First Things First

Somewhere on an arbitrary list is an item labeled, “organize the 2009 pictures.”

If I had stayed on top of that list it would have had 2010, 2011 and a creeping 2012 added to it, but it doesn’t – because it is obviously not a priority.

First things are always first.  That’s the hard truth.  My calendar reveals the story of my heart and my passions.  Whether I like it or not, what I theorize about is only theory if it isn’t reflected in my actions.

Check out your own calendar.  Who gets your time and energy, not your “unplugged” time, but your engaged time?

(Huge pause because I am currently checking out my ten-year-old daughter’s Lego house that means a lot to her at this very moment.)

What, Who or Where is your first being spent?  Take an inventory.  The themes or reoccurring actions are what comes first.  These are your real priorities.

Sometimes we put things first to avoid guilt, shame or obligation put on us by other people.  Regardless of the negative motive, the result is the same – that behavior is first.  Avoiding is the priority.  What huge regrets we live with when we do that!

I don’t yet put all the first things first that I want right now, but I am learning how to pray about it.  My first step has been to quit praying that I would “be more to do more” and started praying that my actions and calendar would reflect the things that should be first in my life.

The American Cell Phone

I am embarrassed.  My day was ruined by my cell phone.  What on earth?

This morning I ran a 5K.  I even spent time in the Greek studying Peter and his imprisonment and release, thanks to a fabulous angel that helped him escape.

Yet, at 11:30 a.m. I stood drop-jawed at US Cellular when I found out that my cell phone was D.O.A. and not returning to this life.  The rest of my day was spent in a daze.  I even began to cry as I realized that all of my contacts were lost.

Seriously, what on earth?

When did I get so reliant on my cell phone?  When did I get lonely without it?  Is this an American trend?

As I sat at Olive Garden waiting for my mom in-law and daughter for an hour, thanks to no cell phone to let them know I was there….I thought – long and hard.  I thought about once was and what now is.

Each ding symbolizes a task.  Each tone symbolizes a need.  I am needed and should perform instantly.  Really?  It is such a reminder of a caring for a newborn.  Sounds equal work, work equals sleep deprivation, sleep deprivation means you are a good mom.  Really?

I am not always the sharpest tool in the shed, but I am sharp enough to realize that being inconsolable over a cell phone is simply wrong.  Has our culture become so obsessed with feelings of importance that we’ve forgotten what it feels like to wait?

Do you remember what it felt like as a kid to wait on your allowance?  Or to wait on the big game on Saturday?

Today, I forgot.  I am embarrassed to say that today I called my very best friend, Brian, my hubby and cried like a two-year-old that I lost my contacts and that my phone was D.O.A. and contained even my dad’s contact, whom has been gone for over five years.

No wonder other countries complain about us.  We are not always thinking clearly.  If you are one of the few of us that thinks clearly – congratulations – please teach us.

Tonight, like many things in my life, I am putting my cell phone on the proverbial alter to be sacrificed.  I was important before the dings.  I was important before the tones.  I was important because I was an original.

So, this original, will be going to bed a happy camper.  Happy because happiness comes from people not things and happy feelings come from knowing that God is in control and we are not.  My phone is D.O.A. and I am using a flip phone, but I am happy and content.  I do not need a phone to direct the course of my days.  I need a God who says it is okay to put the darn thing on silent.

White Horse Myth

This morning I was listening to Dr. Brené Brown from the University of Houston speak on “shame and vulnerability.”  In her talk she made a remark that struck me at the core.  She said that a man at one of her book signings stated that ladies would rather see their men die on the white horse than for their men to truly reveal their shame.  I have no doubt that men believe this.

What a fabulous psychology to keep men and women from living fully alive together in harmony!

Men, real women do not believe this.  For those of us who adore our spouse and want to share our lives and hearts with them, well, it goes like this…We desperately want to be in the vault with you.  Our greatest, most fulfilling moments in the relationship come at points of sincere vulnerability.  Whether it be a moment of intense failure or sadness, a moment of riding to great heights or even just a moment of impulse – we want to be there.  We want to feel the emotions, hear the sounds, know the intent – we want the whole experience, not the modified version from atop the horse.

Women who do not know themselves well or have not come to a place of wholeness might desire an outreached arm pulling them from the mud pit, but that desire should be fleeting – it isn’t a relationship builder.  Jesus is the perpetual white knight that pulls society and His children from the pit daily, not a man.

Real men, you beautiful creatures that work hard for your family and spoil your children with your presence – YOU are enough.  I can assure you that the white horse is a myth.  No man looks hot straddling a white horse. Seriously.

My husband has been to some incredible mountaintops of achievement.  He is the type of man that could assume a lofty position, but let me be clear – when his hazel eyes see into my soul and connects to my most vulnerable of ideas and emotions and declares, “me, too” there is no white horse moment that could

 trump such an experience.  His reality is captivating.

I do not want to gaze upon my man on a white horse.  I desire to meet him in the vault every evening, just the two of us.

the Butterfly

The butterfly leaves behind the work and pain of the caterpillar.

I have an interesting relationship with the butterfly.  When my dad passed away the first sign of his lingering existence came in the form of an orange butterfly.  I know that seems crazy, but bear with me.  When Eden was only five we discovered she had an amazing talent – she shined at the piano.  Mind you, my dad played the piano for a living and I have no clue where to even begin when I sit at a piano, but not Eden.  Her tiny fingers glided over each key as she confidently knew the sound it would make.  I was enamored.

One special, beautiful day I pulled up to her piano lesson and found a gorgeous, orange butterfly circling our car.  Almost with an unmatched enthusiasm to say, “I cannot wait to escort you, little child, to the piano.”

At first, I dismissed the butterfly.  Although curious, I was not an interpreter of signs or wonders – just a mom dropping off her kid at piano lessons.

The next week, the butterfly was there again, greeting us in the same fashion and again, escorting the apple of my eye all the way to the piano.  By the third week I was open to interpreting the significance of the butterfly. Orange?  Hmm…my dad was an Oklahoma State University fraternity boy that someone had just mentioned seeing his picture in the basement.  Piano lessons…hmmm…my dad made his living from his talent of playing the piano.  Dad?

The orange butterfly brought tears.  The orange butterfly brought questions.  The orange butterfly, most importantly, brought a life lesson.

As I studied the butterfly I began to realize that it spent more time as a caterpillar than a butterfly.  What an example of hard work and struggle, preparing for the biggest change known in the insect world.  The caterpillar must strategize for change.  The caterpillar plans for a full body change knowing that it is the last two weeks of life in full glory.

Aren’t we the same?  Isn’t it years of life focused on ambition, titles, and significance…only to find that freedom is more important?

The butterfly leaves and never returns, unlike the salmon.  The butterfly spends two weeks relishing in self-actualization on display.  The butterfly is not only beautiful, but free.

My daughter and I are training for a run right now.  As we left the back porch ready to embark on a two-and-half mile run the orange butterfly joined us.  I was instantly reminded of my dad’s spirit, one of freedom, one of pursuit.  As we ran, Eden decided it would be fun to run through a muddy puddle.  I laughed at my cautious child wishing to be rebellious, even if for only a moment, and looked back at the footprints.  Two sets, mine and hers.  Two butterflies running freely.  Two girls given the privilege of freedom from what the world would tell us we must be.  Two adventurers willing, if only for a brief moment, to fly.

Our Father gives us that privilege.  Our Father causes us, the once struggling caterpillar, to shed the unwanted struggles and forget.  He causes us to fly.  He creates the beauty.

The butterfly leaves behind the work and pain of the caterpillar.  The butterfly is known by the Creator.

A Man's Power

Don’t tell my husband, but I believe he is the emotional hub of our home.  I am fully convinced that his mood, his affirmation and most importantly, his affections, directly impact Eden and I more than any other physically present factor.

The two of us, Eden and I, pull into the CVS parking lot where I am meeting Brian so that the two of them have plenty of time to get to Stomp, it is playing downtown.  Eden flips the mirror in the car, looks at her self, looks at me and promptly ask, “do you think I look pretty?”  My heart melted.  My sweet nine-year old is wanting to look pretty for her daddy.

I remember that feeling.  My parents were divorced, so often as a child, my dad and I dated.  He picked me up, usually took me out to eat and sometimes bowling or a movie.  I would spend time in front of mirrors and getting second opinions on outfits or hairstyles.  His perception of me became my reality of me.  He held such power in his words.  Most blessed was I that my dad was an affectionate man.

Eden has that same affection.  Eden also has a daddy that is able to tuck her in at night and make her feel safe when she believes that noises are coming from her closet.  Eden also has a dad that shares with her truth and reason.  His intelligence is beyond his PhD, he posses wisdom – understanding of God.  He teaches her what has been taught to him.

Men, you are so powerful.  You have no idea the power you posses in the homes you live in.  Seldom have I heard that a women shaped a child’s view of God.  Use your power wisely.

a Christian Question

My mornings begin, when done right, with a soothing cup of coffee and a longstanding engagement of getting to know God.  Sometimes, I walk away from the encounter bolstered and excited about what’s next; and sometimes I walk away questioning my very nature and state of understanding.  A few mornings ago, I felt like I was handed a question.  I have been chewing on this question since it was asked, so I have decided to share it with you.

Jesus taught that the kingdom of heaven can be compared to a treasure hidden in a field; which when a man finds it, he conceals, and for the joy of finding it, goes and sells everything that he has, and buys the field. (1)  Or, like a precious pearl, with again, selling everything to buy it. (2)

The question I was asked, “What did you sell?”  ”What was everything to you before you met Me?”

Often in church we camp out on losing our life to Christ or denying ourselves to follow, which is in Scripture;  but how often do we nail down what that loss was to us?  How often are we vulnerable enough to confess what we sold for that precious pearl?  And even more vulnerable – how many of us are pawning off parts of that great field we bought to buy back some of what we’ve sold?

If you have not bought the field, well, this question is not directed at you; but for those of us who had that moment when we sold it all…well, let’s really nail down what we sold to make sure we aren’t trying to buy it back.

Jesus could have said that the kingdom of heaven was like a big ol’ gift of a pearl given to you from your Daddy, but he didn’t.  He said, “..what shall a man give in exchange for his life?” (3)

We all know that there is nothing we own that could buy this kind of love and life, but maybe it is time to survey the cost.

(1) Matthew 13:44

(2) Matthew 13:46

(3) Matthew 16:26

Female Warriors

“The greatest explorer on this earth never takes voyages as long as those of the man who                    descends to the depth of his heart.”  ~Julien Green

We all have stories.  We all have scars on our heart from experiences that brought us pain, as well as beautiful, red plump areas from intense joy and happiness.  In this respect, we are all on the same page.  But some of us are brave enough to go deep into the valley of our heart – the dark, sometimes distorted, areas of the journey of life.

My bravery comes from taking the journey with a group of women who have become sisters.  We all share the same Daddy.  We all share a passion to be what our Daddy created in His image.  And we all share love. God is love.  We hold nothing more sacred in our group than that love.

Now, we are becoming warriors.

You might be baffled with my statement and it just might seem silly to you that a group of women could become warriors – after all, aren’t groups of women typically emotional and involve coffee?  Sometimes.  But sometimes women are brought together to fight in a battle that is much larger than the crowds at the mall in December.  Sometimes, women are asked to fight in the epic battle of good vs. evil.  Sometimes, women are asked to fight against whispers of hate from the enemy robbing them of peace, robbing them of acceptance…robbing them of God’s best.

My platoon is in training; becoming equipped with truth and honest reflection of what has been and what could be with understanding.  My sojourners are gorgeous.  Each one of them carries a flame that has been lit and a perseverance that is contagious.

I cannot imagine crossing enemy lines without my sisters.

“Strength and Honor!”

http://thepathlesschosen.com/books/to_be_told/to_be_told_kit.html

the Guitar

This weekend, I cried.

Tears for my friend who lost her mom.  Tears of gratitude for a host of beautiful, talented friends who shine with God’s Spirit; and all of us throwing a big bash in our friend’s honor.

Then, I got the call.  A sweet lady that I have never met named Judy on the other end saying, “hey, we are on 1-40 and I’ve got your dad’s guitar, where do you wanna meet?”

This isn’t just any guitar.  This is the guitar that laid across my knees as I sat in my daddy’s lap while his fingers gently strummed melodies that I translated as complete adoration for me.  I don’t remember my life with my dad without this guitar.  Seems ironic that my dad played the piano for a living, but yet his guitar encompasses our closeness.

“How about the Memorial exit?” I said.

Sitting in the car, waiting, I thought about how many years it has been since my dad passed away.  I thought about how young he was to be battling cancer and how courageous he fought it.

He wasn’t my hero until it was too late to tell him.  Every little girl wants to be the apple of their daddy’s eye.  In that respect, I was like every little girl; but unfortunately, I didn’t see that his world had always revolved around me until I moved out of his world.  That is one of the ugly truths about divorce; sometimes, the children move away.

Judy steps out of the car, happy and hyper.  I loved her instantly.  She hands me the guitar in its case.  I smile and politely say thank you and get back in my car.  I cried the whole way home.  Some tears just ran down with no explanation, just a heart overflowing.

After sharing my latest prize-possession with my family, I busted out the ol’ video camcorder and promptly played a video of dad playing the guitar to Eden.  She sat curiously in my lap watching her granddad play a tune and reaching for the strings.  She was all of nine months old.

So, I have given you where I have been with this guitar and where I was as I got it, but now…let me tell you where I am going.  I am going to learn to play this dearly beloved guitar so that I can someday put Eden’s kiddos in my lap and play them a memory.

2012

This year I am vowing not to sit down and spend countless hours creating spreadsheets charting a year of resolutions pertaining to personal growth, spiritual growth and a play-by-play of how to change the world.

I am learning what is important now.

Laying in bed with my daughter, both snuggled up with books we cannot put down.

Dancing when I hear a great song and engaging whomever is with  me to do the same.

Griping finger for finger the hand of the man I love.

You know, I could never put all the car rides with Eden after school listening to her day in a spreadsheet, yet – wouldn’t that fall under at least one of the 12 areas of focus?  Sure it would, but why spreadsheet it when I can just live it.

If you’ve had the privilege of changing diapers, building sand castles, swinging a child for hours, holding sticky fingers, dressing a moving target, reading the same bedtime story over a thousand times…or have ever heard, “I love you!”  Then you don’t need to be making resolutions, you need to be keeping a gratitude journal.

2012 nights are going to conclude with a thank you prayer.  I will be thanking God for all the moments of the day and asking Him to direct the next if He so desires to give it to me.

Everyday Heroes

“Everyday heroes don’t let life’s challenges bring them down. Instead, they stay positive and find a way to overcome their obstacles. Everyday heroes don’t always succeed, but they consistently act on the belief that they can do something to improve their situations and those of the people around them.”  

Noah Blumenthal

My husband sent me this quote many, many months ago.  I saved it in my email inbox and find myself opening it – a lot.  For one, it is a great source of encouragement.  My husband considers me a hero – AMAZING.  I don’t feel like a hero.  I feel like someone who wears her heart on her sleeve, who can’t always keep her mouth shut and most recently, like someone who puts milk in the pantry because her ADD is out of control.

Now, I am opening it to be reminded of all of those everyday heroes that have changed my life.  The heroes that wanted to improve my situation.  I have a childhood riddled with people who improved my life – investors.

Marilyn Bowers was one of those investors.  She lived across the street and her daughter was my very best friend.  She took me in as one of her own, thrown in with three great kids.  She introduced me to the concept of a Saturday night date with the family that involved grocery shopping and ice cream after.  Her laughter was contagious.  Her influence is seen in my home today.  My daughter is reaping the benefits of my time as a Bowers family member.  Eden had no idea in October when our family danced around the house to the “Monster Mash” it was because Marilyn made it a tradition.  What a gift.

I also had the gift of a coach, Harold, that was willing to work with me night after night to be a ballplayer that averaged thirty-two points a game as a fifth grade basketball player.  His investment as an everyday hero changed my mindset.  I gained confidence in myself and my abilities.  I never lost that confidence.

I could blog for a year and still not cover all of the everyday heroes that have crossed my path and changed my life.  Everyday heroes are better than superheroes – they are real people doing real things.  And I thank God for all of them.

Blind Spot

"More and more people are buying bigger and bigger,...and the bigger the vehicle, the bigger the blind spot." - Consumer Reports


I think we are living bigger and bigger lives.  Relationships are at an all-time high.  Facebook, Twitter, cell phones - we can communicate all day long if we want to.  


But what are we saying?  Are we using our voice to edify or lift up each other or are we using our voice to hurt people?  Or, like me, do we speak without realizing we might have a blind spot in our communication?


Think about it.  Think about your emails, think about your blogs, think about what your saying and how it might be interpreted by the reader.  


I know I have a serious blind spot.  I know I speak from a candid, transparent heart.  Most of the time I am describing a journey or an event - typically I describe moments, but seldom have I stopped to think of the inference that might go along with my interpretation.  


"More and more people are talking bigger and bigger,...and the bigger the voice, the bigger the blind spot." -Monica Epperson

the CHURCH

“The single greatest cause of atheism in the world today is Christians, who acknowledge Jesus with their lips, then walk out the door, and deny Him by their lifestyle. That is what an unbelieving world simply finds unbelievable.” – Brennan Manning

If the above quote rings true for you, I am so very sorry.  I have had the opposite experience.  Actually, so opposite that my quote would say, “the most believable evidence of God is found in His earthly hands and feet – His children.”

I have a Christian family.  Some call them a LifeGroup, or a CareGroup – whatever, it doesn’t matter.  What matters is the connection.  Living your life with people who respond and react as your family.  In this respect, I come from a huge family.

Part of that family was over on Saturday night, September 24th.  Typically that is a rough date for me, my dad’s birthday.  He would have been sixty-one years old this year.  But it wasn’t rough this year because this year was John’s 40th birthday (our fearless leader these days.)

Many times throughout the night I scanned the room with such love and appreciation. Women who have blessed me with always showing up.  Men who have rallied around each other through some tough circumstances.  And my favorite, kids who are growing up with each other and surrounded by adults who love them and accept them even as they are jumping off sofas and smearing sticky fingers all over the glass.

We are not a perfect group.  We have unruly children at times and might not always glorify God with all of our words, but we understand love.  We understand what it means to be patient, kind, long-suffering, and most assuredly – not keeping a record of each other’s wrongs.

So, this morning as I am finding beads, feathers and half-eaten candy wrappers – I am reminded of this incredible gift I have been given, love and family.

Our babies, now self-proclaimed “big kids” will have all these memories of homes filled with love and happiness and hopefully, Lord willing, when they hear a quote about Christians being a cause of atheism, they will give the same disconnected stare I have given such quotes….hugh??

Picture Book Review by Lia Constanda

A Heart with Two Homes by Monica Epperson

Reviewed by Lia Constanda

The writer of “A Heart with Two Homes”, Monica Epperson is the CEO and co-founder of the organization “The child of divorce, Inc” (formerly known as “Blended Love, Inc.”)  along with her husband Dr. Brian Epperson. They are both educators.

Published in 2008, “A Heart with Two Homes” generated a lot of discussion amongst professionals working with children who acknowledged the need for resources for the growing numbers of children of divorce. Responding to this Monica founded “The child of divorce, Inc”, a nonprofit making organization, which she funded   from donating the royalties from her book.  Helping children of divorce is the mission of the organization.  “A Heart with Two Homes” is its first work that later led to forming a committee charged with writing research based curriculum for students and teachers.

The book is about a little girl called Elizabeth, whose parents divorced when she was 8 yrs old. She continued to live with mom and had regular visits with dad. In both environments she assumed a different persona. When with mom, she was a little girl, enjoyed dancing and did girly things, to please mom. When with dad, she was a little tomboy, played sports and did boyish things, to please dad. As time went on she found it difficult to define her true self.  She was confused: was she Lizzie, as mom called her, or was she Beth, as dad called her.

Eventually Elizabeth discovers with the help of a school guest speaker the benefit of writing therapy and later the benefit of sharing and talking openly about her feelings to friends and family. These processes help her confront her parents about their lack of communication as far as she was concerned. The book ends on a positive note, as the parents through their actions acknowledge their mistakes thus helping Elizabeth to find her true identity as a whole person and not as the two halves of one.

The book identifies some of the problems created by parents in divorce cases, such as a child’s emotional turmoil, confusion, insecurity, isolation, lack of trust, unresolved conflict, to name but some. 

The book also offers options for the children of divorce on addressing their concerns about their feelings. The idea of a private Journal, where they could confide their most inner thoughts and feelings is eminently suited to those situations.  It is a well known fact that one of the merits of writing is to help clarify thoughts. As the famous French writer Gustave Flaubert once said:"The art of writing is the art of discovering what you believe." The idea of using a journal helped the little girl in this case to cope positively with change once she identified her true concerns and discovered what she really believed about herself.

The Scar

For most of my life I have been incredibly protective and discreet about a scar I have on my upper right leg.  It marks a childhood cancer scare and a week in our city’s pink palace, a hospital.  Most of my friends are not even aware of this scar, even those I have spent time with on the beach or in pools.  I have hidden it, cleverly, most of my life – until now.

Last week, my daughter had one of those days that all of us moms dread when we have a girl – the day that other girls hurt them.  We all know these days are coming.  The minute the doctor says, “It’s a girl.” A flash of the sharpest-tongue, meanest-spirited junior high girl you’ve ever known pops in your head.  OH,NO!

So, when Eden told me her sad tale of rejection, I was semi-prepared.  What I wasn’t prepared for was her long pause and decision to withhold any more information about her insecurities until she was confident that I had once visited this emotional place myself.

She glared deeply into my eyes and asked, “Mom, have you ever been left out?”

At that moment I could honestly see that all she has ever known is two very outgoing parents that typically plan the party and persuade the wall flowers that the middle of the room is safe.

“Yes,” not even realizing that I was about to reveal to her my most hidden secret.

“When I was in second grade I had to go to a lot of doctor visits.  At one of the visits I was told that I would be having a surgery because I had something on my leg that could cause me to get really sick.”  I said wondering if she would even care.

“What happened?” she leaned in wanting to know all of the details.

“Well, they scheduled the surgery for the last day of school before the Christmas break so that I wouldn’t miss a lot of school.  But, what they didn’t know about that day is that it was the day of the big Christmas musical and that all of the second grade kids would be a part of this musical except for me.  So, each and every practice for the three weeks leading up to that day, I sat along the gym wall alone.  I would watch my friends laugh and sing and whisper while on stage together and sometimes they would whisper and point at me.” I said shocked I still remembered.

“How did that make you feel, Mom?”

“Truly left out and like I didn’t have any friends for a while.”  I concluded.  “But it didn’t last forever and now I try to pay attention to the people who feel on the outside because I can relate to how they are feeling.  It was a gift.”

And so I immediately recognized that my scar was a tremendous gift.  That silly, insignificant scar on the back of my leg that I have hidden for way too long is actually  now a prized possession marking an experience that I had that won the trust of my baby girl.  Thank you, Lord, for my scar.

How many other scars do I bear that have been masked instead of used?  Or maybe I should say how many gifts do I not give away?

Maybe we should quit asking, “Why me?” and just say, “Thank you for choosing me.”

Man Behind the Curtain

This month I celebrated seventeen years of marriage.

I actually had a complete stranger at a wedding, when told I had just had my anniversary the night before, ask me if I had gotten pregnant.  What a weird thing to ask someone, I scowled of course and said no – but he got me to thinkin’.

Why did I get married at 20?

Oh, yeah, because I knew when I first met Brian that he was going to be that guy that no matter who I married – he would always be there, too.  You know what I mean.  The one that got away.  The first cut is the deepest.  So many songs written out there about this truth.  So, being concerned about the next guy and his feelings I decided to spare him the grief and marry Brian – only fair.

But what I wasn’t privy to back then was that I was actually marrying my God-appointed personal life coach.

The days have slowly passed, but the years have flown.  Each one marked with life experiences together.  And each year, I grow and make positive changes thanks to his investment.

Brian has not only allowed me to live a good, easy life thanks to his provisions, that he will tell you are straight from the Lord blessing his work, but also to explore my faith, my dreams and my roles in life.  Not that he, by any stretch, is easy. He isn’t easy.  Brian is incredibly hard to life with if you are a person who wants to do the minimum to get the maximum.

He is a perpetual life coach.  He believes in pushing the envelope until you are stone cold dead.  His presence alone is convicting if you are coasting.

I fought him for years.

Now, I am incredibly grateful.  This week, and it’s only Wednesday, I have worked through a children’s book deadline, a curriculum deadline, and wrote a talk I am giving in October to over 700 people.  I am not content to sit back when I am capable of giving my best – especially since I have been reminded that this isn’t a dress rehearsal.

Now, more than ever, I understand what Oprah meant when she said, “For everyone of us that succeeds, it’s because there’s somebody there to show you the way out.”

Blessing Mommy

Today was one of THOSE days.  Since I am the writer and you are the reader, just fill in the blank with a bunch of drama and anxiety of your own flavor and add a times ten to it.  Yes, several pats on the chest reassuring myself that this is simply anxiety not a heart attack in my late thirties.

So as I am washing the dishes after dinner relishing in the five seconds standing alone with no deadlines or drama I hear a faint chorus coming from the bedroom, “we’ve got to go bless…Mommy…”

Dancing to the kitchen island with a Macbook in hand appears a working Daddy with a singing Eden.

“We have to bless Mommy with our presence…”  the two continue to sing without any shower to blend their tones.

At this point the song goes completely south including all kinds of bodily functions and then plummets into an ensemble of all of my most embarrassing moments and to top it off they added some human smells to the music.

I am rolling – a full snort adds to their noise.

Ironically enough, although the two of them took away my quiet moment, ambushed me with insults and terrible songs – they blessed me.

My heart quit palpitating.  I laughed.

All is well in the world again.

Concluding a Chapter

Change has been such a constant in my life, like most of you I am sure.  Just about the time I think I have perfected my schedule, relationships and so on – well, they change.  Most of the time with plenty of warning yet still so unexpectedly.

I am a wimp to change.  My reaction nine times out of ten is the same one I had as a seven-year old girl.  I cry a little at first, then pull some crazy sour grapes rationale out of the air until I end on some Pollyanna, nonsensical mantra that I pour out to everyone in hopes that one day I will believe it.

I think this time I am going to pull up my big girl pants and attempt a new philosophy, “I am concluding a chapter.”

We all have concluded many chapters.  Lost loved ones, changed jobs, broke up with the opposite sex – whatever, doesn’t matter what the content is the feeling is usually the same. We can stop and reflect, pull out the memories we want to save, pull out the memories that require forgiveness, and pull up to the bar or pew in conversation.

The chapter I am finishing has been a beautiful chapter about people, programs and a building – a church.

As a newly married couple, my husband and I found ourselves on the back row of a church quietly easing into the body one conversation at a time.

Over the years, each sermon hit closer to home.  Some sermons and relationships actually caused our course to change.

People, being woven into our lives, became our friends – brothers and sisters in Christ and in life.

Each year holding memories that are burned in my heart and soul forever.  Memories of being the first-ever Kindergarten teacher at the preschool.  Memories of studies upstairs, coffee talks downstairs, updates on loved ones in the halls – memories made all over the building.

Watching our friends marry one another.

Two funerals, burying both dads and celebrating each of their lives in the same chapel surrounded by love, service and most importantly – my friends.

I could write a whole, lengthy chapter of all of the shaping, molding and imitating of wonderful people in that building, but I won’t because most blog readers like it quick and swift with a point.

Well, the point is this:  Wherever you are in your life, whatever you may be concluding – finish well and read it until the full chapter is finished.  Then, and only then, can you look back with gratitude for the characters, and appreciation for the wisdom gained, and hopefully – laughs and lots of ‘em.

Family Traditions

When I was younger, I was enamored by family traditions.

My Mom’s side of the family always had a wonderful Thanksgiving tradition.  The kids (me and my cousins) all played together while the big people put all of the dishes in some kind of order to make walking through with your plate a bit easier for everyone.  My goodness, we must have had over fifty people every year.  Some years that line was at our house, or my Grandma Shirley’s house and then finally to end up at my Aunt Novella’s house where it remains today.

I wouldn’t trade a single Thanksgiving Day for all of the money in the world.  My cousin, Jeanean, was one of those cousins I played with, looked up to and shared that tradition with back then.  She is no longer with us, but there hasn’t been a Thanksgiving since that I haven’t shared a memory of her and our times playing in the yard or listening to music.

Traditions, I have decided now, are created by adults who understand this concept of making memories.  Adults who know that each day is a gift and that time is flying by so it is important to reserve the time for those you love.  Those you want to always say, “remember when…”

Eden’s Nana understands this concept.  Since I joined the family as Brian’s girlfriend at eighteen, she has always hosted a Sunday dinner.  A spot on all of our calendars to come together and enjoy her infamous cooking.

Brian and I even drove home from college each weekend to keep the tradition of the Sunday dinner.  Obviously, no one had to twist our arm, we were broke and happy to get an incredible meal for free.  We also found ourselves loving the game of Scrabble with his parents.

Over the years that tradition alone kept our family close.  Megan, Brian’s sister, graduated from college herself and began a career.  As her schedule has become even more demanding and her life crazier than I can remember, she still tries to keep the ancient tradition of Sunday dinner – thus keeping our Daddy’s girl in our lives.

We have had seasons of busyness for all of us.  Yet, the perpetual date of Sunday dinner remains on all of our calendars.

This year, I have decided to quit being enamored with traditions and start creating them.  To start thinking about ways to set dates on the calendar to say, “I care about making memories with you.”

Because I do.  Money has never lured my affection, but people caring to make memories with me will get me every time.