Archive for June, 2006

June 29, 2006 @ 7:15 pm | Filed under: Thursday Thirteen

I could list all the expected things: family, friends, health, etc… And I am very thankful for all those things. But I thought maybe I’d share some things I’m thankful for…specifically today.

1. Thursdays. Because on Thursdays you can see two things - the accomplishments of the four previous days and the possibilities of the upcoming weekend.
2. Wireless High Speed Internet. Are you glad to be living in this day and age, or what? I still marvel that I can have a "traveling office" if and when I want. So cool. (And I received galley proofs for Saving Grace via email today. These make it real for me!)
3. Cell phones. I’ve talked to my Mike and Nate (who are in San Antonio all this week) four times so far today. If not for cell phones, we’d probably just call in the evenings to say good-night.
4. Air conditioning. It’s heating up here in Texas and all it takes is a few scant minutes outdoors for me to utter a brief (but heartfelt!) prayer of thanksgiving for a nice, cool home.
5. The camping is behind me. Make no mistake about it - I loved every minute of our vacation because we were together and making memories and all that good stuff. But am I glad to be clean again? Oh yeah…
6. Shutterfly. If you aren’t using this great service yet, then you need to! I love it that I can upload all my photos, crop and organize them, and then order prints - all on-line. The orders generally arrive within three to four days. My vacation prints came today. I’m a huge fan.
7. Diet Coke. But not from a can and not out of 2-liter bottle. From a fountain. And only with crushed ice. And a straw. Every birthday and holiday I ask Mike for a fountain drink machine, but so far…nothing. Is this unreasonable, I ask you?
8. Grandkids. Carter just called me to say "happy holiday" (July 4th!). Moments like that are priceless! I’m too young yet to be a Nana by blood, but my love for Carter and Kendall proves that blood is just an element - not a requirement!
9. Golf Digest for Women. Seriously. While it’s my drive that needs major work, I have to say I’m intrigued with an article by Annika Sorenstam in this month’s issue. Win With Your Wedges, How to Hone Your Game From Inside 100 Yards. Hmm…
10. Sonic. It’s just 1.1 miles from my house. That close proximity allowed me to just make a speedy dinner run for Jorge (who’s due at work in thirty minutes). Plus, you gotta love a place that’ll serve you breakfast burritos at ten o’clock at night!
11. People who put together exercise machines for a living. Okay, to get the scoop on this you’ll have to check out a future blog. That’s a story for another day…!
12. Working the information booth at church. (Cheryl, pick yo-self up off of that there floor, girl!) Because it forces me outside of my comfort zone and helps me to initiate conversation with folks I might not speak to otherwise. People always seemed shocked to find out that I’m an introvert at heart. Really. Things like working the booth help counteract the shyness.
13. Lunch with friends. Rochelle and I had lots of conversation and laughs at Chili’s today. Friends are the best, aren’t they?

June 28, 2006 @ 11:28 pm | Filed under: Uncategorized

"What is true is invisible to the eye. It is only with the heart that one can see clearly."   -  Antoine de Saint-Exupery

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According to the list of top ten things you need to do in order to sell your house quickly and profitably, curb appeal ranks Number One.

It is what makes potential buyers want to stop their car, get out, and take a closer look.

Knowing this, I walked to the street, stood back, and tried to really look at our property as a house and yard, and not the "home" it is to us.

I took in the healthiness of our cedar trees and the fact that our lawn looks better than it’s looked in years. The paint job that Mike and the boys did on the outside lends a definite crispness and warmth to the exterior.

All in all, it seemed inviting to me.

But I wanted a little color in the form of flowers.

Boston ferns already hung on the front porch and were lush and healthy, but all my ventures with flowers this year had ended badly. Um…for the flowers.

In North Texas’ heat and humidity the fact that you plant flowers that "love the sun" is not enough. In other words, they really need to be able to withstand having an electric blanket thrown over them for about four to five hours each day.

Unless it’s a cactus you’re interested in nurturing, growing flowers can be a frustrating project.

I wanted some flowers.

Because we were about to leave for a week-long vacation I knew the sensibility of spending the time and money on new bedding plants or baskets was futile. But I was not to be deterred. There had to be another way…

I began to search for other alternatives and when I found a store that sold luscious hanging baskets - full of color and absolutely gorgeous - I knew I had struck gold. The sign declared them to be "faux" arrangements. Could it be? I reached out and fingered the delicate petals and slightly pinched the leaves.

Yep, they were faux, all right. But I would have never known it just by looking.

I purchased some and hoped potential buyers wouldn’t know the difference either.

The night we returned from vacation everyone was busy unloading the van, sorting through the piles of dirty laundry, and purusing the mound of mail that had accumulated. As I passed by the front window, something caught my eye.

My baskets were gone.

As I walked to the front door I heard the sound of running water and realized that Mike must be turning on the sprinklers. Stepping out onto the porch, I peered into the darkness. What I saw caused me to double over in laughter.

Yep. He was watering the yard all right.

And - right in the middle of yard, located where they’d be sure to get a good, healthy drink, were my "faux" baskets, being watered as though their very life depended on it.

Obviously I’d neglected to tell my husband that…well…they didn’t have a life!

Although this was funny and we had a good laugh over it, something about the pretend plants has bothered me since the day I first purchased them. I could never quite figure out why and tried to just shrug it off.

Hey, they looked good. They added a burst of color and vibrancy to the front porch. There was no maintenance. It’s all good, right?

But it wasn’t until the day after Mike watered them, that I realized it was the very fact that there was no maintenance needed that bothered me the most.

You see, others, like Mike, might never know my plants were fake. But I knew, and that made all the difference to me.

No life flowed through their veins. The sun could shine on them all day and never make a difference - either for the good or for the bad. They were the same, day after day after day, never reacting to their surrounding or to the hands that "tended" them.

There’s something to be said for authenticity. For being "real", even when it means the less-than-pretty parts are exposed for others to see. When life flows through our veins, we grow and thrive and produce. And - sometimes - that growth is stunted by our surroundings.

Sometimes we wilt. Sometimes we grow hungry and need more nutrients than we needed the day before. Sometimes all we need is to be placed in the middle of God’s garden and have the sprinklers turned on us for a good, long soak in his mercy.

But it’s only in authenticity that good things will happen. Without it, all efforts are futile. Wasted. It’s only in honesty that we can grow and produce and be healthy, happy Christians. I pray that I can learn a lesson from the bright, burst of color that hangs on my porch.

I’m not perfect. There are days when I’m feeling a bit wilted. There are times when my spiritual "color" is a tad drab. And I’m certain there are seasons when God, my gardener, shakes his head, wondering when I’ll respond to His attention and care.

But that’s the thing. He does care. And that’ll never change, no matter the long hours I require or the attention I need from him. His goal is for me to be healthy and productive. What I look like or feel like today is not indicative of my potential.

Consistency. Perseverence. Trust.

Water. Nurture. Love.

I pray that today I can be a bright burst of color on God’s front porch. But let it not be for show or to impress. Let me be real. Authentic. Let life flow through my veins so that I can be productive.

Let me exhibit curb appeal so that others will want a garden of their own.

_______________________________

Disclaimer: In light of this object lesson I received on my front porch, did I keep the faux plants? Of course I did, what am I, crazy? <wink>

June 23, 2006 @ 9:48 am | Filed under: Uncategorized

Four whole days with no cell phone service (to speak of), no media (with the exception of one magazine I picked up on the way into the Canyon), and no email or internet.

Count ‘em. FOUR!

But the trade-off was a good one. I have lots of stories and lots of sweet memories. City girl met the big bad outdoors head-on and, not only lived to tell about it, but actually walked away feeling good about it all.

That’s not to say that I wasn’t thrilled to get to a hotel last night though! I think my guys must be rewarding me for good sportsmanship or something because we’re in a great hotel with lots of hot running water, the kind of bed I like, and high-speed internet access - a whole day earlier than planned!

Mike snapped this photo of me last night as I went into the bathroom.When I finally emerged I had managed to wash all the sand from the four-mile Canyon hike out of my hair, and had more than made up for four days without what I consider to be basic necessities. Things like thick towels, hot water, and mirrors.

I did find a lot of inspiration during these last few days though - from my family, my surroundings, and the solitude. It really does do a soul good to get away from it all for a while from time to time. I’ll share much more from this trip and what I carried away from it after we return home in a couple of days.

June 19, 2006 @ 5:23 am | Filed under: Uncategorized

"A vacation is what you take when you can no longer take what you’ve been taking."      ~Earl Wilson

_____________________________

It’s five o’clock in the morning. The van is packed, plants are watered, and I’m trying to gulp down a third cup of coffee before we hit the road.

The Grand Canyon. That’s where we’re headed.

This was Nathan’s year to choose where to spend our vacation, and Jordan will choose next summer, in honor of their high school graduations. I feel sure that this year and next year’s vacations will be indelibly imprinted on my mind and heart forever. I’m all too aware that family vacations with all of us participating will become farther and fewer between as the boys’ lives takes them in different directions.

Seven days with my guys. What more could a mom ask for? My little boys aren’t so little anymore and I’m just happy to know we have this special time together before Nate leaves for college in August. I want to enjoy each conversation, soak up their stories, explore their thoughts, and basically just kick back and relish this time.

Except…

Did I mention that three of these seven days I will be…<gulp>…camping? I have to say I’ve been growing increasingly nervous the past few days. I mean, I’m no pampered princess or anything, but this will definitely be stretching my comfort zones. My idea of roughing it is a motel off the Interstate with a lumpy mattress and lousy water pressure.

However…for the sake of precious family memories and because my three guys are truly pumped about this, I’m putting on my game face and going for it. We have a float trip scheduled and a day hike. So, prayers are appreciated!

"Don’t worry about it, Mom. You worry too much." Nathan tries to reassure my doubts about my outside survival skills.

"It’s going to be an adventure. I truly feel it will be." Mike’s searching for words he thinks will inspire me. He’s not kidding me - I’m on to him!

Seriously though, nature does inspire me like nothing else and I am truly excited about taking just a good old notebook and pen and finding some quiet moments to reflect and write. I’ll be posting about the trip as I can. There is a state-of-the-art visitor center and IMAX not far from where we’ll be…you know, the C word…and here’s hoping I’ll find a place to go on-line.

I look forward to some beautiful sunrises and spectacular sunset writing opportunities while we’re at the Canyon, and the shutterbug in me can’t wait to capture it all through the lense of my camera.

Happy trails, all.

June 18, 2006 @ 5:17 am | Filed under: Uncategorized

"Don’t do it, Staci." My mother’s voice, tight with anger and hurt, followed me as I made a bee-line for the back door. "Don’t you dare walk out that door. Your dad said to wait here until he got home so he can talk to you."

Her words buzzed around my ears as I stalked into the garage and yanked open the car door.

It was 1984 and I was a junior in high school, proudly - if not a bit cockily, working my first part-time job as a sales clerk at Barrett Shoes. I was also a sixteen-year-old girl who’d just had an argument with her mother, and now was openly defying her by leaving the house anyway.

On some level way down deep in my emotion-driven teen-aged heart I surely knew that the decision I was making wasn’t the smartest. I mean, really, how could this end well? But, with typical sixteen-year-old rationale, I countered these thoughts with, Yeah? Well, what’s the worst that could happen?

As I peeled out of the driveway and headed across town to Barrett’s I didn’t allow my mind to dwell on the particulars of what my actions might cost me. After all, I had an important job to get to! I didn’t have time to wait for my dad to get home from his own job and then give me whatever lecture my mom might suggest to him that I needed. What did they think I was, anyway?  A kid?

By the time I reached the store and clocked in, the episode with my mom was nothing more than a bad memory. She’d be over it too by the time I returned home after working my five hour shift. It was only a stupid argument, certainly not worthy of the big deal she’d made out of it.

For about forty-five minutes I luxuriated in this knowledge. Yeah, maybe I had smarted off one too many times today. I probably would need to apologize at some point about that. I was just grateful that it was all behind me now. When I got home we’d make up and all would be back to normal.

Or not.

I was in Women’s Shoes - sizes 7 and 8 - when I glanced out the front window of the store and saw a very familiar looking car pull into the parking lot. My stomach knotted as I took a few steps to get a better view, and then it plummeted like a rock as my dad emerged from the car.

Even from my place on Aisle Three I could see the anger that had his features pulled taut, his mouth set in a firm, grim line and his fists clenched as he strode with purpose to the door.

My mind ran the gamut in those few seconds - everything from considering the possiblity of running to the store room and hiding out there until he left to faking an upset stomach and running to bathroom clutching my tummy.

That last one wouldn’t have been much of a stretch at this point, anyway. I did indeed feel very sick.

But I stood still, knowing that to flee would only be to prolong the inevitable. I’d not seen this look on my dad’s face too often, but I did know enough about it to know that I’d crossed the line this time. Still clutching a box of Size 7 brown wedges to my chest I eased toward the front of the store.

He saw me immediately and we locked eyes. I saw his mouth tremble just ever so slightly and my heart broke. This was my dad, and I was his princess, and my act of defiance had hurt him.

"Do you want to come quietly?" His voice was low and carefully measured, his eyes steady and unwavering. "Or shall we make a scene?"

I went quietly, needless to say.

Today, over two decades later, I can honestly say I have no clue what my mom and I argued about that day, and I have no idea what happened in the minutes and hours and days after my dad’s surprise visit to my shoe store.

But I learned a lesson that day. A lesson only a dad that truly loves you can - or will - give.

Now that I’m the mom of two teenagers myself, I see and understand a whole lot more than I did way back then. I applaud my dad for having the courage to parent me when it would have been much easier for him to wait at home for me. Back then I was humiliated that he had the audacity to pull me out of my job in front of my coworkers and my boss. Now that I’m a parent I know that he felt all that same humiliation plus some.

So thank you, Daddy, for loving me enough to do the right thing.

Happy Father’s Day.

________________________________

God took the strength of a mountain,
The majesty of a tree,
The warmth of a summer sun,
The calm of a quiet sea,
The generous soul of nature,
The comforting arm of night,
The wisdom of the ages,
The power of the eagle’s flight,
The joy of a morning in spring,
The faith of a mustard seed,
The patience of eternity,
The depth of a family need,
Then God combined these qualities,
When there was nothing more to add,
He knew His masterpiece was complete,
And so, He called it … Dad

__________________________________

Check out these great Father & Child photos taken all over the world. Very neat.

June 17, 2006 @ 8:15 pm | Filed under: Uncategorized

"The dream was always running ahead of me. To catch up, to live for a moment in unison with it, that was the miracle."

___________________________

It thrills me to announce that Saving Grace is under contract with PPH. This will be my third book with the wonderful folks in Hazelwood and I’m truly honored at their response to this story.

The picture above is the mock-up cover. When I first opened the email a few days ago and saw it, I just sat at my computer with tears in my eyes. I really love this story, and it feels wonderful to know I’ll be able to share it with all of you very soon now.

Here’s a sneak peek, if you’re interested.

________________________________

Prologue

Raleigh, North Carolina, 1986

Grace Camden lay still on the mattress, face to the wall, long after he’d gone. She heard the door to the apartment slam shut but didn’t turn at the sound, didn’t even give herself permission to feel relief.

The air in the cramped bedroom was pungent.  She finally reached down to grasp a handful of the sheet, drawing it up to cover her nose and mouth. But the scent of Rick Johnson’s cheap cologne, combined with the stench of alcohol and body odor, clung to the fabric. She kicked the covers off, her stomach heaving with revulsion.

She barely reached the bathroom in time, her knees scraping against the torn linoleum as she dropped to the floor. Grabbing as much of her hair as she could, she pulled it back in her fist and doubled over the toilet, her body shaking with violent spasms.

When there was nothing left, she gripped the bathroom counter and struggled to her feet, her legs weak and shaking. Grace stared at her reflection in the cracked mirror while holding a clean washcloth under warm running water.

What happened in there, Grace? How did you let yourself get in that situation? Hatred for Rick Johnson and disgust with herself battled for her heart. She swallowed hard, trying to ignore the acrid taste building in her throat again.

The signs had been there. Why, oh, why didn’t I pay attention to them? She should have turned and left the apartment the instant she’d arrived home from school. The very second she saw Rick lounging on their worn-out sofa, she should have made a run for it. Clearly drunk, he’d waggled his fingers at her and patted the space next to him on the couch.

“Come on, Gracie. Come sit by Papa Rick for a bit.” His words were halted, slurred by the alcohol he’d spent the afternoon guzzling. “Come . . . tell me ’bout your day, Gracie.”

Pretending she didn’t hear him, she’d walked into the kitchen. All she wanted was to find a snack, then retreat to her bedroom. But she’d barely opened the refrigerator door when she heard him come up behind her, wrapping a thick arm around her waist.

Grace shuddered now, remembering. She shut off the tap and squeezed the excess water from the washcloth. After cleaning herself, she threw the washcloth in the sink. As she pulled on a clean T-shirt and skirt, she shook her head, trying to dislodge the thoughts that seemed stuck on permanent replay in her mind.

Walking through the apartment, she picked up the empty beer cans and cigarette butts Rick had left behind. Dumping it all in the trash can, she fought against the memories of the past hour, trying to force them from her head.

If only she could toss them out as easily as she tossed the trash. . . .

Chill bumps crept along the bare skin of her arms as she pictured his face looming just above hers. His yellowed teeth bared in a menace as he gave her a sardonic grin.

“You are a good girl, ain’t ya now?” His breath had been hot and foul on her face, and she cringed now at the memory. “Just like your mama said you was.”

Mama. Visions of her mother swam through her mind and she blinked, trying to make sense of it all. What does Mama see in Rick Johnson anyway? Surely she could see Rick for what he was.

A monster.

Grace set the lid back on the trashcan and retreated to the couch. Curling her legs beneath her, she prepared to wait. If Mama didn’t see it before, she will now. Just as soon as her mother came home, Grace would tell her the whole, terrifying story.

And that would be the end of Rick Johnson.

Because, no matter what the issues had ever been in Mary Camden’s life, she loved her daughter above all else. Grace nodded in the dimness of the room and drew her leg up, resting her chin on her knee. This time Mama will see Rick Johnson for the monster he is.

Grace was sure of it.

June 15, 2006 @ 7:22 pm | Filed under: Uncategorized

I heard this quote yesterday and knew it was one that would stick with me.

Dreams often come with a price, and almost always with lots of hard work, blood, sweat, and maybe even some tears. I think that’s what makes dreams so precious to us.

The elements of sacrifice and perseverance that it takes to breathe life into a dream is what builds character in us. And it takes character to care for the dream once it is realized. One without the other would be a virtual see-saw, never quite achieving balance.

Yesterday I posted on grace, on how God brought me to a face-to-face encounter with it when I was twenty-four. That was the night when I found out for myself that my imperfections and my weaknesses weren’t a turn-off to God. He loved me profoundly in spite of them and, to my surprise, promised to use those very imperfections for good.

I didn’t quite understand everything at the time. I was merely trying to make it through each day, slowly learning to find joy in the small things even when life loomed too large for me to handle. I learned the difference between happiness and joy and that joy was a decision and I could choose each and every day to live a joyful existence.

That period in my life was a literal awakening. In spite of all the things that could have been counted as negatives back then, I have to say that I have such fond memories of that time. I was like a child who’d suddenly grasped a basic concept in a school room, suddenly the proverbial light bulb came on and I got it. I began to soak up the Word of God in a whole new way. I couldn’t get enough. It was like each and every word had been penned just for me. For just that time.

I learned to really pray. Now it was all about just having a conversation with God. It was, and is, truly that simple. Keeping the line of communication open - on the good days, on the bad days, and on the myriad of days that fell somewhere in between. Now that I knew He could see to the core of me anyhow, I wondered how I’d ever thought I was somehow fooling Him before when I wanted Him to only see the good in me.

I was His child and He loved me. Unconditionally. In spite of myself. That was my first encounter with real grace.

On the first Monday morning of January 2003, I sat down with a blank page in Word opened before me on my computer screen. Previous projects were complete and it seemed very apropos that I would be beginning a brand new story in a brand new year.

It would be Grace’s story, and I’d known that much for some time. While I didn’t have the roadmap yet of how Grace and I would navigate through her story, I did know the story would be one about grief, forgiveness, and the road to grace.

Over the next seven months I wrote a story that I believe will always hold a special place in my heart. It was during this book that God took me to the next level of my discovery of grace. Often I would wake up, my stomach tense and nervous, because I literally had no idea what would or should happen next in the story and no clue on how to get there.

Not knowing what else to do, I’d go to my knees seeking - no, make that begging - guidance and direction just to get through the next chapter. It was during those weeks and months that I learned to bleed onto the pages of my story. I’d go from the computer to my knees, and back again. Over and over and over…

As I worked through Grace’s story, God began to open the eyes of my heart to truths I’d never seen before. I wrote this story with blind faith, and no one could be as surprised at the ending as I was! Let’s just say that, when it was all said and done, I’d learned yet another lesson on grace.

One afternoon I had been working on a particularly difficult chapter about midway through the book. It was a pivotal place in the story and I knew it was essential that I get it right. But it was tough going. The subject matter was heavy, the emotion was high, and I felt very inept to convey the message I knew needed to shine through.

Somewhere along the way I moved from my desk. I sat in my office chair, with the laptop propped on my knees and my feet propped on my bed. I don’t remember when or how or even why. In my mind I was at The Winds in Ocean Isle with Grace. She sat across a picnic table from Kyle, trying to summon the courage to tell him the one thing she’d tried her best to keep from him, and from their marriage. It could very well be the end of her life as she knew it. Everything depended on his reaction to it.

As I prayed my way through each and every painful sentence of this scene, God took Kyle (yes, I know he’s merely a character, but God really did use him!) and showed me the next level of grace.

You see, Kyle had an established relationship with God. He’d tried Him countless times before and had found Him to be true. Through his own painful loss, he’d come to know God in deep and profound ways. Kyle had experienced the same thing I did years ago. He’d had his own personal Bethel.

But Grace had not. Though she’d begun her faith walk a few years back, the baggage, hurt, and betrayal from her past were stumbling blocks in the road to forgiveness and healing where she needed to be. She loved God. She served Him. She just had no way of getting to that place of restoration under her own power.

Kyle, in spite of his own shock and pain at her words, allowed God to use him as a bridge. He stood in the gap, one hand holding tightly to Grace, the other holding even tighter to the Almighty. Grace couldn’t get there on her own, but she could cling to someone who was already there and they could become her lifeline.

I emerged from that scene in tears and, again, changed. It may sound silly because it’s just a story and, maybe, that’s how God can best teach me right now. I’m not sure. What I do know is that another set of blinders were removed from my spiritual eyes that afternoon.

I was made aware of the rows and rows of folks that line our church pews. Holy, righteous people who’ve overcome pasts filled with unspeakable hurts and wrongs. Yes, they live for God now and, yes, there is healing in God. But sometimes it takes years to reach a place of true restoration. True grace.

And that’s when we can be a bridge. We can stand in the gap, holding tightly to our fellow brother or sister with one hand, and holding even more tightly to Jesus with our other.

__________________________

The picture above is of The Winds in Ocean Isle, North Carolina. Yes, it really does exist. Though I’ve never been there in person, I spent hours poring over their brochure - memorizing the layout of the beachfront property and studying the color palette of the rooms. I began to feel a true connection to this place and a longing to visit there.

When, on September 18, 2003, Hurricane Isabel impacted the northern Outer Banks of North Carolina, I prayed for these people I didn’t even know and for a place I’d not yet been. Thankfully, "my place" remained in tact and relatively unharmed.

Shortly after that, I obtained permission from the owners to use their name in the story and it has been my plan all along to one day visit and, hopefully, be able to take a box of Saving Grace copies to these gracious people.

Which…brings me to an announcement…

…that I’ll save for another day…

June 14, 2006 @ 11:58 pm | Filed under: Uncategorized

My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness. - II Corinthians 12:9

___________________________

I was twenty-four years old - broken in spirit, weary in flesh, and heavy in heart- the night I discovered grace for the first time.

Grace wasn’t a foreign word to me. I had grown up on church pews. I had listened for years to Sunday school lessons that expounded on the magnificent grace of God. I had heard what could quite possibly be called the greatest sermons ever on the attributes of grace. Of how, though undeserved , grace flowed to God’s children, bathing their lives in unmerited favor.

I believed this. I trusted this.

But I’d never felt it.

In actuality I didn’t really even know there was anything to feel. As far as I knew, my walk with God was as good as it was going to get. Wasn’t I doing everything I knew, everything I’d been taught to do?

If, at the end of each day, I still felt empty and alone, then it must be a flaw within me, right? I looked around and saw other friends, family, and fellow church members with smiling faces and happy lives and I knew I must somehow not measure up.

Not that anyone ever knew I felt that way.

You see, I desperately wanted to be that happy, sold-out to God, smiling, "life is good and so am I" type of wife and mother that I felt others expected of me. I had grown up in a household where serving God was first and foremost. You attended Sunday services, mid-week Bible study, and any other special services that came along. In short, we were there any time the doors were open.

I’d been a memeber of the same church congregation all of my life, and my church family was an extension of me.  I used them as a mirror, a way to guage my walk with God, a method of seeing how I was doing in this faith walk of mine.

There were certain things expected of people like me. I’d been taught to love God with all my heart, trust Him for everything, withhold nothing. So I prayed, I read my Bible, I even taught a room full of eight and nine-year-old children every Sunday morning.

On the outside I had it all going on. I looked the part. I played the part. I was in a marriage that appeared healthy, the stay-at-home mother of two adorable toddler boys, extremely close to my family, and I had many friends.

I talked with these friends and family. Laughed with them. Played with them.

I did everything except share myself with them.

My real self. The part that hid inside of me like some frightened child who was more comfortable in the safety of a darkened closet than out in the light where the sun can shine on her face. I hid my fears. I hid my insecurities. I hid my problems.

I hid the truth.

The truth was that I lived most days waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for the next bit of bad news that would send our family’s existence spiraling even further. I learned to stretch a dollar, stretch my sanity, and stretch the truth - each one a futile attempt to hang by my fingernails to the version of reality I thought I was supposed to be living.

I was a child of God who’d never strayed, shouldn’t life be easier? I’d been tithing since I was a twelve-year-old babysitting for the neighborhood children, so why was a mere trip to the grocery store for the bare necessities such a challenge? I’d been taught that God was the great healer and yet sickness lived in my home, slowly, bit-by-little-bit, robbing me of the dream I’d once thought was mine to claim.

I was twenty-four years old, but I felt like an old woman. Me, the girl who’d been nominated the Most Likely to Succeed by her senior class, now watched as her dreams began to disintegrate like a dandelion that is clutched too tightly. My passionate spirit and zest for life began to slowly fade to black-and-white as my techni-colored dreams now seemed secondary to the basic efforts of mere survival.

I continued to paste the smile on each morning, though, because to do less than that would be to show the world my imperfections. It would be admitting that I, who on the outside seemed to have it all going on, was in reality a scared and hurting woman who was watching every security in her life slip away one-by-one.

And then one day I couldn’t do it anymore.

I woke up that Monday morning and couldn’t find the smile to plaster into place. I cared for my kids with mechanical motions. I moved through my day with wooden emotions. As dry and hollow as I was, I knew my survival depended solely on me. I had to find a way to crawl to a place of healing and restoration.

I knew I could no longer do it on my own. My mumbled and routine morning prayers just weren’t doing it for me anymore. The scriptures I read each day were now just words. It was like when a sick person takes in food, but the body no longer knows what to do with it. The nutrition is wasted, rejected by the very body that needs it for survival.

I made myself go to that Monday night prayer meeting. I pulled into the church parking lot with a nervous flutter in my stomach, got out of my car with legs that threatened to drop me, and walked into the side sanctuary entrance of the old church.

I didn’t talk to anyone on my way in. I didn’t look around to see who was there. For the first time in my life I didn’t try to keep up any pretenses. I no longer cared if those around me got a glimpse of my imperfect life and my imperfect reactions to that life. I was hurting, I was alone, and I knew that if there was anything in this life for me I had to find it that night.

I knelt between two pews instead of at the altar. Hot tears began to sting my eyes and face as I got honest with God. The pain, the betrayal, and the lonliness that I’d held bottled up inside of me for so long exploded into the air around me as I surrendered life as I knew it.

All the broken pieces of me that I’d so carefully hidden finally broke free for good, drying up and crumbling into fine bits as I lay face down on the floor in between the pews. I have no idea how long I was there, or who came and went around me. But when I could cry no more, when no more words would come, when the screams of my spirit were now just whispers, I felt it.

Grace.

With a quiet reverence it moved through me - body, soul, and spirit. All my preconceived notions of grace and what it was or wasn’t were immediatly displaced. Never had I known such peace or tranquility. The fact that it descended into that pit of darkness, found me, and then relentlessly rescued me was - and is - the greatest single moment of my life.

I’ve never been the same since that Monday night.

I have lived life differently from that moment on. I’d like to say that my troubles disappeared, I no longer hurt, and all sickness ran away, with tails tucked between their legs. But that’s not grace, is it?

Grace is feeling the peace of God in the midst of those troubles. In the depths of that hurt. In spite of all sickness. It’s the realization that no matter the baggage, no matter the time you’ve walked with God - whether it’s two days or two decades - life has a way of dealing you cards you’re not prepared to play. It’s then that grace intervenes…if we’ll let it.

Grace dwells in imperfections. In brokenness. In the pieces of our souls that we discount the most, grace can do the most good.

June 12, 2006 @ 2:13 pm | Filed under: Family

The sign is up now.

Our house is officially on the market. I’m not real sure how I feel about it right now. It’s definitely time, but in the midst of all the cleaning out of closets, drawers, and rooms I’ve come across so many things that have reminded me of just how many great times we’ve had in this house.

Nate and Jorge have gone from being boys to young men, Carter and Kendall have brought the sounds of toddler laughter back into the house, and our living room has been the hub of many great conversations and game nights with special friends.

As I was going through yet another closet this morning I couldn’t help but relate the "de-cluttering" process to what my soul must go through from time to time. Those who know me well know that I can’t stand clutter and - for the most part - my house appears well organized and proper.

Until you open a closet door.

And then, baby, you’d better either jump back fast or be wearing full-body armor ’cause there’s just no telling what might jump out at you. I’d like to say that is because we have much more stuff than we have room for here, and that would be true. But it would also be true to say that, for me, out of sight is pretty much out of mind.

Until I’m the one to open the closet door.

Then I see the situation with sudden clarity. I begin to pull out boxes of papers that I no longer need, but can’t bear to part with. I’ll sort through folders, clothes, magazines - forcing myself to make crucial, spur-of-the-moment decisions. It’s painful, but the "maybe" stack begins to dwindle and the "for sure keep" stack is practically non-existent. Either it’s in use now or I’m prepared to part with it.

How often do I allow my soul to become cluttered and disorganized? It’s not something I set out to do, not any more than I long for a cluttered home closet. But it becomes so easy to push thoughts and emotions into the dark corners, deciding to wait for another day to deal with them. Days and even months go by and, instead of digging them out and dealing with them, I instead pack new ones in on top.

It’s not until I unsuspectingly open that proverbial door and get bonked on the head that I see the situation with sudden clarity. I begin to pull out baggage that I no longer need, but can’t bear to part with. I’ll sort through feelings, prayers, emotions - forcing myself to make crucial, spur-of-the-moment decisions.

While my real closet is filtered through a trash bag, my soul closet is filtered through prayer. It has the potential to be painful, but oh! - what liberation when my soul closet is once again clean and clutter-free. Once everything is back in place, I’m left with only the good.

Wonderful thoughts, intoxicating memories, pleasurable emotions.

There’s nothing quite like that kind of house cleaning, is there?

June 10, 2006 @ 6:09 pm | Filed under: Uncategorized

   …then need I say more?

These are the four faces that bring constant smiles to our faces!

"When I approach a child, he inspires in me two sentiments; tenderness for what he is, and respect for what he may become."       —Louis Pasteur