Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Lean Forward and Soar
One of the highlights of 2013 was when I was given the honor to speak at the commencement ceremony of the school where I had taught for ten years, which just so happened to be the same school I had graduated from twenty-six years ago. Anyone who knows me knows how challenging it is for me to be in the spotlight. Add the pressure of a large crowd, beautifully delivered salutatorian and valedictorian speeches, the presence of some of my lifetime mentors in the audience, an emotional pre-speech video, and hose that had no intention of doing what they were created to do; and there should be absolutely no doubt that this moment could be a catastrophe in the making. While I cannot be certain that any of the speech I had written is what I actually communicated that warm May evening, I have been asked if I could post the speech. Since it was meant to be a challenge to new beginnings, I thought New Year’s Eve would be a good time to post it. So, here it is:
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Book Review 1: The Women of Christmas (. . . and Anna)
A few days ago, I took the Jon Acuff Empty Shelf Challenge. I made a commitment to not only read more books in the next 365 days, but to finish some books that I've started then put down because I found them too challenging to deal with or too difficult to focus on at the time. Since I had just started the The Women of Christmas by Liz Curtis Higgs, I decided that it would be the first book I would complete and place on the empty shelf. I have never read any of Liz Curtis Higgs other books and probably wouldn't have picked up this book had I not seen her in an online Christmas video with Ann Voskamp (author of 1000 Gifts). As Ann read an exerpt from Liz's book about the young Mary, it gripped my heart, I knew this was a book I would have to read. So, when I was walking through Mardel a few days later Christmas shopping for others, and I spotted the book just under a "special price" sign, I was adament. I picked up the copy of The Women of Christmas and told my husband that I just had to have it. Not only did I purchase it, but I also wrapped it for myself. Since we opened our Christmas presents on the 21st, I was confident I would make the time to read it before Christmas Day. I started reading it the evening of the 23rd and finished it on Christmas Eve.
The book shares the stories of Elizabeth, Mary, and Anna. While Liz does a beautiful job describing Elizabeth's role and Mary's role in the Christmas story, it was actually the story of Anna that compelled me to continue reading the text with vigor. I mean, I have heard the story of Elizabeth and Mary so often; I know where they fit into the greatest Story ever told, but who is this Anna? And what is her role? Her story, Liz's allurement to Anna's story, is riveting. Anna, a woman who is mentioned for only a few short passages in the Word of God, yet her story is so incredibly inspiring.If you didn't receive The Women of Christmas as a gift this Christmas season, add it to your wishlist for 2014. Or better yet, just go buy yourself an after Christmas gift. Remember, you don't have to wait until the Christmas season to celebrate the greatest Story every told. We are supposed to be celebrating His Story every day of the year! Liz shares the stories of Elizabeth and Mary with a fresh, new perspective; but perhaps, for you too, it will be the story of Anna that inspires you to be a better you in 2014! Let yourself be captivated by the Story!
Wednesday, December 25, 2013
He Came!
"He came! He came! He came!"
Oh how many Christmas mornings I remember that excitement, surprises under the tree and all around the living room. Dressed in our Christmas gowns and pajamas, Mom and Dad snapped pictures and no doubt sat back and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Christmas morning had arrived, and they'd pulled it together once again. I can't remember one Christmas morning when Santa disappointed the Stone children, not even that Christmas when I was too sick to play with my new toys.
Awake before the crack of dawn and what a thrill it was to discover he had come, just as we expected he would. The milk and the cookies we left for him, anticipating his arrival, were gone. Our stockings were full to overflowing, and with a house full of children, our living room looked something like a toy store.
As wonderful as those unforgettable Christmas mornings are, my mind today is transfixed on someone else who came. Unlike Santa, there weren't any cookies and milk, no adorned tree nor sweet little note to welcome His arrival. The news wasn't reporting UFOs and other signs of His coming, and there wasn't even an elf on the shelf to greet him with a cheesy smile. Instead, at every house and inn, He was turned away and rejected.
But He came. He came anyway. He made his entrance into a world that was too caught up in their own agendas, with lives so busy with day-to-day distractions that they weren't even aware the Promise had arrived. There, in a stable, with witnesses of cattle and sheep, He came. The Word became Flesh. The Promise, the Prince of Peace, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Beautiful One came.
I have to wonder if I had been there that day or even the eight days later when He was taken to the temple amongst a crowd of people, would I have been so wrapped up in the details of my life that petty distractions would blind me from recognizing that the King had come? Or would I be like Simeon or Anna who were excitedly anticipating, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Messiah?
How I have been captivated by the Story this season. Distractions have worked desperately to steal my focus and win my attention. It feels like I've been hit from every angle and knocked on every side, but the Story has captivated my heart. There is no greater story, nothing that compares to the Gift of Jesus, a child who was born to become my sin, born to die a humiliating death so that I might have freedom and eternal life.
He came! He came! He came!
And He's coming again! He's coming again! He's coming again!
Oh that my heart and your heart will be excitedly anticipating and eagerly awaiting His return!
Oh how many Christmas mornings I remember that excitement, surprises under the tree and all around the living room. Dressed in our Christmas gowns and pajamas, Mom and Dad snapped pictures and no doubt sat back and breathed a huge sigh of relief. Christmas morning had arrived, and they'd pulled it together once again. I can't remember one Christmas morning when Santa disappointed the Stone children, not even that Christmas when I was too sick to play with my new toys.
Awake before the crack of dawn and what a thrill it was to discover he had come, just as we expected he would. The milk and the cookies we left for him, anticipating his arrival, were gone. Our stockings were full to overflowing, and with a house full of children, our living room looked something like a toy store.
As wonderful as those unforgettable Christmas mornings are, my mind today is transfixed on someone else who came. Unlike Santa, there weren't any cookies and milk, no adorned tree nor sweet little note to welcome His arrival. The news wasn't reporting UFOs and other signs of His coming, and there wasn't even an elf on the shelf to greet him with a cheesy smile. Instead, at every house and inn, He was turned away and rejected.
But He came. He came anyway. He made his entrance into a world that was too caught up in their own agendas, with lives so busy with day-to-day distractions that they weren't even aware the Promise had arrived. There, in a stable, with witnesses of cattle and sheep, He came. The Word became Flesh. The Promise, the Prince of Peace, the Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, the Beautiful One came.
I have to wonder if I had been there that day or even the eight days later when He was taken to the temple amongst a crowd of people, would I have been so wrapped up in the details of my life that petty distractions would blind me from recognizing that the King had come? Or would I be like Simeon or Anna who were excitedly anticipating, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Messiah?
How I have been captivated by the Story this season. Distractions have worked desperately to steal my focus and win my attention. It feels like I've been hit from every angle and knocked on every side, but the Story has captivated my heart. There is no greater story, nothing that compares to the Gift of Jesus, a child who was born to become my sin, born to die a humiliating death so that I might have freedom and eternal life.
He came! He came! He came!
And He's coming again! He's coming again! He's coming again!
Oh that my heart and your heart will be excitedly anticipating and eagerly awaiting His return!
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
Peace Has Come! Are you too busy to notice?
I don’t know about you, but there have been more than a few times in the last few days when I have felt this sense of intense panic. Time slipped away, and there were way too many things still undone and just too little time left to accomplish what needed to be accomplished. And then there was that unplanned, unbelievable situation that caught me off guard, caused deep grief and tremendous heartache, and for a while, I completely lost focus. In more than one stressful moment, I heard the ugliness of sarcasm slip across my lips and spill its poison to the man who loves me most.
I failed again.
I got so wrapped up in making the moments special and trying to make things happen as planned that I almost let myself get sucked into the chasm of overwhelmingly meaningless hoopla. So I stole away for a few minutes of peacefulness, a place where I could refocus and redirect. I simply took the time to breathe, and He met me there, in the upper room of my mother’s home, when twenty-four guests were downstairs talking, laughing, sharing, and even singing. But for that moment, in that upper room, all was still; all was quiet. He offered peace, perfect peace. The Prince of Peace met me there in the middle of my mess.
I imagine Bethlehem, in the midst of tax season, was a mess, a terrible mess. The town was crowded, maybe like the stores and the malls in these last few days before Christmas. The people were short-tempered. Many of them had traveled great distances, and the inns were all completely full. Just think for a moment what it must have been like. Dusty. Dirty. Loud. Busy. Chaotic.
But there, in the middle of the madness, in the middle of the mess, the Prince of Peace made His debut. Among the tremendous crowds of people, a town overflowing with residents and travelers alike, He was there among them, and they didn’t even know. Think about it; a host of heavenly angels proclaimed the news to shepherds in a field NEARBY, and no one in the town even noticed. They were so busy with their own agendas, they weren’t aware that Peace had come.
Are you overwhelmed, distracted by your own agenda: the shopping, the baking, the preparing, the planning? Peace has come, and He’s waiting for you. Steal away for a few moments to refocus and redirect. In the middle of your madness, He will meet you there too.
I failed again.
I got so wrapped up in making the moments special and trying to make things happen as planned that I almost let myself get sucked into the chasm of overwhelmingly meaningless hoopla. So I stole away for a few minutes of peacefulness, a place where I could refocus and redirect. I simply took the time to breathe, and He met me there, in the upper room of my mother’s home, when twenty-four guests were downstairs talking, laughing, sharing, and even singing. But for that moment, in that upper room, all was still; all was quiet. He offered peace, perfect peace. The Prince of Peace met me there in the middle of my mess.
I imagine Bethlehem, in the midst of tax season, was a mess, a terrible mess. The town was crowded, maybe like the stores and the malls in these last few days before Christmas. The people were short-tempered. Many of them had traveled great distances, and the inns were all completely full. Just think for a moment what it must have been like. Dusty. Dirty. Loud. Busy. Chaotic.
But there, in the middle of the madness, in the middle of the mess, the Prince of Peace made His debut. Among the tremendous crowds of people, a town overflowing with residents and travelers alike, He was there among them, and they didn’t even know. Think about it; a host of heavenly angels proclaimed the news to shepherds in a field NEARBY, and no one in the town even noticed. They were so busy with their own agendas, they weren’t aware that Peace had come.
Are you overwhelmed, distracted by your own agenda: the shopping, the baking, the preparing, the planning? Peace has come, and He’s waiting for you. Steal away for a few moments to refocus and redirect. In the middle of your madness, He will meet you there too.
Sunday, December 15, 2013
The Center: His Rightful Spot
As much as I love each manger scene, I have to admit that my very favorite one is the single nativity my mother had when I was a child. It was a gift from my dear aunt Melba, and it is blue. The faces of the individual characters aren't painted with exquisite detail, they are simply glazed in light blue. The donkey is missing his ears, and I'm almost confident that the angels wings have had to be glued more than a few times; but every year, my mother would lay out a cushion of beautiful white angel hair and carefully place the glazed blue characters on top, encircling the sweet baby Jesus. I don't remember the details of how she decorated the front door or what her centerpiece was on the dining room table, but I remember the details of that manger scene, the little sheep, the cow, the camels, the earless donkey, the shepherds, the wise men, the beautiful angel, Mary, Joseph, and the sweet baby Jesus. I even remember exactly what the donkey looked like before he lost his ears.
I don't recall Mom ever telling the Story as she placed each character in their "rightful" spot, but I actively watched as she placed each one, and I felt, for the moment, as if I were there in the stable watching the Story take place. It was, by far, my very favorite part of Christmas. I even enjoyed watching her put it away after the season was done, anticipating the unwrapping of the characters next year.
The last few years, the blue nativity has not been displayed. Due to small children and a very hard floor, we have opted to display only the hardiest of scenes. Yesterday, I helped Mom place some of the nativities in the safest places we could find, and as I was placing each character in their "rightful" place, I remembered all those Christmases watching Mom place her delicate blue characters. So I stopped what I was doing and handed a set of safe, chunky wooden characters to Mom, and I sat and watched as she arranged them in the center of her coffee table, placing each one in their "rightful" spot, encircling the sweet baby Jesus. For that moment, even though she wasn't telling the Story, I felt as if I were a part of the Story.
I guess you could say that I was captivated.
If you haven't already done so today, I invite you to set aside your own agenda for just a few moments to let yourself be captivated by the Story.
You will be so happy that you did.
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
Not a Spectator Story
I sat in the restaurant last night and watched people stare down the waitress because they were tired of waiting for their food. I listened as the customers complained, grumbled, and griped at the restaurant personnel, and I found myself wanting to stand up and shout at each of them, "It's the season to be JOLLY, people!" Instead, I just looked at those grouchy people with the sternest "teacher look" I could muster, and I discussed their behavior with my husband who said, "I certainly hope I don't turn into a grouchy old man when I get old." (Go ahead, call us judgmental; we can handle it.)
On the way home, I kept thinking about how those people had behaved and wondered why it bothered me so much. I mean, let me be painfully honest here, I can be just as impatient as anyone else. So it is a bit hypocritical, yes, even judgmental of me, when I see impatience in others, and I find it to be so stinking ugly. Revelation time -- thanks, Holy Spirit -- so that's what I look like when I don't walk in the fruit of the spirit. Ugly. Terribly, disgustingly, horribly ugly.
When I sat down to journal today, I thought I would be journaling about the Story since that's obviously what God has laid on my heart this week, so I asked Him what on earth does the fruit of the spirit have to do with the Story. I'm not sure I got a clear, definitive answer, but I do know this: everywhere I look this season, I see the words peace, joy, and love. We sing songs and quote phrases like Joy to the World and Peace on Earth. We call it the happiest (or jolliest) time of the year. Could it be that maybe, just maybe, the fruit of the spirit is all about the Story and maybe the Story is all about the fruit of the spirit too? After all, the essence of the Story is Love fulfilled which is when true Beauty re-entered the earth.
I think I get it. The Story isn't a spectator story, not apart from us, but a part of us. We carry the Story in us and with us. The Story isn't a season; it's eternal.
The Story is the glimpse of Beauty that others see when we walk in the fruit of the spirit. And when we don't walk in the fruit of the spirit, it isn't the Story that other people see, and it isn't Beauty either.
So, when I get impatient because the people in the Walmart line are asking the cashier a million and one questions about candy and gum, and I just want them to move so I can go home, I'm not sharing the Story. When I'm walking around the department store with a furrowed brow and blank stare, I'm not living the Story. When I'm fretting about what I'm going to buy for whom and what I'm going to buy it with, I'm not a part of the Story. And when I'm griping and grumbling because the decorations are still not up and those cards I had committed to mail this year are still just in the idea phase, I'm not captivated by the Story.
My prayer today is that I put away the ugly and let myself be captivated by the Story, and that through me, others will see a glimpse of true Beauty, so that I might share with them the Story, the Ultimate Love Story.
On the way home, I kept thinking about how those people had behaved and wondered why it bothered me so much. I mean, let me be painfully honest here, I can be just as impatient as anyone else. So it is a bit hypocritical, yes, even judgmental of me, when I see impatience in others, and I find it to be so stinking ugly. Revelation time -- thanks, Holy Spirit -- so that's what I look like when I don't walk in the fruit of the spirit. Ugly. Terribly, disgustingly, horribly ugly.
When I sat down to journal today, I thought I would be journaling about the Story since that's obviously what God has laid on my heart this week, so I asked Him what on earth does the fruit of the spirit have to do with the Story. I'm not sure I got a clear, definitive answer, but I do know this: everywhere I look this season, I see the words peace, joy, and love. We sing songs and quote phrases like Joy to the World and Peace on Earth. We call it the happiest (or jolliest) time of the year. Could it be that maybe, just maybe, the fruit of the spirit is all about the Story and maybe the Story is all about the fruit of the spirit too? After all, the essence of the Story is Love fulfilled which is when true Beauty re-entered the earth.
I think I get it. The Story isn't a spectator story, not apart from us, but a part of us. We carry the Story in us and with us. The Story isn't a season; it's eternal.
The Story is the glimpse of Beauty that others see when we walk in the fruit of the spirit. And when we don't walk in the fruit of the spirit, it isn't the Story that other people see, and it isn't Beauty either.
So, when I get impatient because the people in the Walmart line are asking the cashier a million and one questions about candy and gum, and I just want them to move so I can go home, I'm not sharing the Story. When I'm walking around the department store with a furrowed brow and blank stare, I'm not living the Story. When I'm fretting about what I'm going to buy for whom and what I'm going to buy it with, I'm not a part of the Story. And when I'm griping and grumbling because the decorations are still not up and those cards I had committed to mail this year are still just in the idea phase, I'm not captivated by the Story.
My prayer today is that I put away the ugly and let myself be captivated by the Story, and that through me, others will see a glimpse of true Beauty, so that I might share with them the Story, the Ultimate Love Story.
Tuesday, December 10, 2013
Who Do You Say That He Is?
Did you remember this morning to take a few moments from your day to let yourself be captivated by the greatest Story ever told?
Long before the Story began, there was a promise of the Story.
Isaiah said we would call the Promise things like Wonderful, Counselor, Everlasting Father, Mighty God, Prince of Peace. The angel Gabriel told Mary that He would be called Jesus, the Son of the Highest.
I trust that most of you reading this have called Him Savior and Lord. And for me, He's been all of these things and so much more.
The Promise fulfilled has been my Peace in the middle of my most chaotic messes. He has been my Comfort when my world was turned upside down. He has been my Strength when I didn't think I could carry on. He has been my Best Friend when I was at my loneliest, most miserable point. He has been my Healer when my body and my spirit desperately needed healing. He has been my Provider when my bank account, my gas tank, my refrigerator, and my wallet were completely empty. He's been my Way-Maker when circumstances and situations made the way an impossible feat. Oh, He has been the Wonderful One. He has been the Great One. He has been the Beautiful One, the Awesome One...
I challenge you this morning to think about the Promise of the Story and how that Promise has been fulfilled in your life. Let yourself be captivated.
Who do you say that He is?
Long before the Story began, there was a promise of the Story.
Isaiah said we would call the Promise things like Wonderful, Counselor, Everlasting Father, Mighty God, Prince of Peace. The angel Gabriel told Mary that He would be called Jesus, the Son of the Highest.
I trust that most of you reading this have called Him Savior and Lord. And for me, He's been all of these things and so much more.
The Promise fulfilled has been my Peace in the middle of my most chaotic messes. He has been my Comfort when my world was turned upside down. He has been my Strength when I didn't think I could carry on. He has been my Best Friend when I was at my loneliest, most miserable point. He has been my Healer when my body and my spirit desperately needed healing. He has been my Provider when my bank account, my gas tank, my refrigerator, and my wallet were completely empty. He's been my Way-Maker when circumstances and situations made the way an impossible feat. Oh, He has been the Wonderful One. He has been the Great One. He has been the Beautiful One, the Awesome One...
I challenge you this morning to think about the Promise of the Story and how that Promise has been fulfilled in your life. Let yourself be captivated.
Who do you say that He is?
Happy Birthday, Chelsi!
I will never forget that warm summer evening when we sprawled out in the back of the truck watching the thunder storms roll in and then kidnapped MeMaw and made her ride along to the end of the street so we could have a better view. As the lightning lit up the sky, you said, "This is better than the Fourth of July!" Later, when the warning sirens started alarming us that a tornado was approaching, we made a fiasco of the situation screaming, "We're gonna die! We're gonna die!" And PawPaw got all flustered with us, as we got on the floor and hunkered down, laughing like we'd lost our minds. I will never forget the alien hunt, our mail order business, the evening we sat in the blue bonnets with Stephanie, the day we played Charlie's Angels with Courtney, or the countless other times when our imaginations and spontaneous spirits have led us to adventure.
It is no wonder why every year when I get to this day, I can't help but get a little emotional because I am so thankful for the wonderful gift of you... And each year I grow more and more thankful. You have enriched and continue to enrich my life in so many ways, and I love you more than words can even attempt to express. Today, I spent a little extra time thanking the Lord for the gift of you and for your amazing parents who did such an awesome job with you and your handsome brothers. I am eager to see what God has in store for year 25, and I am confident that it is going to be full of new adventures and exciting surprises. Enjoy your special day celebrating the precious, valuable, and unique gift of you. Even though you are miles away, I'm going to do a little celebrating myself. Happy birthday, Chelsi Kendrick! You truly are my sunshine; thanks for teaching me to look for the beauty in the storm and find the laughter in the chaos.
It is no wonder why every year when I get to this day, I can't help but get a little emotional because I am so thankful for the wonderful gift of you... And each year I grow more and more thankful. You have enriched and continue to enrich my life in so many ways, and I love you more than words can even attempt to express. Today, I spent a little extra time thanking the Lord for the gift of you and for your amazing parents who did such an awesome job with you and your handsome brothers. I am eager to see what God has in store for year 25, and I am confident that it is going to be full of new adventures and exciting surprises. Enjoy your special day celebrating the precious, valuable, and unique gift of you. Even though you are miles away, I'm going to do a little celebrating myself. Happy birthday, Chelsi Kendrick! You truly are my sunshine; thanks for teaching me to look for the beauty in the storm and find the laughter in the chaos.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Captivated by The Storyteller and The Story
People tell me that when I get really excited about something, I am a really animated storyteller. I don't know how true that is, but yesterday as we were walking into Walmart there was a young girl standing in front of a display of "Frozen" toys, and she was enthusiastically telling her mother all about the movie that she had seen. David and I walked slowly and lingered closely just so we could hear this excited storyteller rattle out the details of what must be the best movie ever. The last thing she said was, "and it was just so amazing!" As we walked away, David said, "Well, now we don't have to see the movie." But I was thinking, "Now, I wouldn't miss seeing it for the world!"
Later, as I replayed this episode of my day, I thought about how this little girl's mother was distracted and wasn't listening to her daughter nearly as intently as David and I were, and decided that it must be because she gets to hear her daughter's animated storytelling so often that she has learned to tune it out. She's become so familiar with the excitement and enthusiasm that she is no longer captivated by it.
As Christians, sometimes, I think we are too much like that mother. We've heard the story. We've read the book. We've seen the miracles. We've become so familiar with the Story and the Storyteller that we've learned to push the ignore button and carry on with our lives, taking care of our personal agendas. Oh sure, like this mother loves her daughter, we love our Storyteller, we just brush aside the excitement and enthusiasm and no longer let that passion ignite the spark that is in our hearts, waiting there to be ignited so that it can consume us again.
I don't know about you, but I'm weary of being complacent and nonchalant about the greatest Story ever told! What better time of the year than NOW, to stop the hustle and bustle of the season to sit and listen to the Story and let ourselves be ignited with the passion of the Story and the Storyteller?! I awakened early this morning, thinking about the final words of that passionate, animated little girl, "and it was just so amazing!" And I thought... He is and His story is just so amazing! Isn't it time we remember how truly amazing the Story really is?!
Later, as I replayed this episode of my day, I thought about how this little girl's mother was distracted and wasn't listening to her daughter nearly as intently as David and I were, and decided that it must be because she gets to hear her daughter's animated storytelling so often that she has learned to tune it out. She's become so familiar with the excitement and enthusiasm that she is no longer captivated by it.
As Christians, sometimes, I think we are too much like that mother. We've heard the story. We've read the book. We've seen the miracles. We've become so familiar with the Story and the Storyteller that we've learned to push the ignore button and carry on with our lives, taking care of our personal agendas. Oh sure, like this mother loves her daughter, we love our Storyteller, we just brush aside the excitement and enthusiasm and no longer let that passion ignite the spark that is in our hearts, waiting there to be ignited so that it can consume us again.
I don't know about you, but I'm weary of being complacent and nonchalant about the greatest Story ever told! What better time of the year than NOW, to stop the hustle and bustle of the season to sit and listen to the Story and let ourselves be ignited with the passion of the Story and the Storyteller?! I awakened early this morning, thinking about the final words of that passionate, animated little girl, "and it was just so amazing!" And I thought... He is and His story is just so amazing! Isn't it time we remember how truly amazing the Story really is?!
Thursday, November 21, 2013
HOME
Home. It isn't the house where Tim fell through the attic ceiling (neither one of them) or the backyard where Alesia got stung by a nest full of yellow jackets. It isn't on the double cul-de-sac where I apparently taught Phil to crash his bike into parked cars or where we played kickball, baseball, kick-the-can, freeze tag, "hiding-go-seek," red rover, or big bad wolf; and it's not in the driveway where we waited until night fell to throw objects at bats daring them to swoop down at our heads. It isn't in the neighborhood where we explored the secrets of the enchanted woods and braved to float on the roaring, mighty creek after a seasonal flood. It isn't in the house where Matthew rolled through the halls on his roller blades like a race car at the Texas Motor Speedway. And honestly, "home" isn't always in one of the three houses where I currently have my own room and way too many clothes in my closets either.
This morning, as I shared my thoughts with Mom, she asked me, "Then where is 'home'?"
I scrambled for my definition of "home," and stuttered and stammered out my half-cocked ideas, which included something about a place you feel loved, accepted, and appreciated just as you are, a place where you can wear your comfortable, stretchiest pants and forget about how ugly you look when you cry, where you are free to share your thoughts and your dreams without apprehension, knowing that you won't be judged or criticized.
In reality, I've found "home" in all of those places at different stages of my life. And I've also found "home" relaxing in my best friend's living room, sitting across the desk from a boss or coworker, standing in the front of a classroom, walking into the sanctuary of a church building, driving down I-45 with my kindred spirited friend, and sprawled out on a trampoline on a warm, starry night... I've even found "home" in the smile of a stranger.
I think "home" is something that we carry with us; it is a part of who we are as the body of Christ, or at least who we should be. "Home" is the hope of what is to come; it's peace in the midst of chaos, joy in the face of tragedy, and love when we are totally and completely unlovable.
"Home" isn't contained in the walls of the building where our family resides, but it is within the hearts of God's people. It transcends the natural and embodies the supernatural...
For the wonderful temporary places I've called "home," for the experiences of "home" that I've found along my journey, for the "home" I've discovered in the hearts of old friends and new friends too, and most importantly for the "Home" that He has gone to prepare for me, I am and will be eternally grateful.
This morning, as I shared my thoughts with Mom, she asked me, "Then where is 'home'?"
I scrambled for my definition of "home," and stuttered and stammered out my half-cocked ideas, which included something about a place you feel loved, accepted, and appreciated just as you are, a place where you can wear your comfortable, stretchiest pants and forget about how ugly you look when you cry, where you are free to share your thoughts and your dreams without apprehension, knowing that you won't be judged or criticized.
In reality, I've found "home" in all of those places at different stages of my life. And I've also found "home" relaxing in my best friend's living room, sitting across the desk from a boss or coworker, standing in the front of a classroom, walking into the sanctuary of a church building, driving down I-45 with my kindred spirited friend, and sprawled out on a trampoline on a warm, starry night... I've even found "home" in the smile of a stranger.
I think "home" is something that we carry with us; it is a part of who we are as the body of Christ, or at least who we should be. "Home" is the hope of what is to come; it's peace in the midst of chaos, joy in the face of tragedy, and love when we are totally and completely unlovable.
"Home" isn't contained in the walls of the building where our family resides, but it is within the hearts of God's people. It transcends the natural and embodies the supernatural...
For the wonderful temporary places I've called "home," for the experiences of "home" that I've found along my journey, for the "home" I've discovered in the hearts of old friends and new friends too, and most importantly for the "Home" that He has gone to prepare for me, I am and will be eternally grateful.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Choosing to be Thankful for Me (All of Me)
Today, I'm thankful for me. I know that sounds totally arrogant and so unlike me , but since today is my birthday, I have a free pass.
I choose to be thankful for me. I have a difficult time liking me, much less loving me, so being thankful for me is a whole new experience. It is a moment-by-moment challenge, and one that has continual restarts, but it's a lesson I'm learning, and I think that's a good thing. The process is challenging, especially, on the days when the grumpy, old lady in the mirror seems to scream such terrible things at me and that bathroom scale scoffingly reminds me of another failed attempt.
Still, even with the silver roots that spring forth despite my attempts to hide them, those new wrinkles (I prefer laugh lines,) that crept up over night, and that triple-quadruple chin that cannot be camouflaged, I'm thankful for me, every last inch of me... And that's a whole lot of inches!
I'm thankful for the girl that I was, the woman that I am, and I'm even more thankful for the woman I am becoming.
I'm thankful for the gift of life (Thanks, Mom, for choosing life!), with all of its challenges, failures and successes. Each new day ushers in a fresh opportunity for me to discover new things about who God created me to be and for me to explore my gifts, my talents, my strengths, and acknowledge my weaknesses.
So, today, I am going to celebrate the gift of me, the-one-of-a-kind me, who dreams ridiculously big dreams, who uses too many adverbs and too many adjectives, who tries and fails and tries and fails again and again, who grumbles and complains way too much, who gets super-duper excited about things like spoilers and tweezers, who cries way too easily about some of the silliest things, who laughs too loudly at inconvenient and inappropriate times, who has been known to spew things from her nose in public places, who can go from the mountain top to the valley in a matter of seconds, who is still trying to decide what she wants to be when she grows up...
I'm thankful for the me that God created me to be and for this long, challenging adventure along the pathway to my appointed destiny!
Thank you, PaPa God, for me....for all of me!
I choose to be thankful for me. I have a difficult time liking me, much less loving me, so being thankful for me is a whole new experience. It is a moment-by-moment challenge, and one that has continual restarts, but it's a lesson I'm learning, and I think that's a good thing. The process is challenging, especially, on the days when the grumpy, old lady in the mirror seems to scream such terrible things at me and that bathroom scale scoffingly reminds me of another failed attempt.
Still, even with the silver roots that spring forth despite my attempts to hide them, those new wrinkles (I prefer laugh lines,) that crept up over night, and that triple-quadruple chin that cannot be camouflaged, I'm thankful for me, every last inch of me... And that's a whole lot of inches!
I'm thankful for the girl that I was, the woman that I am, and I'm even more thankful for the woman I am becoming.
I'm thankful for the gift of life (Thanks, Mom, for choosing life!), with all of its challenges, failures and successes. Each new day ushers in a fresh opportunity for me to discover new things about who God created me to be and for me to explore my gifts, my talents, my strengths, and acknowledge my weaknesses.
So, today, I am going to celebrate the gift of me, the-one-of-a-kind me, who dreams ridiculously big dreams, who uses too many adverbs and too many adjectives, who tries and fails and tries and fails again and again, who grumbles and complains way too much, who gets super-duper excited about things like spoilers and tweezers, who cries way too easily about some of the silliest things, who laughs too loudly at inconvenient and inappropriate times, who has been known to spew things from her nose in public places, who can go from the mountain top to the valley in a matter of seconds, who is still trying to decide what she wants to be when she grows up...
I'm thankful for the me that God created me to be and for this long, challenging adventure along the pathway to my appointed destiny!
Thank you, PaPa God, for me....for all of me!
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Finding Grace in My Failures
I fail. I set goals; I make plans; and time and time again, I fail. Somedays, I fail before I even roll out of the bed -- wait, correct that -- I should say, MOST days. Most days, I fail before I even roll out of bed.
If I'm honest, truly honest, I have to admit that through the course of my life, my failures outweigh my successes, immeasurably outweigh them.
I've had more fresh-start-Mondays in my life that crashed well before midday than I care to admit, and my tomorrows have turned into next week, next month, next year.
I've asked myself why I even bother trying, as I've laid dreams, goals, desires, and ambitions down, picked them up, only to drop them again.
Oh, how often I fail, and sometimes, I let failure define me. I let the ugliness of its unbearable weight saturate my spirit and spread that poison to everyone who comes near me. I grumble. I complain. I find fault in others. I bask in the dark places where failure finds contentment.
Yet something in the deepest part of me beckons me to step out of the night and into the Light...
To try again.
And I do.
I dream again. I set goals. I make plans. And I dare to believe that this time will be different.
For the lessons I've learned in my failures, for the dreams that just won't die, for the goals that are still waiting to be reached, for the plans that have yet to be fulfilled, and most of all for His mercy that is new EVERY morning and for His grace that picks up my slack, I am oh-so-grateful. I am grateful for the Cross.
If I'm honest, truly honest, I have to admit that through the course of my life, my failures outweigh my successes, immeasurably outweigh them.
I've had more fresh-start-Mondays in my life that crashed well before midday than I care to admit, and my tomorrows have turned into next week, next month, next year.
I've asked myself why I even bother trying, as I've laid dreams, goals, desires, and ambitions down, picked them up, only to drop them again.
Oh, how often I fail, and sometimes, I let failure define me. I let the ugliness of its unbearable weight saturate my spirit and spread that poison to everyone who comes near me. I grumble. I complain. I find fault in others. I bask in the dark places where failure finds contentment.
Yet something in the deepest part of me beckons me to step out of the night and into the Light...
To try again.
And I do.
I dream again. I set goals. I make plans. And I dare to believe that this time will be different.
For the lessons I've learned in my failures, for the dreams that just won't die, for the goals that are still waiting to be reached, for the plans that have yet to be fulfilled, and most of all for His mercy that is new EVERY morning and for His grace that picks up my slack, I am oh-so-grateful. I am grateful for the Cross.
Friday, November 15, 2013
The Encore Performance
I have learned that God's greatest gifts are the ones that take us completely by surprise -- the ones we didn't ask for, haven't planned for, and certainly don't deserve.
I was in junior high when Mom told me she was expecting another baby. Junior high, which means I had two siblings in high school, and my younger brother was completing elementary school.
I still remember the shocked look on my mother's face as she picked me up from school that afternoon. If I remember correctly, that shocked look didn't go away for another three years.
Mom and Dad had wanted four kids. They had planned for four kids. Mom said that she had prayed for four children for as long as she could remember; she had been very specific in her prayers and asked for two girls and two boys. Four -- with no middle child -- girl, boy, girl, boy, and God had been faithful. For ten years, she enjoyed the family that SHE had planned.
Then, God added His finishing touch.
We named him, Matthew, which means "gift of God."
Almost 31 years later, I am convinced that "Matthew" was his rightful name, appointed to him by God himself, for Matthew has proven to be the most generous, precious gift imaginable.
He was four years old when I left for college. When I got to my dorm and started unpacking my boxes and bags, I found something of Matthew's in every box and every bag. Whether it was one of his favorite stuffed animals, a picture that he had colored with the words, "Nonny, I love you. Matt," printed in four-year old all caps, or one of his beloved G.I. Joe action figures, Matthew had placed a part of himself in every box and bag.
That is the essence of who Matthew is. He is a giver, and he gives generously. If he sees a need, he does whatever he can to meet that need.
So it was no surprise that the time my car broke down and disrupted my entire life, that Matthew came to my rescue. He not only helped me pay for the unexpected expense of replacing the engine, but he got me a rental car which I drove for more than a month. When I asked him, how much I owed him so I could pay him back, he said, "Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal." It was a humongous deal. I'm so thankful for the gift of Matthew.
Last summer, when the temperatures were hitting the triple digits, our air conditioner went out. Matt drove three hours on one of his few days off to come to our rescue. When I heard that he was covered in chiggers the next day, and I apologized for his misery, he responded, "Don't worry about it. It's no big deal." I saw a picture of his foot; it was covered! It was a humongous deal.
He reminds me so much of my dad and my Heavenly Father too. His generosity is a reflection of who God is. . . The giver of all good things. I'm convinced God gifted us with Matthew because He knew exactly what we needed to make our family complete, the encore performance, the Master's touch; the generous gift of God, one that Mom and Dad didn't plan, but that God perfectly planned and executed.
For the best surprise ever, for the gift that keeps on giving, for the encore performance, and everything he has added to the Stone family, my heart overflows with gratitude.
I was in junior high when Mom told me she was expecting another baby. Junior high, which means I had two siblings in high school, and my younger brother was completing elementary school.
I still remember the shocked look on my mother's face as she picked me up from school that afternoon. If I remember correctly, that shocked look didn't go away for another three years.
Mom and Dad had wanted four kids. They had planned for four kids. Mom said that she had prayed for four children for as long as she could remember; she had been very specific in her prayers and asked for two girls and two boys. Four -- with no middle child -- girl, boy, girl, boy, and God had been faithful. For ten years, she enjoyed the family that SHE had planned.
Then, God added His finishing touch.
We named him, Matthew, which means "gift of God."
Almost 31 years later, I am convinced that "Matthew" was his rightful name, appointed to him by God himself, for Matthew has proven to be the most generous, precious gift imaginable.
He was four years old when I left for college. When I got to my dorm and started unpacking my boxes and bags, I found something of Matthew's in every box and every bag. Whether it was one of his favorite stuffed animals, a picture that he had colored with the words, "Nonny, I love you. Matt," printed in four-year old all caps, or one of his beloved G.I. Joe action figures, Matthew had placed a part of himself in every box and bag.
That is the essence of who Matthew is. He is a giver, and he gives generously. If he sees a need, he does whatever he can to meet that need.
So it was no surprise that the time my car broke down and disrupted my entire life, that Matthew came to my rescue. He not only helped me pay for the unexpected expense of replacing the engine, but he got me a rental car which I drove for more than a month. When I asked him, how much I owed him so I could pay him back, he said, "Don't worry about it. It's not a big deal." It was a humongous deal. I'm so thankful for the gift of Matthew.
Last summer, when the temperatures were hitting the triple digits, our air conditioner went out. Matt drove three hours on one of his few days off to come to our rescue. When I heard that he was covered in chiggers the next day, and I apologized for his misery, he responded, "Don't worry about it. It's no big deal." I saw a picture of his foot; it was covered! It was a humongous deal.
He reminds me so much of my dad and my Heavenly Father too. His generosity is a reflection of who God is. . . The giver of all good things. I'm convinced God gifted us with Matthew because He knew exactly what we needed to make our family complete, the encore performance, the Master's touch; the generous gift of God, one that Mom and Dad didn't plan, but that God perfectly planned and executed.
For the best surprise ever, for the gift that keeps on giving, for the encore performance, and everything he has added to the Stone family, my heart overflows with gratitude.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
The Perfect Child
He took my spot as baby of the family after my less than four year tenure, and everything I wasn't, he was.
He was the perfect child.
The quiet child.
The obedient child.
The think-before-you-act child.
If Mom or Dad told him not to do it, he didn't do it. If they told him not to go in the woods or ride his bike off our double cul-de-sac, he didn't go.
And the few times he did do something wrong, he went to them with tear filled eyes and confessed, which meant that he got to bypass the whole spanking process.
It wasn't easy being the older, less-than-perfect sister to the cutest, most innocent looking brother in the world.
But instead of resenting him for being the "good" child, I learned to appreciate him. Through the years, his voice of caution and reason probably kept me out of a lot of trouble.
And all these years later, I still think he's pretty close to perfect, and I still say it's not always easy being the older, less-than-perfect sister to such a cute, innocent looking brother. Nonetheless, I wouldn't trade him for anything this world has to offer.
For the gift of Phil, his wisdom, his caution, his voice of reason, his attention to details, as well as his ability to dream big dreams, I am so very grateful!!
He was the perfect child.
The quiet child.
The obedient child.
The think-before-you-act child.
If Mom or Dad told him not to do it, he didn't do it. If they told him not to go in the woods or ride his bike off our double cul-de-sac, he didn't go.
And the few times he did do something wrong, he went to them with tear filled eyes and confessed, which meant that he got to bypass the whole spanking process.
It wasn't easy being the older, less-than-perfect sister to the cutest, most innocent looking brother in the world.
But instead of resenting him for being the "good" child, I learned to appreciate him. Through the years, his voice of caution and reason probably kept me out of a lot of trouble.
And all these years later, I still think he's pretty close to perfect, and I still say it's not always easy being the older, less-than-perfect sister to such a cute, innocent looking brother. Nonetheless, I wouldn't trade him for anything this world has to offer.
For the gift of Phil, his wisdom, his caution, his voice of reason, his attention to details, as well as his ability to dream big dreams, I am so very grateful!!
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
Following Tim
I was climbing up the ladder to the attic when he stepped on the sheetrock and fell through the ceiling. I was following his lead.
I was with him on the side of the house trying to burn leaves with matches we had taken from Mom's top drawer when the neighbor lady drove up and caught us. I was right on his heels when we ran to hide under the bed while the neighbor told Mom about our mischief.
When I got shot in the hand with his BB gun, I had followed him and his friend into the woods. By the way, he's the one who pulled the trigger.
He was the one who showed me how styrofoam made an awesome boat for floating in the rushing, flooded creek, and he was also the one who warned me not to fall off and get wet because Mom would have our hide if she found out we were playing in that nasty water (I'm almost confident I'm the one who fell in first that day).
Growing up, I only recall one serious fight/argument with him, and I remember that he came and apologized, but my pride wouldn't let me apologize back.
I'm almost certain he must have gotten tired of his younger sister following him around and insisting to take part in his adventures, but I can't remember one time when he complained or told me to go away.
Oh, he is still adventurous and teaches me new things with his creative ideas that never end. If we lived closer, I'm pretty confident I'd still be following him into exciting, new adventures, and most likely, we'd still be finding a little trouble along the way.
For my big brother, Tim, who taught me best that curiosity was for the brave and daring; for all the times he has allowed me, even encouraged me, to follow his lead; for the continuing, consistent godly example he has been in my life, my heart is forever grateful!
I was with him on the side of the house trying to burn leaves with matches we had taken from Mom's top drawer when the neighbor lady drove up and caught us. I was right on his heels when we ran to hide under the bed while the neighbor told Mom about our mischief.
When I got shot in the hand with his BB gun, I had followed him and his friend into the woods. By the way, he's the one who pulled the trigger.
He was the one who showed me how styrofoam made an awesome boat for floating in the rushing, flooded creek, and he was also the one who warned me not to fall off and get wet because Mom would have our hide if she found out we were playing in that nasty water (I'm almost confident I'm the one who fell in first that day).
Growing up, I only recall one serious fight/argument with him, and I remember that he came and apologized, but my pride wouldn't let me apologize back.
I'm almost certain he must have gotten tired of his younger sister following him around and insisting to take part in his adventures, but I can't remember one time when he complained or told me to go away.
Oh, he is still adventurous and teaches me new things with his creative ideas that never end. If we lived closer, I'm pretty confident I'd still be following him into exciting, new adventures, and most likely, we'd still be finding a little trouble along the way.
For my big brother, Tim, who taught me best that curiosity was for the brave and daring; for all the times he has allowed me, even encouraged me, to follow his lead; for the continuing, consistent godly example he has been in my life, my heart is forever grateful!
Monday, November 11, 2013
My Sister. My Friend.
One time, when I said something about her nose, she threw a basketball at mine, trying to break it and make it crooked.
When we would argue, and I would turn around to run, she would grab my hair and pull hard, knowing I was extremely tender-headed and hair-pulling hurt me much worse than a pinch or a slap.
She never liked me going in her room, but since she left for school earlier than I did, I would wait until she left the house before I would sneak in her room to use her gigantic mirror and sometimes borrow her clothes. Somehow she always knew when I had sneaked into her room... an argument and a hair pulling was sure to follow.
When she got upset about something, she would clean like a professional cleaning service, so I learned to make her mad at just the right time, so she would go on a cleaning rampage and do the job Mom had asked me to do.
One time when a friend and I sneaked out of the house after curfew, she watched us push the car down the street and then locked the window and told Mom.I think I still have bruises from that whooping!
But through the years, when I've needed a place to call home for any length of time, she's been the first one to offer a room, even when she had to re-configure the entire household to make it happen.
She has been the first one to offer me assistance when I have over committed for some project or I have procrastinated, and a deadline of impossibility is taking me under.
She raised four children who have grown into kind, respectful, loving, and godly young adults which is a testament to her patience, her strength, her character, and her prayer life!
She sends cards for every occasion, is compassionate and concerned when friends, family members, friends of family members, family members of friends, and even complete strangers are dealing with illness, death, grief, etc.
She is the best secret keeper I know (except for the sneaking out episode). Not only will she keep my secrets, but she won't share secrets of others with me, even when I pretend I already know.
For these reasons, the good and the bad, and for a million more reasons too, I'm thankful, immeasurably thankful, for my sister, Alesia. I'm a better me because of her role in my life.
When we would argue, and I would turn around to run, she would grab my hair and pull hard, knowing I was extremely tender-headed and hair-pulling hurt me much worse than a pinch or a slap.
She never liked me going in her room, but since she left for school earlier than I did, I would wait until she left the house before I would sneak in her room to use her gigantic mirror and sometimes borrow her clothes. Somehow she always knew when I had sneaked into her room... an argument and a hair pulling was sure to follow.
When she got upset about something, she would clean like a professional cleaning service, so I learned to make her mad at just the right time, so she would go on a cleaning rampage and do the job Mom had asked me to do.
One time when a friend and I sneaked out of the house after curfew, she watched us push the car down the street and then locked the window and told Mom.I think I still have bruises from that whooping!
But through the years, when I've needed a place to call home for any length of time, she's been the first one to offer a room, even when she had to re-configure the entire household to make it happen.
She has been the first one to offer me assistance when I have over committed for some project or I have procrastinated, and a deadline of impossibility is taking me under.
She raised four children who have grown into kind, respectful, loving, and godly young adults which is a testament to her patience, her strength, her character, and her prayer life!
She sends cards for every occasion, is compassionate and concerned when friends, family members, friends of family members, family members of friends, and even complete strangers are dealing with illness, death, grief, etc.
She is the best secret keeper I know (except for the sneaking out episode). Not only will she keep my secrets, but she won't share secrets of others with me, even when I pretend I already know.
For these reasons, the good and the bad, and for a million more reasons too, I'm thankful, immeasurably thankful, for my sister, Alesia. I'm a better me because of her role in my life.
Sunday, November 10, 2013
The Wonder of Wil
For a freckled-faced tweener whose energy never ends...
For the funny things he says and the never-ending excitement he brings, I am grateful for the youngest Marecle Mighty Man.
He enriches my life, teaching me patience and how to say, "I'm sorry for not being patient."
I love him.
And for the gift of Wil, I am truly thankful.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Nephews. Nieces. Nature.
So very grateful to get to spend the day with some of my amazing nieces and nephews.
For the excitement they share, the laughter they bring, and the memories we made...
And for the early night of good rest that is sure to follow such a full day, I am thankful!
Friday, November 8, 2013
Lessons My Teachers Taught Me
Sister Green at Urban Park Assembly of God Church taught me about David and Goliath, about Jonah and the Whale, Noah's Ark, and a baby named Jesus who grew up to die on a cross for my sins. She helped me ask Jesus into my heart when I was only 6 years old.
Mrs. Fewell at Sam Houston Elementary taught me my multiplication facts, all of them, from 1x1 to 15x15 when I was in the second grade. I never forgot them, and I learned to love math because she loved math.
Mrs. Belinda Brumfield at Conroe First Assembly of God taught me important Biblical principles like honoring and obeying parents, loving our neighbors, giving to those less fortunate than ourselves, and letting my light shine.
Mrs. Anderson at Sam Houston Elementary introduced me to creative writing in the 4th grade. I wrote my first Haiku and learned to journal my thoughts daily. She set the storyteller in me free.
Mrs. Sally Jones at Reaves Intermediate caught me and my best friend cheating on a test in the 6th grade. She called my parents and had a heart-to-heart talk with me. She told me I was better than that and was the smartest kid in her class. For some reason I believed her and spent the rest of sixth grade proving her right!
In 8th grade, Mrs. Lawson at Travis Junior High taught me to love algebra. She pulled me aside one day after class and told me I should pursue mathematics because I showed tremendous potential. I never forgot her words and how she boosted my confidence. I needed that boost!
Linda Lanza Roberts and Suzi Lanza Cano (my youth pastors, Faith Outreach Center) taught me about the role of the the Word of God in my daily life. They taught me lessons of purity and virtue, of modesty and integrity. They taught me about the gifts and the fruit of the Holy Spirit. They taught me that Christianity wasn't just about making it to heaven to meet our Father face to face, but that it was about walking with Him daily, communing with Him, and letting Him work in and through me.
Mrs. Richardson, Biology, Conroe High School, taught me that even if I didn't like things like dissecting plants, insects, and animals, if I gave it my best attempt, I could find success. I learned to apply that lesson to other areas of my life too!
Mrs. Burchett at Calvary Baptist School (grades 11 and 12) taught me the 8 parts of speech, how to define them, how to use them, and how to recite them in my sleep. She taught me the mechanics of grammar and the beauty of literature. She is also the teacher responsible for having me memorize more than 1/3 of the scriptures I have hidden in my heart. She saw potential in me, encouraged me, believed in me, and inspired me when I needed it the most.
Dr. Danny Alexander, Southwestern Assemblies of God University, taught me how to tap into my potential and develop it. With his creativity in the classroom, he inspired my creativity. He taught me the art and the unlimited potential of storytelling.
For these teachers and others, and for the lessons they taught me that reached far beyond the realm of their classroom, I am eternally grateful!
Mrs. Fewell at Sam Houston Elementary taught me my multiplication facts, all of them, from 1x1 to 15x15 when I was in the second grade. I never forgot them, and I learned to love math because she loved math.
Mrs. Belinda Brumfield at Conroe First Assembly of God taught me important Biblical principles like honoring and obeying parents, loving our neighbors, giving to those less fortunate than ourselves, and letting my light shine.
Mrs. Anderson at Sam Houston Elementary introduced me to creative writing in the 4th grade. I wrote my first Haiku and learned to journal my thoughts daily. She set the storyteller in me free.
Mrs. Sally Jones at Reaves Intermediate caught me and my best friend cheating on a test in the 6th grade. She called my parents and had a heart-to-heart talk with me. She told me I was better than that and was the smartest kid in her class. For some reason I believed her and spent the rest of sixth grade proving her right!
In 8th grade, Mrs. Lawson at Travis Junior High taught me to love algebra. She pulled me aside one day after class and told me I should pursue mathematics because I showed tremendous potential. I never forgot her words and how she boosted my confidence. I needed that boost!
Linda Lanza Roberts and Suzi Lanza Cano (my youth pastors, Faith Outreach Center) taught me about the role of the the Word of God in my daily life. They taught me lessons of purity and virtue, of modesty and integrity. They taught me about the gifts and the fruit of the Holy Spirit. They taught me that Christianity wasn't just about making it to heaven to meet our Father face to face, but that it was about walking with Him daily, communing with Him, and letting Him work in and through me.
Mrs. Richardson, Biology, Conroe High School, taught me that even if I didn't like things like dissecting plants, insects, and animals, if I gave it my best attempt, I could find success. I learned to apply that lesson to other areas of my life too!
Mrs. Burchett at Calvary Baptist School (grades 11 and 12) taught me the 8 parts of speech, how to define them, how to use them, and how to recite them in my sleep. She taught me the mechanics of grammar and the beauty of literature. She is also the teacher responsible for having me memorize more than 1/3 of the scriptures I have hidden in my heart. She saw potential in me, encouraged me, believed in me, and inspired me when I needed it the most.
Dr. Danny Alexander, Southwestern Assemblies of God University, taught me how to tap into my potential and develop it. With his creativity in the classroom, he inspired my creativity. He taught me the art and the unlimited potential of storytelling.
For these teachers and others, and for the lessons they taught me that reached far beyond the realm of their classroom, I am eternally grateful!
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Truly, Truly God is Gracious!
As I took a moment to write about my mom today, it seemed so familiar, like everything I wanted to write I had heard or read before. I kept asking myself, am I infringing on a copyright here? And then the Holy Spirit reminded me of Proverbs 31. Ah, that's it! How can I possibly say it better than the Word of God?! My attempts are futile.
So I am reposting something I wrote about her last year and hope this isn't considered cheating...
When I think about the greatest blessings in my life, certainly my mom is at the top of my list. I often wonder where I would be without her sacrifices, without her nurture, without her instruction, without her wisdom, without her persistent prayers. In retrospect, I find myself wondering how she managed to be all that I needed her to be; well, actually, all that we needed her to be. There were six (including Dad) of us pulling on her, tugging her this way and that, committing her to our agendas, and never once do I remember her acting exhausted, having a mental breakdown, or complaining that enough was enough.
Yet she was the last to bed every night and the first to rise every morning. She ensured we started the day with a warm breakfast, clean clothes, completed homework, and packed lunches. Somehow, she managed to have dinner on the table when Dad came home from work after she had taxied us around all afternoon. She served as team mom, room mom, Brownie leader, Missionette leader, Sunday school teacher, last minute costume maker, and filled at least a dozen other volunteer positions.
I don't think it any coincidence that her name means "God is gracious." Grace is freely given, unmerited favor -- it's when we receive things that we don't deserve. That is who my mom is. She is a gift that I did nothing to deserve; and I am so thankful that despite my being me, God is gracious and He gave me a mom who reminds me how good grace truly is.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
He Cares About Silly, Insignificant Details... like Spoilers.
I was raised in church, but more importantly, I was raised in the Word, told that God loves me from a very young age. But hearing that He loves me and experiencing His love are two very different things.
I saw the evidence of His love yesterday, and it was in something completely and totally insignificant; yet for me, it was as if He put the rest of the world on hold to bend down, kiss me on the cheek, and whisper in my ear, "I told you -- I love you."
As most of you know, we work in the ministry and live on a tight budget, which means that sometimes we have to pick and choose what luxuries we can live without and which ones we consider essential (I am totally NOT complaining!). So as we were shopping for a new car, there were certain things we needed and other things I wanted.
I wanted a spoiler.
We needed a dependable car at a price we could afford.
I wanted a spoiler.
But when time, money, and selections are limited, sometimes, a girl has to cave on the things she wants and settle for the things she needs, knowing that I would be more than happy to drive away in a new car, spoiler or not. We committed to the car, sight unseen.
I had spent days online studying the selections the dealership had in stock, not one of them appeared to have a spoiler. I told myself and my husband that I could live without a spoiler, and I was at peace, accepting the fact that a spoiler was insignificant and silly. Our wonderful salesman had told us that he would have the car ready for us and parked in front of the dealership.
As we pulled up to the front of the dealership, my husband pointed out the car he believed to be ours, and I sat wide-eyed and speechless, realizing that my Father cares about things as silly and insignificant as a spoiler, simply because He loves me.
When we walked into the dealership, our salesman, Scott Smith, greeted us. When I mentioned the spoiler, he smiled and said, "Now, Veronica, you can give the good Lord the credit for that. I knew you wanted one, but I didn't think we had one in stock. Honest to God, He deserves the credit for that."
I honestly would have been thankful with a new car, spoiler or not.
But for a Heavenly Father who loves me like He does, how could I be anything but grateful?!
I saw the evidence of His love yesterday, and it was in something completely and totally insignificant; yet for me, it was as if He put the rest of the world on hold to bend down, kiss me on the cheek, and whisper in my ear, "I told you -- I love you."
As most of you know, we work in the ministry and live on a tight budget, which means that sometimes we have to pick and choose what luxuries we can live without and which ones we consider essential (I am totally NOT complaining!). So as we were shopping for a new car, there were certain things we needed and other things I wanted.
I wanted a spoiler.
We needed a dependable car at a price we could afford.
I wanted a spoiler.
But when time, money, and selections are limited, sometimes, a girl has to cave on the things she wants and settle for the things she needs, knowing that I would be more than happy to drive away in a new car, spoiler or not. We committed to the car, sight unseen.
I had spent days online studying the selections the dealership had in stock, not one of them appeared to have a spoiler. I told myself and my husband that I could live without a spoiler, and I was at peace, accepting the fact that a spoiler was insignificant and silly. Our wonderful salesman had told us that he would have the car ready for us and parked in front of the dealership.
As we pulled up to the front of the dealership, my husband pointed out the car he believed to be ours, and I sat wide-eyed and speechless, realizing that my Father cares about things as silly and insignificant as a spoiler, simply because He loves me.
When we walked into the dealership, our salesman, Scott Smith, greeted us. When I mentioned the spoiler, he smiled and said, "Now, Veronica, you can give the good Lord the credit for that. I knew you wanted one, but I didn't think we had one in stock. Honest to God, He deserves the credit for that."
I honestly would have been thankful with a new car, spoiler or not.
But for a Heavenly Father who loves me like He does, how could I be anything but grateful?!
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
My Less-Than-Perfect Dad
He wasn't a perfect man. I saw him lose his temper and get really upset when people refused to see things his way. I think I might have even heard him say the "d" word one time when he was working on the car and dropped a tool. Whatever he said, I do remember he told me not to tell my mother, but as much as I would like to pretend I always obeyed and/or could keep a secret, I'm going to be honest and say that I'm positive that I went directly inside and told my mom exactly what he had said. I'm not certain she ever addressed the issue, but I am confident I never heard another ugly word come from my Daddy's mouth.
I remember him escorting me out of church as I screamed, "No, Daddy, No! I'll be good, Daddy, I'll be good!" I remember his spankings that I undoubtedly earned! But I also remember the time he spanked me for something he thought I had done but hadn't. And I remember how he came to me, broken, telling me that he had made a mistake, one that earned me months, maybe even years, of free passes. =)
After dinner, on any given evening, he would ask one of us to help take off his boots (It seems we felt this was an honor and even fought over it at times, I'm hoping I remember that wrong.). Then, in the middle of my mom's tidy living room floor, Dad would entertain us as he transformed into the tickle monster or the claw. He could pen us all down at the same time which convinced me that he was the strongest man in the world. We would giggle until we saw stars and our faces hurt. But my favorite evening/weekend game with Dad involved his dirty socks which he would roll into a ball and pitch to us. As we swung our arms, knocking the sock-ball across the living room, we would run the "bases" which were designated pieces of furniture. One of Mom's trinkets would usually call for the game/playtime to end as it shattered to the ground. Then, as a team, we'd repair the damages with a bottle of Elmer's Glue.
I learned innumerable lessons from my less-than-perfect dad, but some of the greatest lessons he taught me were in the mistaken spanking and in the broken trinkets. For in the mess ups were life lessons about failure, forgiveness, and restoration.
He wasn't a perfect man. In fact, he may not have been the perfect dad, but I am certain that he was the perfect dad for me.
For my less-than-perfect dad, his less-than-perfect daughter is oh-so-grateful!
I remember him escorting me out of church as I screamed, "No, Daddy, No! I'll be good, Daddy, I'll be good!" I remember his spankings that I undoubtedly earned! But I also remember the time he spanked me for something he thought I had done but hadn't. And I remember how he came to me, broken, telling me that he had made a mistake, one that earned me months, maybe even years, of free passes. =)
After dinner, on any given evening, he would ask one of us to help take off his boots (It seems we felt this was an honor and even fought over it at times, I'm hoping I remember that wrong.). Then, in the middle of my mom's tidy living room floor, Dad would entertain us as he transformed into the tickle monster or the claw. He could pen us all down at the same time which convinced me that he was the strongest man in the world. We would giggle until we saw stars and our faces hurt. But my favorite evening/weekend game with Dad involved his dirty socks which he would roll into a ball and pitch to us. As we swung our arms, knocking the sock-ball across the living room, we would run the "bases" which were designated pieces of furniture. One of Mom's trinkets would usually call for the game/playtime to end as it shattered to the ground. Then, as a team, we'd repair the damages with a bottle of Elmer's Glue.
I learned innumerable lessons from my less-than-perfect dad, but some of the greatest lessons he taught me were in the mistaken spanking and in the broken trinkets. For in the mess ups were life lessons about failure, forgiveness, and restoration.
He wasn't a perfect man. In fact, he may not have been the perfect dad, but I am certain that he was the perfect dad for me.
For my less-than-perfect dad, his less-than-perfect daughter is oh-so-grateful!
Monday, November 4, 2013
Random. Ridiculous. But Mine.
I don't like being in new places and meeting new people. In fact, if I were asked to list the things I hate/fear the most, it would be talking to people I don't know, not the kind of talks a person has standing in line at the grocery store, but the kind of meet and greet talks that are necessary for making new friends and building new relationships. They make me super uncomfortable because when the conversation falls quiet, for some odd reason, I feel as if it is my sole responsibility to fill the dead air. So I talk. And I talk. I talk about things that pop into my head, random, ridiculous thoughts that I most likely wouldn't even share with a close friend. Through the years, I have learned to avoid such situations as much as possible and have, no doubt, missed out on some would be fantastic friendships. (I know. I know. . . Shame on me).
Then the day came when he asked me to meet him for dinner, and I said yes.
I meant yes at the moment. I really did, but given a little time, I did everything I could think of to back out of my commitment. Yet, for every excuse I gave, he came up with a solution. So I did it. I pushed past the fear and followed through with the plans. There I sat across the table from him. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel my brain shaking. My hands were excreting enough fluid to fill a mason jar; they were well beyond clammy. I was folding and refolding my napkin (He says that I ripped the seam out of it which could totally be true.), trying my best to maintain eye contact for more than 3 second intervals. I sat there, listening as he talked. He talked. And he talked. He talked about random things that just seemed to pop into his head. And, maybe for the exact same reasons I find my random talking ridiculous, I found his to be perfectly charming.
We've had countless more random and ridiculous talks since that day, which was more than six years ago. In retrospect, I am so thankful that I said, "Yes." My life is richer, much richer, because of this charming man who talks about random, ridiculous things, and who makes up songs about turning left, turning right and stopping at red lights as we are traveling, and I am trying to sleep.
Today, I am thankful for him. Okay, well, every day, I am thankful for the man who challenges me to be a better me and believes that I can turn dreams into reality. What an amazing gift God gave me in him... Random. Ridiculous. But mine. For him, I am beyond grateful.
Then the day came when he asked me to meet him for dinner, and I said yes.
I meant yes at the moment. I really did, but given a little time, I did everything I could think of to back out of my commitment. Yet, for every excuse I gave, he came up with a solution. So I did it. I pushed past the fear and followed through with the plans. There I sat across the table from him. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel my brain shaking. My hands were excreting enough fluid to fill a mason jar; they were well beyond clammy. I was folding and refolding my napkin (He says that I ripped the seam out of it which could totally be true.), trying my best to maintain eye contact for more than 3 second intervals. I sat there, listening as he talked. He talked. And he talked. He talked about random things that just seemed to pop into his head. And, maybe for the exact same reasons I find my random talking ridiculous, I found his to be perfectly charming.
We've had countless more random and ridiculous talks since that day, which was more than six years ago. In retrospect, I am so thankful that I said, "Yes." My life is richer, much richer, because of this charming man who talks about random, ridiculous things, and who makes up songs about turning left, turning right and stopping at red lights as we are traveling, and I am trying to sleep.
Today, I am thankful for him. Okay, well, every day, I am thankful for the man who challenges me to be a better me and believes that I can turn dreams into reality. What an amazing gift God gave me in him... Random. Ridiculous. But mine. For him, I am beyond grateful.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
The Prayers of a Grandma
When I reflect on my childhood, some of my very best memories include those days spent with Grandma and Grandpa, driving to east Texas to tend the garden, snapping green beans, canning the best tasting peaches, learning the secrets of a seamstress; but my favorite times of the day were late nights and early mornings as I was tucked in my bed and could hear Grandma and Grandpa bombarding the heavens in intercession for everyone they knew. I remember hearing Grandma calling out my name and asking God to place a desire in my heart to serve Him, to surround me with people who would teach me and disciple me, to protect me from unrighteousness, and to become alive in my spirit. At some point during their prayer, I would drift off to peaceful sleep and awaken the next morning to hear them petitioning the heavens again.When I was a young child, I thought they had prayed all night long, which led me to believe that old people must only require sleep on Sunday after church, lunch, and the dishes had been washed and put away, because they were faithful in their Sunday afternoon naps.
Even after Grandpa left us to be with Jesus, Grandma prayed powerful prayers. She was a remarkable woman, a true Proverbs 31 woman in every possible way. As a teenager, I remember getting frustrated with her when she would see me act ugly to one of my siblings or my parents and she would ask me, "What would Jesus Do?" (This was long before everyone else was asking this question. In fact, I still think Grandma deserved the credit for that campaign.)
Grandma lived the last years of her life in a nursing home. Alzheimer's had taken her memories and her ability to speak, but her nurses would often ask us if Grandma was a preacher or a praying woman, and they would tell us how they would walk in her room and hear Grandma praying in the spirit.
I used to wonder why God didn't just take her home and why she had to go through the humiliation of such a senseless disease, until I realized that she had held on to life so that she could continually intercede for me (and the rest of the family too).
For her influence, for her faithfulness, for her strength, for her selflessness, I am ever-so-thankful.
Even after Grandpa left us to be with Jesus, Grandma prayed powerful prayers. She was a remarkable woman, a true Proverbs 31 woman in every possible way. As a teenager, I remember getting frustrated with her when she would see me act ugly to one of my siblings or my parents and she would ask me, "What would Jesus Do?" (This was long before everyone else was asking this question. In fact, I still think Grandma deserved the credit for that campaign.)
Grandma lived the last years of her life in a nursing home. Alzheimer's had taken her memories and her ability to speak, but her nurses would often ask us if Grandma was a preacher or a praying woman, and they would tell us how they would walk in her room and hear Grandma praying in the spirit.
I used to wonder why God didn't just take her home and why she had to go through the humiliation of such a senseless disease, until I realized that she had held on to life so that she could continually intercede for me (and the rest of the family too).
For her influence, for her faithfulness, for her strength, for her selflessness, I am ever-so-thankful.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
The Patience of PawPaw
Every summer, as we were growing up, we got to take turns spending weeks with my grandparents. Coming from a large family, this was our opportunity for individual attention.
I spent most of my time with my pawpaw because Grandma was still working part time. Pawpaw and I would take long walks around the neighborhood. He was a quiet man, so I used this opportunity to chatter away aimlessly about things that were of no interest to Pawpaw, yet he never complained. He never told me as we do our youngest son, "You've used your allotted words for the day." Although I'm certain there were times he must have pushed the mental ignore button. Nonetheless, he acted as if he were genuinely listening to my wild stories, told with excessive adjectives and exaggerated emphasis. I remember how he would chuckle at the right parts and smile his oh-so-handsome smile. Sometimes at dinner, he would have me repeat one of the stories for Grandma who failed to see the humor in them and was certain to chastise me for telling such foolish, dishonest stories. Pawpaw would look at me and sneak a wink and a half smile which I understood to mean that he appreciated my creative imagination, and I could resume my storytelling once Grandma went to work again, and that, I was certain to do.Pawpaw had this remarkable way of making me feel like I was the most special girl in the world, his "Ronica," whose stories entertained him.
So, as I think about the things and people in my life that I'm most grateful for, I can't help but think about my Pawpaw and how his role in my life built my confidence and helped me discover the storyteller in me... How thankful I am for the gift of a loving and tender Pawpaw.
For those of you that remember the old Oscar Mayer Bologna jingle, as a child, I changed the words to that song and sang it to my Pawpaw every time I got to see him, and today, I'm remembering that song,"My pawpaw has a first name, it's G - R - A - N - D. My pawpaw has a second name, it's P - A - W. I like to see him every day, and if you ask me why, I'll say cause my pawpaw has a way with V-E-R-O-N-I-C and A."
He did.
And for that, I am thankful!
I spent most of my time with my pawpaw because Grandma was still working part time. Pawpaw and I would take long walks around the neighborhood. He was a quiet man, so I used this opportunity to chatter away aimlessly about things that were of no interest to Pawpaw, yet he never complained. He never told me as we do our youngest son, "You've used your allotted words for the day." Although I'm certain there were times he must have pushed the mental ignore button. Nonetheless, he acted as if he were genuinely listening to my wild stories, told with excessive adjectives and exaggerated emphasis. I remember how he would chuckle at the right parts and smile his oh-so-handsome smile. Sometimes at dinner, he would have me repeat one of the stories for Grandma who failed to see the humor in them and was certain to chastise me for telling such foolish, dishonest stories. Pawpaw would look at me and sneak a wink and a half smile which I understood to mean that he appreciated my creative imagination, and I could resume my storytelling once Grandma went to work again, and that, I was certain to do.Pawpaw had this remarkable way of making me feel like I was the most special girl in the world, his "Ronica," whose stories entertained him.
So, as I think about the things and people in my life that I'm most grateful for, I can't help but think about my Pawpaw and how his role in my life built my confidence and helped me discover the storyteller in me... How thankful I am for the gift of a loving and tender Pawpaw.
For those of you that remember the old Oscar Mayer Bologna jingle, as a child, I changed the words to that song and sang it to my Pawpaw every time I got to see him, and today, I'm remembering that song,"My pawpaw has a first name, it's G - R - A - N - D. My pawpaw has a second name, it's P - A - W. I like to see him every day, and if you ask me why, I'll say cause my pawpaw has a way with V-E-R-O-N-I-C and A."
He did.
And for that, I am thankful!
Friday, November 1, 2013
Welcome, Sweet November!
I love November!
Not just because it’s my birthday month is it my favorite
month of the year, but it is the season of change that November brings with
her. The leaves are changing and beginning to fall. People genuinely seem
happier and smile more brilliant smiles. The days are cooler and less humid,
which means for me that my hair is less frizzy and easier to manage (what woman
wouldn’t appreciate that?).
November reminds me of all the little things and the
precious people I should appreciate. With the abundance of her harvest, she prepares
me for the hustle and bustle of the season that is approaching, and she
saturates my heart with gratitude and reflection. Sweet November—I wish I would
carry November in my spirit every season of my life, so that I could remember
to be thankful, even during the seasons of hurricanes, wild fires, drought, and
death. But for now, I will embrace this
first day of November and the twenty-nine days that follow, as I embrace the
change she brings with her, with a heart being renewed and a life prepared for
an even richer harvest than years past… Oh, sweet November… Welcome. Welcome.
Welcome.
Wednesday, October 30, 2013
Tomorrow
I love the feeling I get as I mark a task off my "to do" list. To me, it feels something like stepping on the scale and seeing a number smaller than yesterday's number. Accomplished. So why, if it feels so good, then tell me, why on earth do I put some tasks off for so long? Why would I tell myself for weeks that I will start the job, only to wait until the night before to actually make myself do it?
I know better than this. I am better than this -- this dreadful enemy -- procrastination.
Ah, another sleepless night, a killer headache, and an overdose on caffeine, all because I, again, waited too long to start my assignment. I tell myself that I work better under pressure with a deadline breathing down my neck, but seriously, I have to ask myself if this feeling of accomplishment is worth the agony, the stress, the frustration, the utter exhaustion I'm feeling at this very moment. And the answer is...
Well, truthfully, I have a feeling I will actually sleep tonight when my head hits the pillow. So, I think I will have to wait until tomorrow to answer that question when the headache is gone, the caffeine is worn off, and I've had a good night of rest.
I know better than this. I am better than this -- this dreadful enemy -- procrastination.
Ah, another sleepless night, a killer headache, and an overdose on caffeine, all because I, again, waited too long to start my assignment. I tell myself that I work better under pressure with a deadline breathing down my neck, but seriously, I have to ask myself if this feeling of accomplishment is worth the agony, the stress, the frustration, the utter exhaustion I'm feeling at this very moment. And the answer is...
Well, truthfully, I have a feeling I will actually sleep tonight when my head hits the pillow. So, I think I will have to wait until tomorrow to answer that question when the headache is gone, the caffeine is worn off, and I've had a good night of rest.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
A Super-Powered Heart
Happy Birthday, Phil!
Remember when we would pretend the beds were rescue boats, and throw dolls and stuffed animals into the crocodile and shark infested waters so we could risk our own lives to dive in and save them? Remember the thrill of being the hero? Do you remember the day I taught you how to ride a bike and you were so afraid of crashing? Do you remember the moment you realized I wasn't holding on to the seat of your bike and you were riding it all by yourself?
If you aren't so old that your memory can't recall the courageous moments of your youth, I want you to take a few moments to remember the thrill of being the hero... Do you remember it now? I hope you remember it well and realize that it's a thrill you should be so familiar with, for you live the heroic life. Not only are you a hero as a father and a husband, you are a hero in the lives of every young person you touch. I know the pay isn't great and the commitment is sometimes exhausting, but when I think about all the fictitious superheroes, there isn't one that I can think of that did it for the money. You may not have a cape, cool spiderweb spinners, or the speed of lightning, but you are a super hero with a super-powered heart. And I couldn't be prouder of the amazing man that you've become.
Happy Birthday, Bubba! May this year you experience the thrill of being the hero that you truly are! Enjoy the day celebrating the gift of you. Love you!
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