A Heavenly Perspective

A few months ago – on a sunny afternoon in September - I was driving a car full of noisy G-babes when I suddenly came to a 4-way stop.  

[I don't know about you, but 4-way stop signs confuse me the crap out of me.]  

As I sat there trying to figure out when to go, my eight year old grandson said, “MiMi, do you ever wonder about the people you pass on the street... like that guy in the car across from us?”

“Wonder what?” I asked, distractedly.

“Don't you wonder if they know Jesus? My Daddy does. He says it breaks his heart that he might pass right by someone who doesn't know Him.”

I've never looked at 4-way stop signs the same. 

Though I'm still not sure when it's my turn to go, now I say a prayer for the guy across from me while I'm deciding.

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It's all about perspective. 

Thankfully, my tribe is full of Godly perspective. And working as a health care provider certainly helps. It's easy to remember what really matters when tasked with helping someone learn to walk again.

Last week, that 'perspective' came home to rest.

My Mama has been crossing the abyss of physical decline for a handful of years... never with fear, mostly with humor, always with strength.

But over the past month, her health has “taken a turn for the worse” - as she so poignantly stated.

After much thought and prayer, my brothers and our spouses made the decision to call in hospice care.

It's a scary word,  “hospice”. One of those words that forces our hearts to catch up with our brains. My signature on those papers was a tangible admission to Mom's mortality.

The idea of hospice makes us sad, but we have peace in knowing there will be no regrets regarding her care and treatment.

Don't get me wrong – Mom has no immediate plans for heaven. She promised that she wouldn't 'ruin' our Christmas and I'm selfish enough to hold her to it.

But my Sweet Mama is running out of air... and she is tired. She wants to spend the remainder of her time with us on her terms, with unlimited access to Pork Skins and Cheese Puffs.  

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The morning after we met the hospice nurse, Mom told me she had a dream...

“I dreamed I flew to heaven!” she said, excitedly.

“Like, with wings?” I asked.

“No, silly. On a plane!”

Later that day, she wrote of her dream on Facebook:

I dreamed last night I went to heaven. I was never alone. My husband, sister, Mother and so many people I knew were there. I was so excited! I didn't miss my kids. Somehow, I knew I'd see them soon. Heaven time is different from earth so you don't worry about anyone's arrival. Everyone had on regular clothes. I didn't see Jesus, but there were angels everywhere. Love was everywhere... I think that was God. It was wonderful, marvelous! I'm gonna go there soon. It's something to look forward to. I was so happy. I know I was dreaming but that dream was a comfort, so I'm gonna take it and keep it. Heaven is where I belong, but just not quite yet.

She is an amazing woman.  She is brave and strong and full of grace.  The heart of a warrior beats within her broken body.  She inspires me to my toes, which have bunions... just like hers. 

Walking Mom home is my highest honor.  Though my steps are unsure and my heart is fragile, I'm taking my cues from her - and my G-boy.  

I want to grow up to be just like her, more like Jesus.  To be filled with so much light and love that the guy across from me at a 4-way stop will have to wear shades.

Cause Mama's always right... heaven is where we belong.

And we sure don't want any empty seats on that airplane.

OUR DESTINY IS SECURE...

For 18 long months, We The People have had front row seats to a historically low base election for the highest office in the country. A slug-fest between two of the worst suited presidential candidates to ever run the race: Captain Deplorable (running mostly against himself) and Teflon Hillary (running from the law).

Though divided in our choices, at least we were united in our disgust.

Moral ground was seceded on both sides, leaving us covered in a stench of CrotchGrabbing-SmallHanded-EmailDeleting-WeinerTweeting-ComeyWaffling-SpiritCooking nastiness.

Yep, it was all fun and games until one of them got elected.

In the wee hours of the morning, the TrumpPence sounded and the Blue Wall came a' tumblin' down.  (See what I did there??)

The new Commander in Cheetos rose from the ashes like a strange-haired phoenix.

And then the sun came up.

Half of America woke up on the wrong side of the vote... pissed off, scared and disgusted.  The other half ate their Wheaties with a spoonful of cautious victory, validation and hope.

While not surprised by the division, I am taken aback by the ferocity of the vitriol shooting back and forth across party lines... proving once again that social media and politics are seldom a good mix.

Apparently, this is what democracy looks like in 2016: the collective loss of our respect for our brothers and sisters.

I think we all need a hug.

And maybe a long, hot shower.

Then, we need to take a deep breath and calm the crap down.

I'm pretty sure if we look hard enough, we can find some common ground among the shrapnel.

How about the fact that Miley Cyrus is moving to Canada. I mean, that's a movement we can all get behind, amiright?

Douglas Adams said it best:  "Anyone who is capable of getting themselves made President should on no account be allowed to do the job."

Any illusions we had about the depth of corruption in our government and their collusion with our media have been shot to smithereens.

And that's not necessarily a bad thing.  All partisanship aside, the nuts were running the nuthouse, y'all.

I'm not sure how we fix it... trying to shake sense into a 227-year old bastion of bull hockey is like giving Betty White a boob job.  Possibly too little, too late.

Whether we like it or not, we're all in this together.

So let us mind our matters.  Let us lead with tolerance.

In a world where truth is based on opinion, let our default emotion be respect.

Remember... you are not defined by your president.

When you spew words like ignorant, bigot, racist, xenophobic, homophobic, white supremacist, warmonger... you are perpetuating the very hate you condemn in others.

The country belongs to ALL of us.  EACH of us.  You cannot make someone else into YOUR image of an American.

What you can do is stop posting about it and try praying about it.  Pray that Jesus will go before us and make the crooked places straight.  Believe that He will.

Because our destiny is secure...

And everything will be okay in the end.

Menopausal Profiling in Mexico...

Mexico was magnificent.  

The kisses and cuddles were intoxicating.  The goodbyes... excruciating.

It's very strange to live with my heart in two different countries.  I don't think I'll ever get used to it.  Not sure I want to.  It seems an appropriate price to pay for such abounding love.

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Sadly - but not surprisingly - we just couldn't leave Mexico without creating a bit of drama.  Immediately after checking our bags at the airport, the Dickman realized he had forgotten to pack his 'lucky pocketknife'.  Shady character that he is, he slipped the small pocketknife into my gigantic hobo bag, thinking it would go undetected amongst the assorted crap in my purse.

We quickly discovered that any breakdown in Mexican security must be exclusive to the border, because airport security in Mexico is painfully efficient.  The Dickman's lucky pocketknife glowed like a lightsaber on the scanner and it only took a second for the attendant to fish it from the bottom of my bag and wave it in my face with a look of indignant indictment.  

In a flash of clairity, this became one of those defining moments in my relationship with the Dickman.  I have always felt my love for him to be immeasurable.  In that very moment, I saw that it could be exactly measured.  I do not love my husband exactly enough to risk Mexican prison for him.

I immediately pointed at him and yelled, "NO ES MÍA!  ES MI ESPOSO'S!!"

The screener gave me a disgusted look and left to speak to her 'jefe'. When she returned, she surprised me by handing back the pocketknife.  My sense of relief was short-lived because a few seconds later, another agent came and escorted me to a security station where she swabbed my purse and my hands.  

[Yes, you read that correctly:  I WAS SWABBED FOR BOMB RESIDUE IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY LIKE A COMMON HOBO-BAG CARRYING TERRORIST!]

Clearly, this was all the Dickman's fault.  (Who, by the way, was nowhere to be found.  Apparently his love for me is also measurable.)

For once, I was not to blame. Also, I watch enough world news to know what terrorists look like.  They're mostly young males who dress unobtrusively in black.  I did not fit the profile.  In fact, I'm pretty sure I was one of the least terroristy-looking people in the airport.  Picture me if you will... in a bright blue tunic with wildly patterned leggings and crazy hair sporting bedazzled flipflops and glitterly toenails.  There was not one stitch of black or cammo on my being.  What kind of profiling was going on here?  Crazy Menopausal Lady profiling?  [Watch for it, ladies, this could be a thing.]

I'm not gonna lie... there were a few tense moments.  Not only is it hard for me to keep from looking guilty whenever I am confronted by authority, but the entire time this was happening I was secretly making plans to befriend El Chapo and break out of prison.  And I was pretty sure they could read my mind.  

Hard as she tried, the agent could find no trace of explosives and was forced to release me. 

When I finally found the Dickman, he was spewing rainbows full of love and apologetic concern.  I wanted to stab him in the groin with his lucky pocketknife but decided to wait until my bedazzled feet were safely back on U.S. soil so I could plead my case in a Texas court of law where I was sure to get off on a Crazy Menopausal Lady Temporary Insanity technicality.   

In the meantime, not only did I ask him not to breathe on me or touch me for the rest of the trip, I also made him carry my backpack.

And walk way far away from me.  

All alone.  

Just him and his Vera Bradley...

  

HOPE SINGS...

It's been a rough week.

One Mama is running out of breath and the other doesn't know us anymore. The granddog sheds like crazy, which means I have to actually vacuum.  Dickman left a brand new bag of potato chips out on the counter and I ate them.  All of them.  I even turned the bag upside down to get every last crumb.  And now my front butt is back.

Don't even get me started on the presidential election; it's making nuts of us all because, well...

And then, the unspeakable happened.  Once again.

Evil struck in Orlando.  Stealing lives, stirring fear, sparking division.

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I was up late last night... thinking, praying.  It was well after midnight when I noticed a chirping noise coming from my porch.  As I listened, the bird sang louder and louder.  Not just a simple little 'tweet' but a full-blown opera.  The sound was so incongruous with the darkness that I smiled.  

This morning, I went outside and discovered this:

A nest full of baby birds nestled in (get this!) an artificial tree we had shoved in the corner of the porch.  

There are many real trees in our yard.  I have no idea why Mama Bird decided to build her nest in an old fake tree and then sing for all she's worth in the middle of the night.  But I'm awfully glad she did.

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Sometimes it's easy to sink into the darkness... to be pulled under by the sadness and pain that surrounds us.  But I've come to understand that even while my heart is breaking, even though my eyes are filled with tears, my soul can still find peace.

Because of the hope I have in Him.

I know that if I cling to that hope like a lifeline, strength will flow in place of weakness.  Faith will chase away fear and doubt.

And even in the darkness I will find my song, once more.

You know how I know this is true?

A little birdie told me so...

Steer My Heart, Oh Lord

Three friends of mine (including a family member) have recently undergone heart surgery. Their ages vary, but they all share the same diagnosis... a faulty valve.

It sucks when your valves get all faulty and leaky. But it would suck even worse if they couldn't be fixed.

I spent a few days last week sitting in a surgical waiting room waiting for my cousin to get his heart fixed. Then, after surgery, sitting in an ICU waiting room waiting to make sure he survived the repairs.

All the while I didn't even realize that my own heart could use a little fixin'...

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After leaving the hospital, I decided a bit of retail therapy was in order.  [Cause nothing  takes your mind off your problems like buying crap you don't really need.]

I stopped at Fredericksburg Trade Days,  a Texas-sized flea market. Just the ticket.

After several hours of sifting through barns and walking across acres of junk, I wasn't exactly fresh as a daisy. I was tired. I was crabby. I was sweaty.

I did not want to talk and I did not want to smile.

And then I saw him.

The elderly man was wearing an Air Force cap and sitting behind a table stacked with books. I tried to walk on by, but he saw me and smiled. He had one of those smiles that went all the way up to his crinkley eyes...

Dang it.

Still, I gave him a polite little nod and kept going.

But I didn't get very far before God stopped me.  Smack dab in my tracks. 

GOD: What are you doing, you moron? You just walked past a veteran selling his book.

ME: Listen, God... I'm tired. It's hot. My underboobs are sweating. You know I'm not much of a history buff. Besides, I need to hurry and make an offer on those steer horns before they're sold.

GOD: Are you kidding me??? You're worried about buying a pair of dead horns when you need to be honoring a hero? Who are you? It's like I don't even know you!

ME: Okay, okay. It won't hurt me to go back there and thank him for his service.

GOD: Oh, you're gonna thank him alright, Skippy. And you're not leaving without buying one of those books!

The tired old veteran was alone at the table when I went back. He looked up at me questioningly and I said, “Er, hello.  I just wanted to come back and... I think I'm gonna have to get one of your books, because... uh, I know someone. Someone who would love to have this book.”

He smiled that sweet smile and said, “Great! I'd be happy to autograph it for you! Whose name shall I address?”

I said, “Uh, well... I'm not sure. I mean, there are a couple of people who would love this, so, ummm...”

“I'll just sign it with 'Best Wishes'. That way you can give it to whomever you choose.”

As he was busy signing, I glanced at his poster, looking for the price of the book.

I saw that the book was $25. Reading further, I learned that this bespectacled grandfatherly man was a WWII machine gunner who had been captured by the Germans and had escaped four times, recaptured three.

“You escaped capture THREE times before you were free?!” I asked in awe.

“Yep. I wasn't very good at it.”

He handed me my book, I handed him twenty-five dollars. I held onto his hand and I looked into his eyes, my own filling with tears.  I said, “Thank you, sir. Thank you for your service. Thank you for your courage. Thank you for telling your story. It's important for heroes to tell their stories – there aren't many of you left and we must never forget.”

As soon as I got home I started reading his book.  I didn't stop until I was finished.

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My hero's name is Harvey E. Gann. He is 96 years old. He was shot down over Italy and became a prisoner of war at the age of 24. “Escape I Must!” is the story of his unbreakable spirit and strength in adversity.  

A life-changing story of faith and fortitude.

To think that I could have walked right past the author of such an inspiring tale...

Thank God, He didn't let me.

God knows our hearts. He knows when we're being selfish, picking and choosing who we'll care about.

He knows when our valves need fixin'...

And right in the middle of a dusty old barn, I had heart surgery. God gave me a much needed tweaking. He reminded me that my heart was made to care.  Not just about people I love, but also the ones I don't even know.

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After meeting Mr. Gann, I felt oh-so-humbled.  

But not humbled enough to forget about the longhorns. 

I made my way to the back of the flea market. I walked up to the vendor and said, “Those horns... what's your best price?” We agreed on a price and I reached in my purse to count my cash. 

Shoot! I was $25 short. 

Was this a sign from God? 

Did He not understand how much I needed a 6 ft. pair of mounted horns?

I looked up at the vendor, opened my mouth to give him the bad news... and out of the corner of my eye I spotted an ATM.

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I'd like to introduce y'all to Longhorn Harvey...  

"A Diós"

Aaaaannnnd... they're off!

The past two months flew by much too quickly, crammed chock-full of laughter and tears and memories to last, well... at least until Sunday.

And when it finally came time for them to leave, somehow I let them go without  saying “goodbye”.

I mean, I told them.  In a million little ways, I told them. 

The long goodbye came in waves...

of early morning visits with the deer...

 and skipping down the lane at sunset.

Waves of goodbye parties... 

overflowing with heartfelt prayers and songs of blessings.

Playdates with cousins...

and cookouts..

and nature hikes.

Tractor rides...

and Spa Days.

Blowing out candles..

and one last handshake with Gran-MiMi.

All without ever saying "Goodbye".

Those little faces... they are my favorite hellos.   It only makes sense they would be my hardest goodbyes.

So, go ahead...  call me a wuss; label me a wimp.  But I swear, every time I tried to tell them 'bye', my eyes got all leaky and my tongue grew thick and clumsy and my voice went up three octaves.

Because there is  no easy way to say goodbye to the ones who take up so much space in your heart.  

Winnie the Pooh said it best...

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Instead, I'll just say 'ADIOS'.

  

Adios doesn't mean goodbye.  

Literally translated, it means "to God".  

And that's right where they're headed.

RADICAL FAITH

There have been times in my life where every breath was an act of faith. Dark times, when I feared what the next phone call would bring. Sad times, when I had to say goodbye to souls who anchored my life.

  

But God was always there.

Even when I didn't want what He wanted, still He was with me... holding my hand, shaking His head at my pitiful faith, laughing at the notion that it's all about me.

I adore Him, this God of mine. Even when He's annoying and starts poking his heavenly nose into my worldly business... slamming doors that I've tried to pry open, taking me out of my comfort zone.  Even then, I love Him so.

And Jesus loves me, too.  This I know.  He loves me. Abundantly.

Everything I know about love, God has taught me... through my family, my parents, my brothers, my sons, my friends, my patients, even through the homeless guy begging for money outside the post office.

But I've learned the best love lessons of all have come from my grandbabies.

There is nothing like Grandbaby Love.  Grandbaby Love is love on crack.

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I was in the middle of the Caribbean when I got a text from my oldest son, telling me he had been accepted to missionary training school in Mexico.

It wasn't a huge surprise... he's been heading in this direction for years. He was so excited to share the news that I couldn't help but be happy for him.

Caught up in the excitement, it took me a moment to realize my Grandbabies would be moving to Mexico with him!  Oh, Noooooooo!!!

I'm not gonna lie, I ugly cried.  I couldn't stand to think about spending days and weeks without these precious lights of  joy and goodness running in and out of my home.

Still, I tried to be supportive:

I was feeling ALL the feels. Humbled by their courage. Proud of their faithfulness. Excited to imagine their future. Swamped by sadness at the thought of being so far away from my babies. The only thing I knew for sure was that all of our lives were about to change.

The other grandmother and I briefly considered hiring a crooked lawyer and suing for custody...

And then, I got a text from my brother. (I don't know about you guys, but God always speaks to me through my brothers. If you don't hear God speaking to you through your siblings, then you're not listening. He also speaks to me through my music boxes, but that's another story.) Kelly wanted to share a new song with me, as he often does. The song he shared was Trust In You by Lauren Daigle. This is the verse that got me good:

Truth is, You know what tomorrow brings,

There’s not a day ahead You have not seen.

So, in all things be my life and breath,

I want what You want Lord and nothing less.

I want what you want, Lord.

Boom.

Straight to the heart.

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It was pretty clear that God wanted my son and his family in Mexico.

I knew the call from God hadn't happened overnight. I knew He had been preparing my son and his wife for years.

Thinking back, I believe Lucas began to feel God's call while attending grad school. Though I doubt he fully understood it or could attempt to explain it, neither could he deny it.

Ten years ago, just to pass the time during a 45-minute commute to school, he taught himself to speak Spanish fluently.

Soon after graduating, Lucas opened an optometry clinic in a primarily Hispanic neighborhood so that he would be able to utilize his Spanish-speaking skills.

The name he chose for his clinic...?

OJO... Spanish for 'eye'.

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I also thought of all the years his angel wife, Cassie, has devoted to teaching and ministering to inner city children... the pre-dawn trips to deliver babies during her midwifery training.

As a team, my son and his wife have skill sets that would rival MacGyver and Wonder Woman.  Undoubtedly, God will use them in wonderful and marvelous ways. They are extraordinarily equipped for this journey.

But dang it, why did they have to take my babies away???

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Last week while in prayer and meditation, a memory popped in my head.  It was of a conversation between my grandson Matthew and I when he was about three years old. I had asked him if he knew what he wanted to be when he grew up.  His answer astounded me...

"I'm gonna go all over the world and collect all the little kids who don't have a mommy or a daddy and I'm gonna build 'em an orphanage and take care of them."

Boom. Once again. 

Finally, I got it. This is not about me. It has never been about me. Except for the understanding that my greatest contribution to God's kingdom may not be something I DID, but rather someone I raised. Or perhaps even... someone THEY are raising.

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I'm not gonna lie. It's been difficult to watch them sell or give away almost everything they own. Literally. Just like Jesus tells us to do in the Bible. In red letters.

I understand having a desire to change the world, wanting to make it a better place. I can only conclude that there are 'degrees' of World Changers. Clearly, I am not as high on the World Changer Scale as is my son and his wife. In fact, I would say that on a scale of 'Kim Kardashian' to 'Mother Teresa', I'm somewhere in the 'Evita' range. You remember Evita... she was a good woman who really loved her shoes.  Not unlike myself.  We're all called in different ways.  So, don't cry for me Argentina---God isn't making me empty out my closet. Not yet, anyway..

I finally decided that the decisions being made by my son and his wife were not so much an enormous life-changing gamble...

...but the most radical act of faith I have ever witnessed..

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The Dickman and I didn't raise our son to be a missionary. We raised him to be obedient to God.

Extraordinary moves of God begin with ordinary acts of obedience.

And isn't it ironical that my God is using my son---the eye doctor---to teach me the true meaning of walking by faith, not by sight... teaching me to want what God wants.

Radical Faith. Indeed.