Birthday Blessings...

There are few events more affirming than birthdays on Facebook.  Never mind that 95% of my friends who posted greetings would have been clueless about my birthday had they not noticed the little reminder at the top of their Facebook page.  I choose to believe that every single greeting was sent with compassionate thought and heartfelt tenderness.  Especially the ones written in all caps and emphasized by exclamation points. 

Gratifying as Facebook birthday greetings may be, I am an even bigger sucker for Hallmark cards.  Particularly the sappy ones. It matters not that thousands of people all over the world might be opening the very same  card. The minute a carefully chosen Hallmark card is in my hand, I give over to the belief that it was written especially for me.

Some of my friends and family have Hallmarking down to an art. The Dickman is a card-giving maestro who never disappoints.   This year he gave me a birthday card with a photo on the front showing a tiny little boy kissing a tiny little girl, and inside were the words: 

I need ya. I got ya. I'm keeping ya. Love ya.

My Mama also has the golden Hallmark touch.  I have a big box filled with my very favorite birthday cards she's given to me over the years.  I love to pull them out and reread them...paying particular attention to the words she underlined or crossed out to replace with words of her own. 

The card she gave me this year may be my all-time favorite...strike outs, underlines, added exclamation points and all: 

HOW TO MAKE

A Beautiful Life...

Love yourself.

MAKE PEACE with who you are

and where you are

at this moment in time.

 

Listen to your heart.

If you can't hear what it's saying in this noisy world,

MAKE TIME for yourself.

Enjoy your own company.

Let your mind wander among the stars.

 

Try.

Take chances.

MAKE MISTAKES.

Life can be is messy

and confusing at times,

but it's also full of surprises.

The next rock in your path

might be a stepping-stone.

 

Be happy!!!

When you don't have what you want,

want what you have.

MAKE DO.

That's a well-kept secret of contentment.

 

There aren't any shortcuts to tomorrow.

You have to MAKE YOUR OWN WAY.

To know where you're going

is only part of it.

You need to know where you've been, too.

And if you ever get lost, don't worry.

The people who love you will find you.

Count on it!!!

 

Life isn't days and years.

It's what you do with time

and with all the goodness and grace

that's inside you.

MAKE A BEAUTIFUL LIFE...

The kind of life you deserve.

(Thanks, Mom.)

EGGED ON...

Consider the egg...the incredible edible egg...one of the finest miracles of nature. Irrefutable proof of God's love for His creation.

Eggs, though exquisitely simple, are enormously complex. They not only contain the perfect ratio of protein, fats and carbs, but are jam-packed with vitamins. They are inexpensive and delicious. They are versatile as a food source, whimsical in an Easter basket and wonderfully explosive when thrown at an opponent.

Boiled, scrambled, poached or tossed...eggs make life better. Just as they are.

But...mash up the middle, add a few choice ingredients, put them on a pretty platter and BAM! Those tasty orbs of goodness become nothing less than everybody's favorite hors d'ourves.

I should know. I happen to be the holder of a blue ribbon that I won in the 3rd grade for my prize deviled eggs. Which, if I do say so myself, makes me kind of a big deal...


When I was 8 years old, my friend's Mom committed to leading a Junior 4H club for girls. We called ourselves the 4H Eager Beavers. I'm not sure who gets the blame but I swear, that was really our name.

Our sponsor, Mrs. Christian, said her intention was to teach us how to cook and sew. Looking back, I'm sure she also intended to keep us off the dusty roads of Goldsmith, thereby protecting us from rattlesnake bites or getting stuck in a cattle guard in our tiny West Texas oilfield camp. (Although, with a name like Eager Beavers, we could have just as easily fallen into a life of prostitution.)

Anyhoo...we spent all summer learning how to cook.

One day, Mrs. Christian informed our little group that we were to take part in a cooking contest with other 4H clubs around the area. She sent us home to decide with our Moms what food item we would enter in the competition. She also told us to keep in mind: not only were we to be judged on the taste and appearance of the food item, we would also be judged on table presentation.

I thought I was a goner.

My Mom absolutely hated to cook (which in retrospect, was probably why she signed me up for cooking class). Not only that, when I told her we had to make the table look all 'fancy', she started faking a seizure. Fancy was simply not in Mom's vocabulary.

We hurriedly called in reinforcements. My grandmother Flodie was the Cooking Queen. My Aunt Bob knew everything there was to know about being Fancy. We put our collective heads together and decided to blow the competition away with deviled eggs.

Mom brought home carton after carton of eggs for me to practice on. Deviled egg prototypes that did not end up in the trash, wound up in my Daddy's belly. It was a toss-up as to who produced more smelly gas during that summer: Dad or the Phillips Petroleum plant outside our back door.

Finally, the Big Day of the contest arrived. Mom woke me up early and helped me with the dangerously complicated task of boiling eggs. From that point on, she could only supervise. I remember stomping my foot with each hard-to-peel shell that dared to leave even so much as a divot on my egg. After all the prep work, I painstakingly placed each filled egg on the fancy dimpled platter borrowed from my Aunt Bob. I sprinkled the eggs lightly with paprika, gently tapping the little can of spice while Mom coached from the sidelines. Then I tucked parsley in and around the eggs, just as Flodie had taught me. Finally, I carefully dressed in my brand new deviled-egg-presenting blazer Mom had bought especially for the championship competition.

When we arrived at the contest site, I fussily set my table using Flodie's hand-embroidered linen tablecloth, Aunt Bob's china and very best golden vase filled with Mom's lovely artificial flowers. Then, I nervously waited, hoping the judges would choose one of the few eggs I had managed to peel without mangling.

They went around the room, stopping to nibble and mumble incoherently at each hopeful offering. Finally, the judges came to my table. I knew I had done my very best, given my all to those deviled eggs. The rest was up to fate...and taste buds.

As the judges went off to compare notes with one another, my co-chefs and I wiggled impatiently beside our tables, anxiously awaiting the all-important verdicts.

I am ashamed to say I truly don't remember if any other Eager Beavers were victorious on that fateful day. I only remember the burst of pride that filled my soul and the Very Big Smile that split my face when one of the judges laid a beautiful blue ribbon upon my table, declaring my eggs a winner.

At the ripe old age of 8, I had found my special purpose in life. I was the Eggman. Goo goo goo joob.

I basked in the gloriously misguided belief that I was a culinary wizard, convinced that without my wondrous skills, one less carton of eggs would have never achieved their ultimate prize-winning potential.


A few days ago, I stumbled upon the photo of me and my eggs. As I looked into the smiling face of that little girl with the crooked bangs, a flood of memories washed over me. For the first time, I realized with startling clarity just how much effort had gone into winning the blue ribbon that I claimed as my very own.

Truth is, it took a village to help me win that blue ribbon. At the tender age of 8, I would have never been able to reach my full deviled egg potential all by perfectly ordinary self.

My 4H leader provided the inspiration. Flodie gave me confidence to believe that both me and my deviled eggs were worthy. Without Aunt Bob, I wouldn't have found my fancy. Without Mom I would have burned the kitchen down and gone to the competition egg-less AND barefooted. And Dad...well, let's just say that without my flatulent father, I would have never known for certain where deviled eggs got their name.



I believe that our lives are a series of parables...ordinary circumstances that become divine opportunities for God to shape and form our souls in ways we can't perceive or imagine. But if we are wise enough to trust Him and to seek His truths, the message will always find its way into our hearts.

I learned two very important lessons from that prize-winning platter of eggs:

1) Nobody wins a blue ribbon all by themselves.
2) Eggs were never meant to remain just eggs.

For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place, when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. Your eyes saw my unformed body; all the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be. Psalm 139