned once that training horses takes 200 repetitions of the desired behavior. And smart horses take longer.

Longer? Why? You'd think it would be the dumber ones that would take longer.

Nope. If you let them get away with doing the task incorrectly after 192 times doing it right (and if they're smart, they WILL test you), you have to start all over. From scratch. Ground zero.

Come to think of it, we're not so different than our horsey friends, are we? In trying to replace a bad habit with a better one, we can toe the line and do it perfectly for 192 days straight. We can stick to 1200 daily calories, floss faithfully, read the Bible, or run a mile every morning and think we've got it nailed. But somehow, on that 193rd day, for some strange reason we cannot seem to grasp, we sneak an extra Krispie Kreme, or put off buying another roll of floss when we're out, or read The Hunger Games instead of Genesis, or run two blocks (just today so I don't get my hair sweaty).

And then it's much easier to break the new habit the next time. And the next. And before we know it, it's not a habit at all.

"Ask the animals, and they will teach you," (Job 12:7, NIV).

So I guess when we're creating a new habit, it pays not to fall off the wagon. Even once. Especially a horse-drawn wagon.

What good habits are you trying to form? 

  

Get Your Bad Self Down

Deb on her He & Me Retreat

I think we all reach a point in our lives when fifteen minutes of quiet time in the morning just isn't cutting it. We're exhausted physically, frazzled emotionally, and parched spiritually.

We need an extended time of renewal in every sense of the word.

After nearly completing work on my newest book, I was at that point recently and was completely blessed to sneak away for a five-day spiritual retreat. Alone. Yes, girlfriend, that's what I said: Five days alone! 

No whining kids, inquisitive husbands, nagging bosses, gossipy workmates, chatty friends, borrowing neighbors, nosy mothers ... just me and Papa God. I call it a He & Me Retreat.

As I described in my book, More Beauty, Less Beast, a He & Me Retreat is a time to break away from the hustle and bustle of everyday life and imbed yourself in our Father's pure, unmarred creation. To listen for that still, small voice that often gets drowned out in the cacophony of life. To rest. To revitalize. To refuel our tanks.  

My He & Me Retreat was located at my favorite spot in the world - our remote Smoky Mt. cabin, deep in the quiet woods about 3/4 of the way up a mountain where the 4200-foot elevation provided a refreshing 60 degrees in the mornings and evenings, quite different than our 92 degrees with 90% humidity at home.

After a long sunrise prayer walk (rain or shine), I spent my mornings reading, marinating, and recording insights about scripture, crooning praise songs aloud in the woods with no audience except the One I was singing to ... along with a nosy chipmunk or two. I danced with wild abandon to toe-tapping, spirit-swellin' songs played on dulcimer, fiddle, mandolin, and banjo.

I picked bouquets of wildflowers in mountain meadows by the Christmas tree farm, and rode my rootin'-tootin' four-wheeler, Sir Lancelot until it got too dark to see the twisty path. Then I chased lightening bugs in the forest clearing like I once enjoyed as a 6-year-old.

And I ate chocolate. A LOT of chocolate. And never felt guilty one single second.

My little recouping get-away was fun. It was fulfilling, It was essential to sanity. But it certainly wasn't original with me. There are many scriptural examples of Jesus stealing away alone to retreat sites like the mountains (Mark 6:36) or the seaside or lake (Matthew 13:1).

I figure if it was that important to him, it should be that important to me.

So how about you? I strongly encourage you to consider the benefits of a He & Me Retreat for yourself: uninterrupted time to get to know yourself again, to touch base with the marvelous creation Papa God made in you, and to embrace the opportunity to relax and enjoy His rejuvenating presence. As an added benefit, you'll revive your enthusiasm for the Word.

You'll fall in love with Him all over again.   

It's something you really can't afford not to do.

Love: Do You Speaka Dat Language?

I arrived home yesterday from a three-week, self-prescribed sabbatical in the seclusion of our remote Smoky mountain cabin, where I was working feverishly to finish Fear, Faith, and a Fistful of Chocolate, my newest book.

F3 is due at the end of this week, although it doesn't debut until Feb. That's how publishing works: hurry, hurry, hurry only to wait and wait and wait some more.


So I pulled into the driveway and dragged my haggard carcass through the door after a 9-hour, nonstop, ate-a-crate-of-cookies-to-stay-awake, ran-out-of-audio-books-two-hours-ago drive. I was whipped.

All I wanted was to throw my luggage in a heap on the floor and myself into a heap in the bed.

But something happened to change all that. An unexpected twist to my twisted day that made my heart yodel and my feet break into a happy-dance.

There, in a neat stack nearly the height of a cereal box, on the kitchen table, were every single comic painstakingly cut from every single newspaper that had been delivered while I was gone. We're talking 25 days here.

That's a LOT of comics.

So many that it took me over an hour to sit down and read them all. But read them all I did. Why? Because I heard, felt, smelled, touched, and tasted love in every word. And I just can't get enough of that. 

Spouse knew my love language is "Acts of Service," meaning that the way to speak love to me so that I actually hear it is to perform some small service for me. One that will either save me time, money, or energy, or an act that shows that he's thinking of me - my personal needs or preferences - in the midst of the relentless busyness of his life.

He knew that the funnies are the only reason I subscribe to newspapers.
He knew that I'm too isolated from civilization (no net access either) in our mountain cabin to see a daily paper. 
He knew that it would bring me no small joy to catch up on my funny-paper friends.
He knew that regardless of how many times he said, "I love you," or "I miss you" while I was gone, that I would really know it was true by this simple, wonderful, birds-chirping-and-sun-shining deed that proved that he cares about the little, insignificant things that I care about. Because I matter. To him.

And he was absolutely right. 

What a guy.

If it's been a while since you've thought about Dr. Gary Chapman's 5 Love Languages (which was first published in 1992), I encourage you to remind yourself that we don't all speak the same love languages, and sometimes when you think you're speaking love to your spouse, friends, or children, they may be hearing - or not hearing - the message you intend. Because you hable in twisted tongue they no savvy.

Here are the five love languages Dr. Chapman identifies:
1. Words of Affirmation
2.  Quality Time
3. Receiving Gifts
4. Acts of Service
5. Physical Touch

The thing is to identify your own love language - what speaks love to you - and the love language of each of your loved ones. 

So tell me: What is your love language?