Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Eric Church, unshaved legs, and evidence of the guinea pig

Carefree childhood erased.
Constant monitoring replaced.

It's a line I wrote as part of a piece I delivered to a room full of 700 people in Charlotte, North Carolina last week.
But those are not just carefully crafted words, they are a reality - for my daughter, Lucy, and millions of others who face the daily challenges of living with Type 1 Diabetes.

The JDRF Hope Gala will be a forever memory for me.  I wish you could have been there.  For fun I thought I would share the behind the scenes story and my brush with a celebrity {wink, wink}.

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

memory collecting

The oaks stand tall with branches of protection, like an armored guard.  

I appreciate their strength and dignified beauty, but the pines are my comfort.  

One lone branch defiantly stretching opposite the rest of the tree reaches out to me like the hand of an old friend - her long, green needles a kind and soft offering.  With one glance, one inhalation of her scent, a thousand memories fill me.  They are both clouded and crystal clear.  I know them by heart but the details escape me.  In that moment all I can say is they come from the past and they are good.  I can’t put my finger on a single one.  I can’t tease out the specifics of time and place, of who and what.  When they all collect like that they are a unified voice speaking one word – home.  

I round the bend in the path with Lucy’s hand in mind squeezing three times – I. Love. You.  I’ve done it since she was old enough to walk alongside me – our secret language.  A moment, a memory, a consistent act I’m weaving into who she is, who she will be.  She squeezes back – one, two, three.  We speak without saying a word and then I point to the branch.  The end of its reach is just at eye level for her.  We pause for a moment and I tell her how it spoke to me.  I know she doesn’t understand.  One day she will, when the memories collect for her.  

Our morning stroll takes us past purple verbena and darting orange butterflies.  As we walk, we talk, and I tell her how I will make a picture with my words when we get back home.  Like a camera captures an image within its frame I will capture this one on a page.  

This work of writing is infinitely more difficult for me than clicking a button, and yet the result is far more rewarding and enduring.  So I do it – over and over and over again.  I step onto the dance floor, wait for the music, and let my fingers fall into the rhythm of the words.  To be a writer is to welcome the hard work of sifting through our words and wonder to find something worth stringing together and sharing.  

On some days the result is a story leading the reader to a specific location and on days like this one I can only paint you a picture that slows you down, takes you back and leaves you to wander your own paths.  I hope you know - wandering isn't always a waste.  Now that I've led you to the edge of the woods, the edge of times remembered and treasured I hope you will take a little time to discover what's waiting there for you - where the pines welcome you home.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

begin again

It's not writer's block.  I don't know if I even really believe in 'writer's block'.

It has been two months since I have written here on the blog.  Goodness!  Where has the time gone?

Just so you know...
I have not been sitting down at the keyboard with my hands on my head searching for words.  I also have not been lounging around at home taking bubble baths, eating bon bons and binge-watching Parenthood on Netflix.
No.  I have been busy, just not on the blog.

But this space and this practice has been quietly calling out to me for a few weeks now and for some reason it has been difficult for me to begin again.  Not because I don't have anything to say, but because I have so much to say.

Do you know what I mean?

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

when you can't find your voice

As I write there are baby owls outside of my window trying to find their voice.
I'm trying to find mine too.

I first heard the faint whistling last week after the kids were tucked into bed.  At first I couldn't tell if the noise was coming from inside or outside of these walls.  Our house is surrounded by woods which means we keep company with deer and turkey and raccoons and all sorts of other critters.  But this particular sound was unfamiliar to me.  In fact, I was so disturbed that I called my husband to see when he would be home because I needed someone brave to investigate the situation.  Thirty minutes later, armed with a flashlight and a handgun, he arrived to save the day.  When he walked down the hill in our front yard just beyond the magnolia tree his flashlight began to reveal them everywhere - round, feathered owlets.  We had seen the parents more frequently as of late, swooping silently through the trees on giant wings.  They must have been busy hunting food for their new arrivals.

If you've ever heard an owl screech you'll know the chills it sends up your spine.  Record it and you'll have the perfect soundtrack for your next Halloween party.  The owlets are different.  There is a slight resemblance to the adult sound but theirs appears muffled and softer.  There is an apparent strength hiding underneath what comes across as weak.  I have been drawn to these creatures who have made themselves at home in the trees along our driveway and even perched atop our roof.  I find myself watching with intrigue, silently cheering for their true voices to break free.

Sometimes there is something strong inside of us, just below the surface, but all we can muster is a weak whistle.  We can give up trying to set our real voice free or we can keep offering up what we have over and over again until the breakthrough happens.

I've wanted to wrap some words around recent tragedies I have seen around my country, but everything I come up with feels too weak.  I've read some lovely prayers written by others but, quite honestly, I haven't been inspired to pen any of my own.  I feel a little bit guilty about that.  I feel slightly selfish being focused more on what is going on in my own life than trying to enter into and process the suffering of others.  Normally I am totally game for that.  Normally my empathy alarm goes off and I dive right into the grief of others headfirst.

Last week,  I sat curled on the couch in my quiet house listening to the owls.  I kept thinking about that voice I was trying to find and decided I would carve out the time and put forth the effort to come up with just the right words to answer the pain and confusion swirling around.  But the words, the answers, wouldn't come.  I closed my eyes and prayed for them.  There was only silence.

The longer I sat the louder another voice grew.  This one wasn't giving me what I wanted.  This one wasn't following orders.  This one had another agenda.  This voice wasn't giving me answers - or maybe it was.  Sometimes the answers don't sound the way we expect.  All I could hear was a clear calling to come back.   To get back to what I've been doing these past months - studying God's word, connecting the dots, capturing bits of the truth and beauty of scripture to offer to the women who are gathering together on Wednesday nights.

Sometimes I try to give myself a new assignment when I've already got one.
Sometimes something demands our attention but that doesn't mean it requires our response.
Sometimes what seems like the most important thing in the world is just a distraction keeping us from what really is.

Just because I have remained silent about Orlando or Baton Rouge or Dallas any of the other heartbreaking situations happening every day around the world, doesn't mean I haven't noticed.  It doesn't mean I haven't been wrestling with the reminders of the fallen state of our world.

All over this country, all over this world, people are killing
and hating
and hurting
and taking away things that are precious to us, precious to God.
I can not speak or write something that will make it all better.
I do not have the answers.
I can not stop the hate and the hurt with my words.

But I can start something else.

I can plant the seeds of eternity into the hearts of others and watch them grow - watch us grow.  I can carry the spirit of God with me everywhere I go so that the fragrance of him can not be ignored.

Sometimes when our voice feels weak it's because we are not using it where we can be strong.  I've begun to realize that perhaps I can be more effective leading the charge God has put in front of me right here in small town South Carolina, than forcing my way into a position of solving problems all around the world.  Perhaps the effect of that work in the 'here and now' will eventually reach to the 'there and then'.  But I'm not responsible for the outcomes of tomorrow.  I can only be obedient today.

There is something I have noticed about owls as I have studied them these past weeks.  Every time my eyes settle on them they have already seen me first.  Their yellow eyes are locked on me following my every move.  They are always alert, always watching, for possible threats and also for possible opportunities.

And here is what is fascinating - those owls typically let the threats pass them by, taking no action to attack.  They watch, but they don't waste their energy responding.  Opportunity is different.  When they see opportunity they take flight.  Without noise and without fanfare they dive down with a laser focus and seize the opportunity.  The reward for them is nourishment for themselves or for those in their care.  They keep themselves and others alive by being alert and not missing opportunities.  I'm guessing if they went after every possible threat they wouldn't be nearly as effective in sustaining life for themselves and others.

Sometimes I try to find my voice when I've already been given one.  I try to reassign myself to a new role when the original one is not yet complete.  Before summer began I was called to dig into what it might look like to live life uncharted.  I was called to examine what it might look like to begin to let go of the lie that everything depends on me.  I was called to share the story of Peter with others as an invitation to exchange our plans for God's plans.

Within that calling is an opportunity to provide nourishment and life for myself and those in my care.  To shift my eyes off of that opportunity, to attend to the threat, would make me less effective.

So today I stand empty handed when it comes to answers about the world's problems, but if it's hope and truth you are seeking - I know where to find heaping handfuls of those.  When I don't know what to do, I know what to do...

We don't know what to do, but our eyes are on you.
2 Chronicles 20:12

When we set our eyes on God, he sets the course for our lives.  And all we have to do is follow.

{NOTE: We are beginning to make my Uncharted Study available for churches and small groups - let me know if you want to jump on board}

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

if you think inspiration is an illusion

I sat alone in a brick-walled building.  The sun shone in the window so brightly it would blind me if I turned my head.  The waterfalls danced and glistened in my periphery on the other side of the glass.  Adele sang perfection overhead, her words not meaning nearly as much as the emotion behind them.  The warmth from that blinding sun coupled with a tender melody and simple, yet grand, backdrop gave me just enough comfort to relax but not quite fall asleep.  These are the thin places where something divine seeps into the daily.

Inspiration is not an illusion.  

Some will tell you it doesn't exist, that you just have to get up and get to work.  I kindly disagree.  

Wednesday, April 13, 2016

Now what?

I grabbed her by the shoulders with all the gentleness and confidence I could muster.  I locked my eyes on hers.

Lucy, this is not you.  Look at mommy.  This is not you.  Stop right now.

It wasn't her, but she couldn't stop.
I knew she would regret her behavior later but I also knew there was no rationalizing with her in that moment.

Monday, March 21, 2016

the one thing i will do this holy week

The horses are galloping outside this morning.

I know because I hear their heavy hooves landing soft on the pasture outside the window.  I can't see them, only the single broken line of light laid across the pond and the black silhouettes of trees barely visible.  The sky teases with a rich shade of midnight blue that is several hours too late.  Every day the world moves from blackness to deep color in those early hours.  The blanket of dawn is cozy and full of promise.  My life is too and I feel undeserving of such an offering.

Thursday, March 10, 2016

why we should face our fears

By the end of the introduction, tears sat full and salty in my eyes.

I had waited my whole life for that invitation.  

Friday, March 4, 2016

on remembering and returning

It's been a year since we moved into this house on the edge of the woods.  When 2015 arrived, we left a much bigger city behind.  I kept calling the move our 'small town, slow down' but it was really a homecoming.

I remember those early weeks of settling in.  Some mornings, being back seemed liking waking into a dream.  I could hardly believe it was true.

One morning the fog sat heavy along the edge of the lake, like a still thick blanket.  We drove through the heaviness and yet my soul felt light enough to fly.  Finding your way back home can do that to you.  I maneuvered my minivan down the hill and away from the towering stone building that held my earliest memories of school.

Lucy asked from the backseat, How far is it from Oliver's school back home?

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

the temptations you didn't know you were facing

Lionel Richie clearly did not have little kids.

When he sang those lyrics so convincingly I am quite certain there were no
epic temper tantrums or
marathon whining episodes or
little girl wardrobe malfunctions or
hair pulling or
name calling or
chases of terror
going on at his house.

Have you noticed?  Sunday mornings are anything but easy.
My version of the song is called Crazy, Like Sunday Morning.

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

get well soon

Lucy tore into the yellow envelope.  

It was one of dozens she received in the hospital at diagnosis.  As she slid the card out, I saw cute little bears pictured alongside those familiar words:
Get Well Soon

Back when I didn’t know much about Type 1 diabetes, I probably would have sent that card too. It makes sense, right? If someone is in the hospital, you want her to get well so she can get home and get on with her life. People who care enough to send a card, truly want what is best for you, but sometimes they don’t understand that their wish is not a possibility...

{today I'm guest posting over at Beyond Type 1 and I'm offering a FREE copy of Type ONEdlerland to everyone!  Read the rest of the post HERE.  Get the book on AMAZON.}

Thursday, February 11, 2016

behind the scenes of a sunday morning sermon

It was half past 8 on Saturday night when Joey came in to find me laid out on our bed in pain.  My eyes were glassed over from hours of studying and tweaking my message for Sunday morning.  On top of the mental fatigue I was hurting physically from some health issues I’ve been dealing with lately. 

I think you should go to urgent care.
You’ve got to call somebody at the church and tell them there is a chance you won’t be there tomorrow.  They need time to make a back-up plan.

I shook my head ‘no’ while simultaneously holding my abdomen.  

Give it thirty minutes.

Thursday, January 28, 2016

when noticing isn't enough

It was still early when I shuffled to the window in my striped wool socks.

Peering through the blinds I found the snow laid like a blanket over the hills, carefully lining every branch of every tree.  I smiled at the shocking beauty as I anticipated my children's giddy response.  Ironic isn't it?   Something so cold and severe conjuring feelings of softness and comfort.  I don't like traipsing through the snow, but I sure do love gazing at it on the other side of the glass.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Sunday, January 17, 2016

finding home

Remember that song by the Dixie Chicks?

Wide Open Spaces.

Fifteen years ago they called.  I answered.
The wide open spaces of the Arizona desert welcomed me not by hugging me warm and tight but by quietly ushering me into her vastness.  I arrived seeking a graduate degree but left having found so much more.

Wednesday, January 6, 2016

Sunday, January 3, 2016

the Clemson i love

They called him 'Great'.
He grew up in a little South Carolina town called Great Falls.
If he were alive today my children would know him as Great Grandaddy.
{me and Grandaddy}
I called him Grandaddy.
He called me Lissie.
Before I ever reached double-digits he taught me how to dance and throw a football and drive a car {shhh...don't tell my mom}.