DISTRACTIBLE ME

“Procrastination is my sin.

It brings me naught but sorrow. 

I know that I should stop it. 

In fact, I will---tomorrow."

~ Gloria Pitzer ~

I am married to a man who works twelve to fourteen hours a day. Mostly by choice. The Dickman has more energy than a nuclear reactor. He is the energized hare to my distracted tortoise.

In my defense, I spend at least as much energy in a single day of procrastination as he does in one manic work week. It all evens out.

Through the years, we have managed to develop a workable system of household operation that plays to our unique strengths and weaknesses.  

Since Dickie is able to get dressed with minimal effort, he is in charge of all the 'outside' stuff... chores that require going out amongst the citizens and wearing real clothes. He makes frequent trips to the grocery store to keep us supplied with necessities like toilet paper, milk and chewing tobacco. He brings in the mail and he takes out the trash. He hangs the Christmas lights in the winter and mows the lawn in the summer.  

I get to stay in my pajama pants and do the 'inside' stuff, such as... cooking twice a month and loading the dishwasher whenever dirty dishes overflow from the sink and begin to smell like pond water and / or I run out of sporks.  Whichever comes first.  I am responsible for all the deep housecleaning chores (which I totally forget about until that frantic two hours before guests arrive). I am also The Person In Charge of getting out of bed to investigate Things That Go Bump In The Night. He is in charge of spiders, crickets and rodents. 

Much to my dismay, he does his own laundry.  He does not believe in pre-treating and his sorting skills suck. To his credit, if the bed gets made, he's the one who made it. (I read somewhere---when I was supposed to be doing something else---that an unmade bed is actually a deterrent to bed bugs, as they prefer covered, warm sheets with neatly tucked corners.  It's basic science, Jack.)

I'm the one who takes care of all the birthdays / holidays / gifts / parties / cards / appointments and travel plans. But my biggest responsibility is taking care of all the finances, both home and business. I balance the checkbooks, pay the bills  and do the taxes. I'm not exactly sure how I ended up in charge of something so adult and important as taxes. Taxes require paperwork and paperwork requires organization and organization requires focus.  I don't want to shock anybody here, but the ability to remain focused for long periods of time does not happen to be one of my spiritual gifts.  For reals.  I am worse at focusing than the Dickman is at sorting laundry.

On the other hand, I am a Rock Star at procrastination. Absolute killer. And my gift for procrastination never shines brighter than during tax season.

I know there are many others out there with this gift. Millions of us.  And I think it is about time we gave ourselves a little recognition...  something pretty and shiny to acknowledge our creative achievement in tax procrastination.  I have seriously given this a great deal of thought (when I was supposed to be doing something else) and have even come up with the perfect trophy. What better way to honor a Master Procrastinator than with a Shiny Golden Squirrel to place upon our cluttered shelves?  Genius, is it not?!?

I don't wanna brag or anything, but I really feel that this year should be my year to win the Shiny Squirrel Trophy. Hands down.

I mean, it's not like I've been a slacker in previous years.  I have spent hours diverting my attention with a myriad of worthless distractions which kept me busy doing things that NEVER needed to be done so that I could avoid doing taxes that MUST be done; right up until the very last minute.

Are you picking up what I'm laying down here, folks?  It has taken me years to hone my procrastination skills. While there is always room for improvement, I am proud to say that over the years I have started (but not finished) three children's books and twenty-two blog stories. I have started (but not finished) six photo albums, dating back to 1984. I have started (but not finished) a diamond-quilted tablecloth. I have started (but not finished) Volume I of the Rosetta Stone Spanish CD's. I have started (but not finished) decluttering my cabinets and alphabetizing my spices.

And then there is the World Wide Web. Oy vey! In my hands, a computer is nothing less than a weapon of mass distraction. I can spend hours working on my Pinterest boards... get lost forever reviewing the origin and insertion of piriformis muscles... become thoroughly engrossed while researching the the sex life of the Praying Mantis (SPOILER ALERT: it involves cannibalism, y'all).

I have been distracted by all that and STILL I have managed to get my taxes completed.  At the last minute.  After filing an extension.

This year, instead of doing taxes, I decided to learn the Cup Song from the movie, Pitch Perfect... that catchy little earworm of a tune that has been covered by millions of tween girls on YouTube. 

This particular procrastination project took plenty of practice.  It is a true measure of my hatred for taxes that I actually managed to learn the silly song.  

So now, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to humbly present my submission for the 2013 Shiny Squirrel Award. I ask that you would please ignore the middle-aged tempo and intermittent pitchiness, while appreciating the hours of dedicated procrastination that went into the making of this video.  

Oh, and just so you know...  all taxes were completed and postmarked by midnight.  (At the last minute, of course.)

P. S.   I meant to publish this on October 15^th, but I got distracted...

ANDY WALKS WITH ME...

 

I've started walking, y'all. As in exercise. Two miles a day at Medipark.

It began as a desperate attempt to coax my butt back up to the tops of my thunder thighs. And also because I couldn't even think about going back to the gym until I lose ten pounds.

But then, a funny thing happened on the way to the park...

I started liking it.

 

Can you even believe it? Somewhere around the ¾ mile mark, I started feeling all zen-ish and clear-headed. AT ONE with the universe. Or at least AT ONE with the ducks at Medipark.

Could this be what meditation feels like?  Say whaaaaaat?!?

This may not seem like such a grand achievement to you non-ADHD types who already know how to BE STILL. But from my scatter-brained cohorts... I would like a minute of appreciative silence. (Okay, just gimme three seconds.)

You see, I've always sucked at meditation. I just never 'got' it. Lord knows, I tried. But my feeble attempts always managed to end up something like this:

I get all barefoot and cross legged and comfy on my pillow and close my eyes and start 'ohmmmmmm-ing' which makes my nose get all itchy and I rub it too hard and get snot on my hand so I have to get up to get a tissue and while I'm sitting back down I notice my toe polish is chipping but that's okay I need to meditate so I close my eyes and  start 'ohmmmmmm-ing' again but then a renegade eye pops open and I start picking at the chipped toenail polish which starts to remind me of that fresh box of chocolate chip cookies the Dickman brought home from the store and all of a sudden I'm afraid I just might die if I can't have one, and...

Meditation. Fail.

++++++++++++

Yet here I am, finally getting my MEDItation on at MEDIpark.
  

There's just something about being outdoors---the 30 mph Panhandle breeze blowing through my hair, the smell of duck poop and stagnant water wafting up my nose---that clears away the cobwebs and takes me to a deep, quiet place.

And you know what else?  I have discovered that everything going on around me as I walk through the pretty little park is actually a metaphor for life. For example:

1. I've noticed that the other walkers I pass fall into one of two groups:  a) the serious ones who either look down or straight ahead to avoid eye contact -OR- b) the happy ones who can't wait to catch up and say, 'HI!!'. (This is a dilemma for me, as I relate more to the first group, but don't want to be labeled a 'rude walker'.) 
 
2. If I look down at my feet all the time, not only do I miss the pretty view, but sweat starts rolling down my chesticles. On the other hand... if I don't watch where I'm going, I can get tripped up by the bumps along the path or (even worse) end up doing a Scooby Dance in a pile of fresh doggy poo.

I find myself wondering about the people I pass along the way. If I see someone  sitting forlornly alone on a park bench, I tell myself he/she must be worried about a loved one in the hospital nearby. And I pray for God to comfort them, to be with their loved ones.  Just as I would have appreciated their prayers for my Daddy, when I sat forlornly on those same benches.

I imagine the nurses walking in their scrubs are on their lunch hour, taking a break from the stress of their job... wondering if they will ever find a balance between career and family.  I ask God to give them strength, and I hope they have someone to take care of them, as they care for everybody else. 

Then, there are the old peeps, they are my favorites, of course. I always feel the urge to break out in applause, to come up behind them and cheer them on.  But that would just be weird.  So, I throw them an encouraging smile... which unfailingly comes back to me.

Last week, I was nearing the end of my walk when I suddenly became aware of some Very Heavy Breathing (if you get my drift. Wink. Wink.) As I rounded the corner, I was fully expecting to find a couple of lovebirds making out on a blanket. Imagine my surprise when there was no one in sight and I realized the heavy breathing was coming from me.

++++++++++++

With all this stimulating activity going on around me, I bet you're wondering exactly when the meditation occurs.

It happens in the In-Between. In those quiet spaces after one thought stops and before another begins.

  

And it's awesome.

Because those In-Between moments? They have become my Jesus Moments.

Those are the moments that He comforts me.

He assures me.

He restores my faith...
 

 

...He walks with me and he talks with me. 

And He tells me I am His own.

 

 

A POEM FOR MANDIE LEE

 

A few weeks ago, I received the following email from my daughter-in-law regarding a homework assignment for my granddaughter:

Hello Dear Family! 
 

Mandie is making a book of poetry and she would like to include your favorite poems. If you have a poem that you like, or one that is funny (and clean . . . MiMi ) Then please send it back to me and we will put it in her anthology. 

Much love,

Cassie and Mandie

 

 

Easy-peasy, right??  Nope.  Not so much.  Imagine my frustration as I continued to reject poem after favorite poem.  I mean, the hard part wasn't finding a poem that was clean, the hard part was finding a favorite poem that I thought would be worthy of my Mandie Lee. 

  

She is not just any ol' second grader, you see.  This is my Best Girl... the one who shares my name and owns my heart.  The only one who truly appreciates my Funky Chicken dance moves and can talk me into painting purple flowers on my pink toenails.  We are practically Peas In A Pod.  Except that her pod is only seven and mine is, well... half a century older. 

  

I am a little nervous about the poem I selected for my sweet grandgirl.  I hope she will like it; but most of all, I hope she will grow to appreciate the love behind the words...

 

 

A POEM FOR MANDIE LEE

 

She's seven, and she loves to read,

Especially words that rhyme.

 

She asked me for my favorite poem

This sweet grandgirl of mine.

 

I tried to recall and choose from them all

The verses I loved best.

 

The poems and prayers and promises

That stood out from the rest.

 

I searched in vain for perfect words,

And finally realized,

 

My favorite poem was seven years old,

With pigtails and green eyes...

  

I think you are amazing,

 

L ook how wonderful you are.

O nly God could have created,

V ibrant, shining like the stars.

E very breath I take, I thank Him;

 

Y ou make my world brand new.

O ne smile is all I ever need,

U nless... you give me two.

 

M arvelously created,

A nd fearfully made, are you.

N othing on earth will ever defeat,

D ream big and your dreams will come true.

I want you to know I am with you,

E very step, every beat of your heart.

 

L ove will forever keep us together

E vermore...

E ven when we're apart.

 

~ MiMi ~

 

 

 

A PLACE FOR HIS MOM

“I am so nervous I don't even know what I'm doing... what am I supposed to pack? I'm coming back home, you know. I have to come back. I have a hair appointment next week and I have to come back.”

I chose my words carefully, struggling to reassure her without lying or upsetting her even more.

“After you get to feeling better, we will bring you back to see your friends. This will always be your home.”

This will always be your home.

Those were the words that seemed to calm her.

We were halfway through packing when Dickie arrived. He walked through the door while I was taking some of his mother's favorite pictures off the wall. His eyes lingered on a photo of his family dressed in matching vests... the Leader of the Band with his living legacies.

We briefly made eye contact, then he went to find her.

“Mom, I need you to sign this paper for the post office so they can forward your mail to us while you're away.”

“I'm not going to be gone very long, you know.” She informed her son. “I need to come back home. I can't miss my hair appointment. Pam is giving me a perm.”

“We've already talked about this, Mom. Everything will be okay, I promise. Just please, sign the paper for me.”

It took four tries and a great deal of patience for Dora to correctly sign her name. She couldn't see the signature line. She readjusted her glasses. Her hand was shaking. Dickie gently took her hand in his and set the pen down on the paper. With his guidance, she began to scrawl her signature right on the line.  But the moment he took his hand away, she lost direction and ended up writing sideways on the form.

Which was pretty much a metaphor for what we had been dealing with the past year. My mother-in-law's ability to manage her life was slowly losing direction, requiring the assistance of more and more helping hands to function correctly.  It was taking a village.  Literally.

If Dora had not lived in a small town where people still looked out for each other, this day would have undoubtedly come sooner. She had been enabled to stay in her home largely due to the care and attention she received from neighbors, life-long friends, church family and the wonderful Aunt Mattie and Crickett.  

But there could be no denying... at 88 years of age, Dickie & Jackie's Mama could no longer be left at home alone. Her memory and decision-making skills were declining as rapidly as her eyesight. She had become a constant source of concern for her family.

*                                                                                                  *

As we continued to pack, I wondered what was going through Dickie's mind. I couldn't stand to think about how close his heart must be to breaking. Outwardly (and as far as his mother knew) he seemed to be okay. But then, he and his brother had spent a lifetime convincing their Mama they were okay, so as never to cause her any worry.

Though left with few choices, I knew he was overwhelmed with guilt at the thought of moving her out of her home. His home. His brother's home.  This was the home of their childhood memories... the basement where their Mom had spent hours on the stairs listening to their music. That old table in the kitchen where they had scarfed down a bazillion pounds of Dora Burgers. And upstairs, where a 10-year old Dickie had watched his Dad shave --- for the very last time.

But the heart of this home had always been their Mom. And this was the home of her heart.

*                                                                                                  *

She cried most the way to Amarillo. He tried his best to comfort her with words of encouragement about living closer to us, spending more time with family, looking forward to a better quality of life. He even managed to make her laugh a few times, though her laughter was almost as hard to take as the tears. It hurt to catch those fading glimpses of his Mom being her old self, they made him miss her even more. 

Crazy how you can miss someone who is sitting right beside you in sturdy black shoes, living and breathing... someone in older skin who resembles your Mom.

Pure irony that we discover in adulthood there will always be a part of us that never stops being their child. That never stops craving the comforting touch of our mother's hand across our fevered brow.  That never outgrows the need for their unconditional love.

So while we understand intellectually that roles have reversed, there will never be a way to emotionally accept the role reversal between us and our parents. Our imperfect efforts to parent our parents often lead to sleepless nights and anxious days. Though we love them and try to give them our best, it is impossible to escape the feeling that our best is not good enough for the ones who gave us life.

*                                                                                                  *

We unpacked her boxes, hung her clothes in the closet, scattered memories around the room in pretty frames and settled Dora into her new home. We had chosen a private elder care home ran by a retired nurse who could provide the constant supervision and care that was needed.

Planting an overly bright smile on my face, I hugged my mother-in-law goodbye with promises of talking to her in the morning. Dickie quickly kissed her wrinkled cheek, then headed straight for the door.

*                                                                                                  *

I caught up with him outside, turned him around and wrapped him in my arms. Through our mingled tears I whispered...

“You did good. You are a good son. I want you to know, it's important that you know...

“You are ENOUGH."

We, the Awkward Missionaries

I had spent the greater part of ten minutes trying to convince my three year old G-boy that he had to stay on the Quilt of Safety. That the minute he stepped off the quilt, he was in danger of being bit by the alligators.

“But, I don't see any alligators, MiMi...”

“I know! They are sneaky green alligators who know how to hide in the grass.”

I knew any attempts to keep this tiny tornado in check would be short-lived. We had only been at the Citychurch Jesus Loves You Celebration less than 30 minutes and I was already exhausted by trying to keep from losing this whirling dervish in a sea of strangers.

Not everybody in the crowd was a stranger. I knew the church staff, recognized most of the red-shirted volunteers and had even slept with the drummer of the band. The band was the main reason I had come... to hear my husband, son and nephew play their hearts out for a wonderful cause.

The cause being Acceptance. Love. Salvation.

Every summer, Citychurch ropes off a couple of blocks downtown to provide a night of food, music, devotion and prayer to the families of the inner-city children they have served throughout the year. The reality of this benevolent night of outreach is manifested in throngs of disenfranchised families interspersed with a large number of homeless men and women. All of them showing up to enjoy a free meal, then hanging around for the music and devotionals in hopes of winning one of the door prizes given away at the end of the evening.

Youth groups from various states schedule their summer mission trip to Amarillo to experience the challenges and rewards of an inner city ministry, culminating in the Jesus Loves You Celebration. (Actually, the entire name is: God Hasn't Forgotten You, Jesus Loves You Celebration.)

I would love to tell of all the wonderful ways I am involved in this worthy church and her ministry to the inner city youth of Amarillo, but in truth, there isn't much to tell. I have helped peripherally upon occasion and am always happy to donate to the cause. But mostly...? I show up on Sunday morning to cuddle with my G-babes and enjoy my husband and son in the worship band.

It's not that I don't get my worship on. Because I do. And I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jesus is a big fan of Citychurch, too. But in all honesty, I can worship anywhere. In fact, I usually do my best worshiping outside of a church building. And as much as I respect the time, love and effort that is expended in buildings of worship... sometimes all that stuff just gets in my way.

Which brings me back to the magic Quilt of Safety.

It didn't take my G-boy long to figure out that absolutely no alligators were hidden in the sparse Texas grass. Even less time to ascertain that he would not be engulfed in flames if he ventured even farther onto the sidewalk.

So I pulled him aside and said, “Hey, dude. You can't be running off everywhere. Some of these people are strangers.”

“Who are the strangers, MiMi?”

“Well, the people we don't know are strangers. And if we don't know them, we can't go anywhere with them. We have to stay here on this quilt, with each other.”

 

“Why? Will the strangers hurt me?” He asked, with eyes growing round.

Crap. I quickly searched my brain for the right words to give this beautiful innocent boy. Words that would instill caution without creating fear.

“No. Nobody here wants to hurt you – we wouldn't let anybody hurt you.  But you have to stay close to me. Because... because, uh... you are Spiderman. Right?"

“NO!" He screwed up his face and stuck his nose into mine. “I am NOT Spiderman. I am Luke the Skywalker.”

Just then, four young girls with backpacks plopped down alongside our Quilt of Safety. They introduced themselves to me, I told them my name and introduced them to Luke the Skywalker.

“Are you from here?” They asked.

“Yes.” I answered.

“Do you have a church home?” They asked.

“We go to Citychurch.” I pointed to the stage. “My husband is the gray-haired drummer and my son is the handsome guy in the black shirt.”

“Oh...” they breathed with a sigh of relief.

And then I understood. They were obviously members of one of the youth groups who had come to help with the event. And tonight, they had come to 'witness' to me.

Out of a widely diverse and multi-colored crowd of not-so-well dressed people they had chosen me... a somewhat well-dressed, middle-aged white woman, sitting with an adorable little blond haired boy on the Quilt of Safety.

I didn't judge them. I had been on a few neighborhood outreaches in my not-so-cynical, idealistic youth. I hadn't liked the 'witnessing' part, either. I always felt I should just be able to hand over the brightly wrapped Christmas presents or sacks of groceries to the appreciative hands without any awkward religious strings attached. I hated the part where I had to sing three verses of some lame hymn and was always apologetic in handing over the mind-numbing devotional tracts from our church. I never mastered the art of proselytizing to perfect strangers. Strangers who might very well have a greater spiritual depth than myself.

I always wondered why just being there wasn't enough.

Because sometimes it is, you know.

I wanted these young missionaries who had taken a week out of their summer to serve the people of our city to know how much I appreciated their hearts and their efforts.

I asked if they would like to join us on the Quilt of Safety.

They gratefully climbed aboard.

For the next few hours we sang, laughed and listened to the devotionals... bonded by our efforts to contain Luke the Skywalker on a 6 x 6 quilt.

And as I smiled into the moonlit faces of the strangers around us, I knew it was enough.  Sharing the same stars underneath the beautiful Texas sky, voices blending in songs of praise to Jesus, for me and my little group of awkward missionaries...

Just being there was enough.

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

=========================================== 

 

“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 ~ 

===========================================

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...

===========================================

 

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.”

===========================================

 

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.

===========================================

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.