The "U" in Jesus

I worked with a new stroke patient today.  A strong, independent man who can walk,  hug his wife,  and pet his puppies... but to his complete frustration, cannot figure out how to talk again.  He comprehends language, but is unable to express himself in speech or writing.  The only word he can say appropriately is "Yep."  And he says it.  Often.

 

I gave him a test.  I told him he would be graded at the end of the test and if he scored 100%, we would sing a song together. 

His test was to fill in the following blanks:

 

1) _____________ had a little lamb.

2) _____________ and Jill went up the hill.

3) _____________ loves me, this I know.

He managed to scribble 'M' on the first blank, gave up in total frustration on the second one, and started smiling happily when he got to the third.  He looked up at me, tapped his pencil on the third blank and kept saying, "Yep. Yep, Yep, Yep."  I started humming the song and he began writing:

J...

E...

S...

 

Obviously stuck,  he stopped writing. 

"You're doing good!"  I said, urging him on.  "You can do this!  You know the next letter... it's the most important letter in His name. YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU know the next letter." 

He ducked his head and started writing again: 

U...

S... 

He looked up at me with a big ol' grin.

"Ta-Da!"  I squealed.  "YOUUUUUUUUUUU are a winner!" 

He pointed to the first two blanks, shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. 

"Pffffffft", I told him.  "Mary and her silly lambs? Jack and that goofy Jill?? They aren't even worth remembering.  You remembered the One that really matters."

He started smiling again and said, "Yep.  Yep, Yep, Yep."

As he walked me out to the car, we began singing  'Jesus Loves Me'.  Joyfully, loudly and completely  off-key. 

He and his sweet wife were still singing as I drove over the hill.   

YOU IS KIND... YOU IS IMPORTANT

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“To affirm a person is to see the good in them that they cannot see in themselves and to repeat it in spite of appearances to the contrary."

~ Brennan Manning ~ 

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I believe strongly in affirmations. They are the foundation of my upbringing.  Even before I knew such  a word existed, my family was affirming me through every stage of life with their abundant love.

And now that I am a MiMi, it is inherent in my duties to convince my grandchildren that they are freaking awesome.  My highest calling is to encourage the crap out of those little nuggets of goodness.  To convince them that God loves them beyond anything they could imagine.

Every chance I get, I pull one of them into my arms for a sweaty hug and whisper in their ear: “Do you know how much I love you? You are a such a gift.  You can do amazing things.”

So far, I think it's working. At least with my two-year old grandson, who seems convinced that his poop does not stink...

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I stood in the doorway as the tow-headed tornado ran towards me with arms outstretched, big blue eyes shooting sparks of excitement.

“I am wearing Big Boy Underwears, Mimi!!  Do you wanna see them?? And you know what else??  If I tee-tee in YOUR potty my Mommy will give me a STICKER!!”.

"Oh, Michael... I am SO proud of you! I can't wait for you to tee-tee in my potty! You can even poop in my potty!  Do you get TWO stickers for pooping??”

“Yeeesssss!! I get TWO stickers for pooping!!! But I don't need to poop anymore.” And he ran past me into the house.

“He's right,"  his Mom agreed.  "He definitely does not need to poop.  Just before we got in the car, he pooped in the driveway. In our driveway. In front of God and the neighbors.”

“Oooooh  I see.” I said, trying my very best not to bust out laughing.

In his favor, Michael did seem to be a bit remorseful.  He shrugged his little shoulders and said, "You don't get ANY stickers if you poop in the driveway, MiMi.”

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I will concede that potty training may be the one area in which stickers are more powerful than affirmations. 

 

But as a general rule, children soak up affirmations like a sponge.     And here is why: Children have no preconceived notions about themselves.  They are simply little humans... being.  Not only do they believe in superheroes, they ARE superheroes. 

 

My hope is that the positive thoughts I whisper to them will become embedded somewhere deep inside their soul. And someday, when the world swoops into their young lives threatening to crush their spirit and steal their joy, I pray those affirmations will become the armor they need to protect and reinforce their value and worth.

It saddens me to know that not every child is so lucky. Not every child is overvalued. 

Some children are born into battlefields and pummeled by shrapnel from broken adults.  They never hear words of love and affirmation and they grow up with a damaged self-esteem and their precious souls wounded.

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I stood outside in the wind, secretly hoping my hesitant knock would not be answered. The door opened slowly and a wrinkled face peeked through the crack.  The disabled woman looked me up and down, then maneuvered her wheelchair out of the way and waved me into her tiny home.

 

“Well. I guess we'll try this again...” I said with a fake smile. 

“Ha!  They made me promise to cooperate with you.” she replied, with no small amount of animosity.

 

My last visit to her home had ended in an unsuccessful attempt to evaluate her for physical therapy. Her needs were obvious. Her demeanor had been nothing short of rude.

“I don't need nobody coming here and messing with me. I'm just fine the way I am!” She had informed me, loudly.  “I haven't walked in years and I sure as heck ain't gonna start trying now.”

I politely acknowledged her right to refuse therapy and had quickly left without further ado. 
 

A few days later, I received a call informing me the patient's family had "convinced" her to participate in therapy.  I was, shall we say... vocal about my reluctance to see her again. “Why should we waste our time and resources on someone who has no desire to be helped? Besides, she's just mean. And her dog kept trying to sniff my crotch.”

In spite of my whining, the Powers That Be "convinced" me to give the grumpy old woman another chance. I had absolutely no expectations for a positive outcome. In fact, I was secretly looking forward to saying, "I told you so!" when she proved to be a pain in the butt.

So there I sat -- once again -- across a cluttered dining table from Little Miss Sunshine.  I silently gathered my self-righteous judgement around me like a cloak, while expending minimal effort to connect with her on a personal level.

And then...

She began to tell me Her Story... how she had gotten married in her teens and had given birth to 7 children in 10 years. “I got married to escape the cotton fields.” She explained. “And to escape my stepdaddy.”

“He was mean when he drank. One day he came home and took after me with a chain. He beat my legs into bloody pulps, then sent me out to the cotton fields for work. I had to have surgery on my legs and they just never healed back right. That's why I didn't want you messing with me. Every time someone messes with me, it hurts.”

I literally couldn't swallow. I ducked my head and pretended to focus on my paperwork, all the while blinking away tears before they spilled from my eyes. I suspected the very last thing she wanted from me was sympathy.

By the end of the evaluation, this wounded woman had unwittedly gained possession of my sappy, bleeding heart. As I got up to leave, she reached out to shake my hand. I held on tight and knelt down before her, surrounded by the tattered shreds of my righteousness and judgement that had fallen to the floor.

“It is my honor to  know you. I truly believe God brought us together for a purpose.  My purpose is to help you get stronger, without causing you any more pain. Your purpose was to inspire me to be braver and kinder than I ever thought I could be. I am so sorry for your suffering and abuse. But I want you to know this: You are a blessing. You bless me.”

Her face lit up with a snaggle-toothed smile that I will carry forever in my heart.

I cringe when I think of how close I came to missing a second chance with this remarkable person of courage.  What if I had missed the opportunity to offer healing words of love, to be humbled by her story? 

I pray my words provided just a bit of balm to the wounds that had been inflicted on her soul.  I pray I will never again hesitate outside the door while someone waits inside for my affirmation.

 

Folks, we are brought together for a purpose:  to build one other up.  

May we ever be bold and generous in our encouragement of  God's children... both the old and the young. 

May we be quick to remind those around us just how important and special they are.
 

That they are loved and valued.  Overvalued.

Even when they don't deserve a sticker.

Easter... A Beautiful Mess

Have you ever stopped to realize the inherent schizophrenia that surrounds the holiday weekend we call Easter?

 

Think about it: what originally began as a pagan fertility festival has morphed into a celebration of spring that slams smack into the death and resurrection of Jesus. The cross and crucifixion all tangled up with chocolate bunnies and painted eggs. Ham dinners baking to the tune of "Up From the Grave He Arose!”.

 

Easter has become a holy holiday that is not wholly holy. Egg-laying bunnies and cellophane grass juxtaposed with a crown of thorns and nail-scarred hands.

 

It's no wonder people get bent out of shape trying to make sense of it all. Those of us who enjoy our pretty pastel frocks and our calorie-laden Easter baskets are frowned upon by those who shun the commercialism of what is arguably the most religious of all religious holidays.

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I have nothing but wonderful memories of Easter as a child. I particularly remember the Easter Mom bought me my first 'big girl' dress. It was a pretty plaid dress with a full skirt and a fluffy petticoat that crinkled when I sat down and a tiny bells that jingled when I bounced. [Because nothing says 'Christ is Risen' like a jingling petticoat.] I remember how proudly I wore my white patent-leather shoes, even though they were hard to buckle and pinched my toes. I felt new and oh-so-shiny.

 

As the Mama of two boys, I  missed out on the fun of playing Easter Dress-Up with a daughter.  Still, I spared no preciousness in dressing my boys in matching outfits, while they were still too young and clueless to protest.

 

[To be honest, I live in fear that they will retaliate by dressing me in ugly polka dot moo-moos in the nursing home, when I am too old and clueless to protest.]

 

But now... now I have The Grand-Girl. The One Who Loves To Go Shopping.

 

This six-going-on-thirty-year-old describes her style as “not fancy like you, MiMi, but sporty... kinda like my Mama but more girly and not as matchy as my Nana.”

 

We went shopping for her Easter dress yesterday.

 

Four stores and several dollars later, I had managed to talk her into the cutest little spring blouse and matching skirt—but only if I agreed to buy the matching bike shorts, which I strongly suspected she would favor over the skirt.

 

And then she saw the shoes. Beautiful, glittery, shiny purple sandals.

“Oh MiMi... look at these shoes! They are EXACTLY the same color as the flowers on my shirt!  I really, really want them... I NEED them!!!

 

Did she? Did this six year old fashionista really need a pair of purple sandals?

 

Hardly.

 

Nor had she done anything to deserve them.  No more or than I had done anything to deserve my jingling petticoat or pretty patent leathers.

But then... do any of us really deserve Easter?

Absolutely not.

 

And therein lies the source of the schizophrenia.

You see, while Christmas is all about being jolly and singing carols and giving gifts, Easter has an ugly side. There is nothing pretty about a crucifixion. A man on a cross, humiliated and condemned, beaten and bloody.

 

It is hard to think about that innocent man hanging limply on the cross. Difficult to feel worthy of such a Gift of Love. While we crave the salvation He offers, we cringe at the sacrifice He made.

My heart breaks with every remembrance of the shredded flesh, the suffering sighs. The cross is so painful that I am in a hurry to rush through the torture and fast-forward to the resurrection.

 

I am swamped by the cross, undeserving of the Gift of Grace. And I thank God the story did not end on Golgotha.

Because, as much as I need a Savior who would die for a silly little girl in a crinkly petticoat... I need the resurrection more. I need to believe in an empty tomb and a risen Savior. I need the hope of a second chance. I need the glorious promise of Easter.

The plastic eggs and shiny shoes do not distract me from the message. To those who criticize the secularized aspects of this holy holiday, I would offer that your energy is wasted in judgement.

Easter is not about who worships Jesus the best. It is about remembering God's promise of hope and celebrating  joy that comes in the morning.

There is a song by Amy Grant that I love... “Better than a Hallelujah”. My favorite verses are:

 

We pour out our miseries

 

God just hears a melody.

 

Beautiful the mess we are

 

The honest cries of breaking hearts.

 

Better than a hallelujah, sometimes.

 

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This year, I will celebrate Easter in every high and holy way, as well as with all the Cadbury Eggs that Weight Watchers will allow.

I will celebrate the melody that God makes of my miseries.

I will celebrate the blessed hope of the resurrection.

This Easter and every other day of my life, I will celebrate Jesus who lives in me and in the heart of my favorite little girl with the new purple sandals.

The Psalm of Homeostasis

Just as flowers turn their faces to the sunshine, I believe that our senses are sharpened to those things our souls long to seek.

 

Musicians seek harmony. Religionists seek righteousness. Spiritualists seek enlightenment. 

 

My sons are musicians, from their toes to their souls. As with all God-given gifts, their musicality was manifested early in life. In utero, in fact, for Lucas;  he used to hiccup in rhythm to the radio. And Jacob...I remember taking him to the doctor when he was in grade school. As we sat quietly in the waiting room, he began humming in perfect unison to the almost indiscernible sound of the central air unit. He looked over at me, smiled and said “Key of E”.

As a young boy, my husband's grieving soul was in desperate need of an anchor. After burying his father, he found himself adrift and alone, trying to come to terms with his grief, afraid to close his eyes and sleep. One night, in exhausted desperation, he begged God to give him a sign that his Dad was okay.  Dickie's grief turned to amazement as the lamp on his nightstand flickered off and on. Coincidence?  Nah. Power surge? Absolutely...from the very source of all power. On that loneliest of  nights, in the flickering light, a soul to soul connection was made. A young boy learned to trust Jesus--literally and lastingly--and became a man whose life is focused on strengthening that sustaining connection. 

Me? I can't remember a time when my imagination was not filled with the wonder of Glory. I've always felt as strongly connected to the spiritual world as I do to Terra firma. In fact, my  worldly tethers  are so tenuous that I often find my head perched precariously in the clouds...a lofty position that might not be appealing to everybody, but one that works very well for me.

In all kinds of strangely wonderful, divine and substantial ways, my soul always finds what it is seeking.

Words. They come to me out of the blue.  Sometimes as half-formed concepts or phrases, sometimes as a single unit of thought. It usually happens to me right before I wake up.  Seemingly random thoughts bump about the edges of my consciousness like brightly colored balloons skipping across the Panhandle sky. Other times, they come to me when I'm alone in the car.  Not like, just sitting by myself, parked in the garage--though that would be more convenient.  [Why is  it that the best ideas or the most profound thoughts only come when you are busy doing other things...like trying to sleep, or singing a symphony in the shower, or attempting to steer through wind gusts of 60 mph?]

I have occasionally tried to ignore them. But inevitably, there are one or two that refuse to float away, demanding that I grab hold and pay attention. These are the thoughts and/or words that make their way onto yellow sticky notes or the back of a grocery receipt. Nebulous thoughts hastily jotted down and shuffled around until sense can be made, understanding can be found.

So...you think I'm crazy? You may be right.

 

 

But before those nice young men in their clean white coats come to take me away, consider this:  it just may be a lunatic you're looking for.  

 

Wacky though it may seem, experience has taught me to pay attention. To give weight to these subconscious utterings. To patiently seek understanding. To connect the dots and determine just what life is trying to teach me. And by 'life', I mean God.

The word of the week?  HOMEOSTASIS

 

[ho·me·o·sta·sis (h m - -st s s). n. 

 

1. The maintenance of metabolic equilibrium within an animal by a tendency to compensate for disrupting changes. 

2.  The maintenance of equilibrium within a social group, person, etc.]

 

Along with being an airhead, I also happen to be a bit of a science nerd. [Bipolar, I know.]  I have studied homeostasis and have an in-depth understanding of the word in a biological sense. When a body (organism) is in homeostasis, all systems and functions are in balance. Temperature is 98.6, blood pressure is normal, toes are polished, etc.

“So...” (I asked myself), “What does this mean on a spiritual level? Where do I need to attain homeostasis within my life?”

For the past few years, I have been on a quest for peace. Just like that sunshine-seeking flower, my soul seeks peace. I believe the most profound way I can demonstrate faith and honor God is to not merely accept His perfect gift of peace, but to believe in it. To live it. To close my eyes at night, wake up to a rumpled reflection in the morning mirror and know that---indeed---it is well with my soul.

Peace...it is a formidable soul goal.

Yet, even in a world that delights in bombarding us with negativity and strife, a world where friends are hurting, loved ones are dying, fools are plentiful and judgment is swift, God not only offers me peace...He leads me to it.

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I anticipated waking up all crabby this morning, deprived of an hour of sleep from the 'spring forward' time change. Instead I woke up feeling...peaceful.

 

Just after awakening, I remembered dreaming of a small girl's hands resting inside the aged, wrinkled hands of her Grandmother's. It was an image I had seen recently on Facebook...a beautiful photograph that had tugged at my heartstrings and found its way into my dreams.

 

 

As I sat my cup of hot tea on the table, a bit of it sloshed onto my yellow sticky note--the note on which I had scrawled 'Homeostasis' a few days ago... 

 

And just like that, the dots were connected. His meaning became clear.

The years rolled away and I remembered holding hands with my sweet grandmother Flodie, repeating the prayer she had taught me as a little girl.  The favorite prayer of a faithful Flodie which epitomizes the Gift of Peace...

 

 

The Lord is my shepherd,

I shall not want;

He makes me lie down in green pastures,

He leads me beside still waters;

He restores my soul.

He leads me in paths of righteousness

for His name's sake.

Even though I walk through the valley

of the shadow of death,

I fear no evil;

for You are with me.

Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me

all the days of my life;

and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord.

Forever.

Psalms 23
 

Homeostasis restored. 

LOST IN TRANSLATION

DISCLAIMER: This story contains incorrectly named male and female body parts and a trip to the gynecologist. 

 

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I am a trained health care professional. Okay, I'm a physical therapist...but hey, it counts.

It is safe to say that I have seen all kinds of internal and external body parts in various stages of distress and/or disease, previously unimaginable to me. Throughout all my wound care training, I never fully appreciated just where the treatment of say...a pilonidal abscess...might take me. (Yeah, Google that one. Enlarge the photo.)

Suffice it to say, after all my latex-gloved hands and I have been through, it takes a lot to shock or embarrass me.

Yet, when it comes to talking about genitalia and whatnot, I have somehow managed to hang on to all the unsophisticated silliness of an eleven-year old schoolgirl.

Oh, I can put on a good show and fake the correct use of medical terminology like a pro. But the twinkle in my eye, or perhaps my ginormous grin, always gives me away.

 

I blame this lack of maturity and professionalism on the shoddy level of sex education I received from my equally unsophisticated parents and the Borger Independent School system.

How many of you remember those awful 'coming of age' movies we were forced to see in 5^th grade health classes? Remember how embarrassing they were, and how we avoided eye contact with each other the entire day of The Movie? Boys weren't allowed to see ours and vice versa. In fact, the classroom windows were covered with construction paper to deter peeping Toms or Tombelinas.

After I became the mother of  sons, I continued to shun correct anatomical nomenclature. As far as they knew, my baby boys did not have penises. They had 'ding-dongs', 'tallywackers' and 'wickerbills'. These cutely benign names for their cutely benign privates worked very well for us, until the day I came in with an armload of baskets. “What are those?” my youngest male-child asked. “They are 'wicker' baskets, for my collection.” I replied. He shrieked, ran straight into the bathroom and locked the door. He refused to come out until Dickie came home, then he ran straight into his father's arms and held on for dear life. “Mom has WICKER baskets, Dad! She bought a whole bunch of 'em!! She's gonna collect our WICKERbills!!!”.

You might think I would have made an effort to improve my parenting skills after that unfortunate incident. More importantly, you might think my son would have learned to never trust me with any pertinent information regarding his junk.

But, no.

A few years later, it was his turn to be a 5^th grader and watch the awful health class video. As fate would have it, his Dad (who is even less mature than moi) was out of town on the day Jacob learned about puberty and maturation. I, however, was more than ready to stand in the gap. Just as that sweet boy came home from school, I rolled up my sleeves and got ready for The Talk.

ME: (nonchalantly) “So...did you learn anything good from The Video?” 

JACOB:  “Sorta. I'm gonna need deodorant, Mom.  I'm gonna get armpit hair.  It's gonna stink."

 

ME: “Gotcha.  Anything else? Any questions about your, uh...privates?”

 

JACOB: (with a nervous giggle) “Nah. Except...I didn't know it could, like...do different things.”

ME:  “Oh heck yeah. Guys have the fun body part. Kinda like a Swiss Army Knife: It's a knife, but it also has scissors and a toothpick and tools...multiple uses.”

 

This explanation seemed to make Jacob very happy. His Dad...? Not so much.

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I had to go in for my yearly gynecological checkup a few days ago. My gyno—although a lovely man—is my Second Least Favorite Person in the world to visit. My Number One Least Favorite Person to see is my dentist.  Ironical, as you soon will see.

It is important to keep in mind that after a woman's ovaries are on their last legs, any trip to the gyno is paved with humiliation. Beginning with the weigh-in.

 

I am pathetic.  Even before I start shucking clothes, the excuses began:

“I just got back from a cruise...might've packed on a few.”

“...but I have been working out, and my muscle weighs A LOT.”

“I have about 4 layers of polish on my nails, besides all that dead skin on my heels. Add all that together and I'm sure you can subtract at least a couple of pounds.”

After the number on those #^#% scales sent me to the depths of depression, I was given a Very Small, Very Thin, Very Short, Very Ugly gown with instructions to take off all my clothes and sit on a paper-covered examining table. Always a rebel, I refused to get completely naked. I kept my socks on.

 

[As all my sistas know, picking out clean, unholy, stirrup-appropriate socks is a very important part of pre-gyno-appointment preparation.]

There I was. My wiggly butt making crackly noises on the paper sheet, my ugly gown clasped tightly together, the last shreds of my dignity--my purple socks--covering my tightly crossed feet.

The door opened and in came the doctor, followed by his brightly smiling assistant. (Seriously, what does she have to smile about?)

They pulled out the stirrups and pushed me back on the uncomfortable table. As he prepared to get all up in my business, I heard the obnoxious voice of Joan Rivers ringing in my ear...“Dr. Gyno, at your cervix.”

“Any problems since last time?” He asked politely.

“Not really. Except...you know that little bumpy thing? It sometimes gets sore after we have wild monkey sex.” (Okay, to the best of my recollection, I didn't really say the 'wild monkey' part.)

“What 'bumpy thing' do you mean?” he asked patiently.

“You know...my uvula.” I answered.  Professional to Professional. 

 

All of a sudden, everything got reeeeeal quiet. Dr. Gyno looked at his nurse, his nurse looked back at him, then they both looked at me.

“What?” I asked, confused. “Is something wrong?”

“Er...I think you were referring to your urethra.” He said, without even cracking a grin.

 

“Oh. Ha. Haha. Yes, my urethra. Ha. A sore uvula would be a whole different issue, huh? Haha.” I said, in complete and total mortification.

 

Seriously, it is SO much easier to explain a wickerbill...
 

SINK, SWIM...OR FLOAT

I recently returned from a trip to the Caribbean and I gotta tell you, there are few things in life I appreciate more than floating aimlessly in the ocean like a piece of human flotsam.

 

I've always loved being in and around water. Some of my earliest and best childhood memories are those of spending long summer days at the swimming pool, staying in the water until about five minutes before Mom came to pick me up---just long enough for the hot concrete to quick-dry my soaking swimsuit to an acceptable level of dampness for the ride home. 

 

As a teenager, most of my summer Saturdays were spent water skiing at Lake Meredith with my friend Jeannie and her Dad. I look back at those halcyon days with nothing but smiles. Okay...except for that one very awkward day when my friend's dad was pulling me back into the ski boat, and my boob popped right out of my swimsuit and into his face. We both eventually got past the embarrassment. In fact, he's called me 'Sunshine' ever since.

Oddly enough, while I grew up bobbing in the water like a cork, the Dickman spent his formative years avoiding water with as much fervor as the Wicked Witch of the West. (What a world, what a world!)

 

  

While I cannot remember being unable to swim, Dickie never had much of a chance to learn, as a child. His Mom was (and is) deathly afraid of water and fearfully convinced her youngest son that swimming pool chlorine would trigger his asthma. Whether true or imagined, by the time Dickie grew old enough to go swimming on his own, her fear had become his. Teaching Dickie to swim became the goal of all his high school buddies. After purchasing several cans of liquid courage from the Jolly Pig one night, some of Dickie's friends convinced him to sneak into Huber Country Club for an impromptu swimming lesson. With every attempt, he sunk like a rock to the bottom of the pool.  Miraculously, they all managed to come up for air just in time to notice the flicker of headlights from an oncoming police car. Thankfully, the Dickman's legs and lungs were much more efficient on land.

 

Many years passed before Dickie found enough motivation to overcome his fear of water and his inability to float. The motivation came in the tiny form of his five year-old son, Lucas, who couldn't wait to go fishing with his Daddy. Which is precisely how---at 30 years of age---the studly Dickman found himself lined up along the edge of the Johnson Park Swimming Pool with an assortment of five and six year olds, ready to begin Mrs. McDaniel's Guppy Swim Class. As I sat in the bleachers (with the other Moms) and watched him dive nervously off the high dive and swim underwater like a madman to the other side of the pool, I was filled with respect for my husband.  Though he never mastered the fine art of floating, we celebrated the Dickman's damaged dignity and Guppy gumption with a shiny pair of water wings and a delicious fish-shaped cake.

 

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So there we were, 27 years later...lounging like lizards on a beach in the Bahamas, gazing peacefully out into the gorgeous turquoise waters of the Caribbean. A salty breeze lifted off the ocean, the waves splashed gently against the rocks. Enveloped in a cocoon of tranquility, nothing could disturb our peace. Right up until I uttered those five dreaded words:

 

“You ready to get in?”

 

Dickie's eyelids slammed shut and he started snoring. Loudly.

 

Not to be deterred, I punched him in the arm and repeated, “Come on...let's go play in the ocean.”

 

He reluctantly opened one eyeball and said, “Nah...you go ahead. I think I'm just gonna lay here and rest.”

“Look, we're here. We HAVE to go in. Bad things happen to people who travel thousands of miles to visit the ocean and don't appreciate it for all it's worth.”

Unconvinced, the Dickman replied, “Oh, I'm appreciating it just fine from right here. I do not feel the need to appreciate it up close and personal.  And wet.”

It was time to bring out the Big Guns: “Well. I'm not going in unless you do. And I really don't think you want to ruin my trip. Do you...?”

 

In we went. One of us in eager anticipation, the other in utter dread.

 

You see, it's all about perspective...

 

Before my bunions even get wet, I anticipate nothing will feel so good as being up to my ears in ocean. It doesn't bother me that the water is chilly, that there are sharp rocks to avoid along the bottom or gritty sand beneath my toenails. It never even crosses my mind to scan the water for sharks or jellyfish. I step into that ocean believing in my heart that my soul is about to be blessed, and I am never disappointed.

 

Dickie, on the other hand, is holding onto me for dear life...gasping in shock from the cold, cold water, yee-ouching! and pussyfooting over the rocks. His attention is sharply divided between watching out for predators and avoiding the abyss...that dreaded moment when the bottom of the ocean simply drops out from underneath him. Afterwards, he's usually glad I bullied him into going, but even more happy to return to dry land.

 

Same body of water shared by two different people with two vastly different experiences.   And this is why:

"We do not see things as they are, we see things as we are."

 

When I step into the ocean, I bring along with me my entire collection of  wonderful memories and delightful water-filled experiences, expecting more of the same. Similarly,  Dickie brings his preconceived ideas and perceptions with him.  Thus, the moment becomes two entirely different experiences.   I'm relaxed and awed. Dickie is stressed and wary.

 

For both of us, our perception has become our reality.  I perceive swimming in in the ocean to be a positive experience, and it always is. Dickie is 'pre-programmed' to believe that the treachery and danger of water outweighs the good, and it often does.  

 

Isn't that just a metaphor for life? Perception becomes reality:  we usually receive what we believe.  

  

It's a simple concept, really; a self-fulfilling prophecy.

The Good News is that you are the author of your own life story.  And it's up to you to make it a Best Seller. 

Because I refuse to leave him behind, and because he has a hard time telling me 'no', together we are managing to change Dickie's perception.  He is rewriting his reality.  Through the years, our collection of memories--complete with  pictures of splashing, even snorkeling in the ocean-- continues to grow. 

Will he ever be completely comfortable in the water?  Probably not.  Has he mastered the fine art of floating?  Absolutely...with a little help from me, standing behind, holding on. 

That's how it works, folks.  Believe it, receive it.  Even if the bottom falls out beneath you...just lay back, take a deep breath, and believe that you will float.

 

 

 

Of Mustard Seeds & Hand Baskets

On my 8^th birthday, my oh-so-precious grandmother Flodie gave me a gold bracelet with a little charm exactly like the one above:  a mustard seed encased in a little glass bubble.

I squealed as I opened the gift, clueless as to what the charm represented. Flodie gathered me to her side, picked up her Bible and read to me the story of faith and the mustard seed. I was amazed by this exquisite gift, filled with childish wonder at the potential of the tiny seed inside the bubble. I wore the bracelet everywhere, anxiously seeking out unwitting souls who would listen to the story of my Magical Mustard Seed. I was the envy of every third grader at Goldsmith Elementary.

To me, that wondrous charm was nothing less than an amulet of superpower just waiting to be released. For many years my desire to break the glass bubble and remove the tiny seed fought mightily against my will to keep the pretty bracelet intact. I often dreamed about planting that mustard seed in my back yard and watching it grow into a majestic Mustard Tree of Faith.  The only detail I had not worked out was how I might collect my boundless bounty of faith from the tree.  What exactly did faith fruit look like?  I was sure it smelled like mustard.

 

As irony would have it, I never succumbed to the temptation of planting that mustard seed.  Truth is, I didn't have enough faith that the seed was magical enough to break through the harsh, dry soil of my West Texas backyard.

 

As I grew older and somewhat wiser, I came to a deeper understanding and appreciation of the parable my Flodie had read from her well-worn Bible. Jesus used the example of the tiny mustard seed to teach his disciples - to teach us all -  that it is not the quantity of faith that matters.  When it comes to faith, all it takes is all you've got.

It is humbling to realize that we come into the world with all the God-given faith we'll ever need.  Just imagine...a tiny mustard seed-sized faith planted somewhere in the whirling, twirling matrix of our infantile DNA, just waiting to grow into an majestic Mustard Tree of Faith.

On matters of faith, I take Jesus at his Word.  I never pray for a stronger faith. Nope. No way. I have learned, what doesn't kill you may make you stronger, but it makes you stranger.  And just between us?  I'm just about as strong - and strange - as I care to be. 

 

Life doesn't test us, it tests our faith.  It takes trials and tribulations to grow a big, strong Mustard Tree. 

 

My Mustard Tree is mighty.  My faith is simple.  Even in days of darkness, I believe with all the childlike faith of a charmed 8-year old that everything is gonna be okay in the end.

 

Yet, I know from experience that until the end is here, there will be days - even years - of devastating suffering and pain scattered among my undeserved bounty of blessings.  My faith doesn't spare me from pain. Instead, it carries me through the pain and makes life bearable until peace and joy can be restored.  It is unseen, though never passive.

As you can see, I'm a big fan of faith. 

 

Shouldn't everybody be?  I just don't get it.  I know people - religious people - who sing about faith and talk about faith, but when the rubber meets the road or when the government teeters on the cliff, they just don't seem to have any faith in their faith. 

 

CASE IN POINT: If I had a devalued dollar for every time I've heard somebody whine “This Country Is Going To Hell in A Hand Basket”, I'm sure I could make a significant dent in the deficit.

Now don't get me wrong, the whiners may well  be correct.  There is always the possiblity that America is on her way to hell in a hand basket.  But in the big scheme of things - like eternity - it's only a problem if YOU are in the hand basket...right?

 

Instead of wasting precious time predicting doom and pointing blame, I wish these fine, fearful folks would direct their energy into nurturing that little seed of God-given faith within themselves. I promise it is there, complete with the potential to move mountains of doubt and negativity.

 

O ye, of little faith...please stop and smell the mustard.