tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6318020002194174792024-03-13T13:25:53.736-07:00Shelli's ScribblingsShelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.comBlogger244125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-47539225319374569322024-02-21T10:08:00.000-08:002024-02-21T10:12:21.816-08:00The Land of Haves<div style="background-color: white; color: #515856; font-family: Inter, sans-serif; line-height: 26.4px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; text-align: left;"><span face="Inter, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #515856;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The leaves loosen and fall on the walk down my windy driveway. Sometimes they tumble to my head and startle me, thinking of grasshoppers, spiders, or bees. But this time of year is my favorite, on these five wooded acres of Texas land. The trees’ crowning glory are left barren but beautiful. Minus the greenery, the clear light and bright background serves for the best photos.</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #515856; font-family: Inter, sans-serif; line-height: 26.4px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As my daughter and I ease onto our county road, the colorful display of browning foliage continues to float on the air from the tip-top branches to settle on the ground. Step after step, heading to the bend in the road, I ponder this newsletter, my first one, and I wonder what I have to give.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #515856; font-family: Inter, sans-serif; line-height: 26.4px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">And there amidst the wonderland of trees, I yearn to fall to my knees and plead with God to show me. What have I?</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #515856; font-family: Inter, sans-serif; line-height: 26.4px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The loss of my dad this year stripped my life bare. My mom passed in 2020. I find myself an orphan and a little lost. Will I find my way?<em style="outline: none;"> What do you have to give?</em> I ask again. My mind feels empty along with my heart. My thoughts toss with all I’ve lost—<em style="outline: none;">the have nots</em>.</span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #515856; font-family: Inter, sans-serif; line-height: 26.4px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>Click </span><a href="https://dashboard.mailerlite.com/forms/692852/110114252204803902/share">here</a><span> to subscribe to my newsletter, to continue reading. Grab a coffee or a cup of tea and take a seat by me in the rocking chair on the front porch. Let's laugh together, pray for each other, and talk books, life, writing, photography, and giveaways.</span></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #515856; font-family: Inter, sans-serif; line-height: 26.4px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Blessed by you,<br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Shelli</i></span></div><div style="background-color: white; color: #515856; font-family: Inter, sans-serif; line-height: 26.4px; margin: 0px 0px 10px; outline: none; text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYNzaffMk7mXIm0CxsFD7oWyDwmJNogBItXAM5dHfwqluD8dAx-rBTmbUAnZIFQZU1GenfMO05AdQji6N9IqmbDmmLdHg_zgQwzku0XJI8e_BrQ2NoHUYCdGF6h48AcsT5A4gH0R6DFPB_FoJKVaNRMna1CdSWzvjESIqelgng8FaR7QDkMkOfDyKosaE4/s1440/IMG_20240216_160023_898.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1440" data-original-width="1440" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYNzaffMk7mXIm0CxsFD7oWyDwmJNogBItXAM5dHfwqluD8dAx-rBTmbUAnZIFQZU1GenfMO05AdQji6N9IqmbDmmLdHg_zgQwzku0XJI8e_BrQ2NoHUYCdGF6h48AcsT5A4gH0R6DFPB_FoJKVaNRMna1CdSWzvjESIqelgng8FaR7QDkMkOfDyKosaE4/w640-h640/IMG_20240216_160023_898.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-53314459678632239952021-04-01T11:21:00.008-07:002022-06-22T12:19:24.219-07:00When Did I Stop Moving Furniture?<p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Driving home from the hospital, from time with my mama, I think over the last moments with her that day and ask myself, <strong><em>When did you stop moving furniture?</em></strong></span></p><p><em><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I don’t know.</span></em></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Time alone and I gathered together so often when I was a teen, time I’d spend in my room, alone, rearranging furniture and cleaning, keeping my space tidy and comfortable. If I moved it just right, I’d create a cozy nook just for me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Mama would come home from work, eye my room over, and say, "You’re going to hurt your back."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Tidy and comfortable. Worth the risk.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">A family member had an infection a year or so ago, and I didn’t go. I didn’t want to bring it home to a person with compromised health. Untidy; uncomfortable.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">A family member went to the hospital, but I needed to stay home, because I couldn’t risk bringing COVID to dinner.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I hide away at home, in my safety. Stay home, I’m told.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">And I ask myself on the way home: <strong><em>W</em><em><strong>hen </strong>did helping others become untidy and uncomfortable in your life, Shelli?</em></strong></span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QfBXc-JQVMQ/YGYNrrY4f4I/AAAAAAAAFik/douWz4CFyc4Alg80580zJDXB42uEHlHyQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1008/Resized_20200715_123153%2B2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1008" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QfBXc-JQVMQ/YGYNrrY4f4I/AAAAAAAAFik/douWz4CFyc4Alg80580zJDXB42uEHlHyQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Resized_20200715_123153%2B2.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />But somewhere along the way, things got out of sorts and I got really comfortable in the unforeseeable change. Somewhere … somewhere in the frightening news that my mama was terribly ill. She had MRSA, a staff infection of the blood, C.Diff, as well, which is very contagious. Pneumonia threw itself into the mix for good measure. So much untidy, uncomfortable.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Draped in the gown and gloves and mask, my body moves without thought to be with my mama. She’s so far gone that she can’t even say her name. The invitation slides out of my hands to anything, any disease that could harm me, bidding it to come alongside me, to bask in my tidy and comfortable, because all I care about is how can I keep from hurting <em>her</em>? What does it matter if <em>I’m</em> safe? How can I keep <em>her</em> safe?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">On the night at the hospital when I’m told Mama can have no more visitors, after sharing that room when I can for a month with her, I draw near to her and hug her, tears pouring, and I tell her I love her and that I need her to keep fighting, that I need her to pull through this.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"I will," Mama promises.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t5ZFb0NoNgc/YGYODh1jcvI/AAAAAAAAFio/xdp6XsVFX08RdNHBQrP9cvs3OyDXw5OmACLcBGAsYHQ/s1008/Resized_20200715_104438%2B2.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1008" data-original-width="756" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t5ZFb0NoNgc/YGYODh1jcvI/AAAAAAAAFio/xdp6XsVFX08RdNHBQrP9cvs3OyDXw5OmACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/Resized_20200715_104438%2B2.jpeg" width="480" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />Dread seeps into my soul through the wee morning hours … <em>what if in hugging her, I drew too near</em>, I hear … <em>what if you’re carrying COVID, Shelli, and don't know it? What if you're sick and don't know it? What if you give her a virus that kills her in this weakened state?</em> And worry deprives my weary body of sleep.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">While each nurse stepped into Mama’s room with caution, when she initially moved to rehab, I wore no protective gear except my mask, and I sit there telling my mama why I won’t lower my mask. "The thought of getting you sick," I say, through tears, "is more than I can bear."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"Oh, honey," Mom says, in that tone that tells me her only concern is my worry.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">And as the hour strikes for me to leave, visiting hours coming to a close, I search the flowers on the darkened shelves. Because finding the lovely in the unlovely is how one thrives in survival mode. Unlike the hospital room, the mourning windowsill at rehab is too narrow to hold them, too thin to shower them with light, so empty. My vision lands on the solitary bedside table, which has no remarkable use, only covered in chocolate Ensure. And I know what I need to do.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"I’ll move the table," I say, with a smile. "Do you think they’ll mind?"</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"I don’t see why," says my mom.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">From one side to the other, I move, tugging along the hunk of wood without rollers, inch by inch, over my toe, with barely a flinch from me, trying not to scrape the floor. Because I’ve never had a more brilliant idea. And there the bulk of the three-drawer chunk lands, between the chairs, centered in the window. The arrangements, incredibly still hanging on to life, line up perfectly in Mom’s view from the bed, the bright floral colors backed by her get-well cards.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J-aqQnMLmkM/YGYOTfuoCFI/AAAAAAAAFis/vPzdCmVUrBsaV8BnPMJcxbRQBlYam5yVACLcBGAsYHQ/s1008/Resized_20200715_104421%2B%25281%25292.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="756" data-original-width="1008" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-J-aqQnMLmkM/YGYOTfuoCFI/AAAAAAAAFis/vPzdCmVUrBsaV8BnPMJcxbRQBlYam5yVACLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Resized_20200715_104421%2B%25281%25292.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />There.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Mama’s smile overrides mine, as the flowers bask in the sun. "If we’re here long enough, we’ll rearrange the whole room," she says, and we laugh together. Her face tilts, her thoughts off in another place somewhere. "I wonder if I'll ever sing again," she finally shares with me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"You could sing 'Jesus Loves Me.' "</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Slowly, our voices lift, together, until "the Bible tells me so."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"Thank you," she says. "I couldn’t do this without you."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">"I’d never want you to," I say.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">And there, moving furniture, my heart glows like it’s been sprayed with everlasting Pledge—and still does as I retrieve Ibuprofen at midnight for my aching shoulder—because it’s there … where the messy and uncomfortable becomes tidy and comfortable.</span></p><p><em><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"></span></em></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mkk86x4Ff9I/YGYOgQm-hfI/AAAAAAAAFiw/tzEp4EI8NiQ5kbQbYrPDSLDWcB1U_4wHQCLcBGAsYHQ/s1440/Resized_20200717_190015.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mkk86x4Ff9I/YGYOgQm-hfI/AAAAAAAAFiw/tzEp4EI8NiQ5kbQbYrPDSLDWcB1U_4wHQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/Resized_20200717_190015.jpeg" width="640" /></a></span></em></div><em><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br />Are you finding yourself willing to take a risk during difficult days? Love will do it. <strong>Love brings courage.</strong></span></em><p></p><p><em><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">(By the way, that table does have a use. It's for holding the phone and nurse call button/TV controller when the patient gets out of bed. And we have laughed about this every day since. And Mama is improving daily. She stood up from the bed to the walker for the first time.)</span></em></p><p><em><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>Update: I initially wrote this post in July of 2020. I lost my mother to a stroke back in August 2020. </b></span></em></p>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-74934945766079398662018-07-13T08:01:00.000-07:002018-07-13T08:01:40.408-07:00Finding That Conversation Place<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I trail the soft, cleansing cloth over each hill, every valley. So much dirt and stain. Why did I ever think I could wear white? What's wrong with me? The brown would have been a better fit, hiding impurities, all the unlovely, embarrassing yuck. He tried to tell you. Why didn't you listen?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<em><span style="font-size: large;">O Soul Within, it's been years. You need to wear white. You need to own this. It's yours. It's yours for the taking. And it was costly. Don't let it go to waste.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<span style="font-size: large;">I swipe my forehead, as the temperature soars to summer-unbearable that only our beloved Texas makes bearable. Every locust on site tunes in to my fuzzy channel. I head inside and grab a popsicle from the freezer. Walking back out, I stand there evaluating everything before me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<em><span style="font-size: large;">Just do it, Shelli. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<span style="font-size: large;">I sit down in that stained rocking chair that used to be so white. I own it. I start rocking. And this feels so nice. I grab another popsicle and head back out.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Everyone must think I've lost my mind. Sitting in that dirty chair? It's one thing to plop down in what you can't see, but to take on the seen?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7273 (4)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4634" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/dsc_7273-4.jpg" width="750" />Little Bit, daughter #1, pops out the door. She couldn't stand it any longer. "Can I sit with you, Mama?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Of course. Grab popsicles."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It doesn't take long outside to realize why the chairs are so stained. June bugs, grasshoppers, things that sting (mosquitoes, wasps ...), spiders overhead. It's a jungle out there. Truly it is.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We rock. My hands freeze, as I push up the icy-blue sweetness. "I can't write," I say. "At a time in my life when I should feel the most encouraged, I have never been more discouraged. I can't even manage a blog post. A simple blog post. What's wrong with me?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"You're a good writer, Mama," Little Bit says.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I release my empty popsicle package to the ground.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7275 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4636" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/dsc_7275-3.jpg" width="750" />I push out of that chair, grab more popsicles, and nudge the grasshopper off the seat when I return, while begging his pardon. We continue rocking.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Breaking the short silence, my girl says, "What's wrong with me, Mama?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Not a single thing. You're perfect just the way you are. You have to be patient, trust, and wait on God," I say.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Little Bit tosses her empty container to the ground.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Baby Girl, daughter #2, sticks her head out the door. It was only a matter of time. She has forever been my "I go where you go" daughter. "Want another popsicle?" she asks.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7277 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4638" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/dsc_7277-3.jpg" width="750" />We two smile big and unanimously say, "Yes!"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Baby Girl hands everyone their cold treat and sits on the front porch step. I need one more rocking chair. And in her quietness, she sips on that pink ice until she releases her trash to the ground, along with all her heart's unspoken. We know.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I toss my hair over the chair's back, like the once perfectly white, stained wooden slat is a pony-tail holder. I don't care what my hair touches ... stain, tiny spiders. I don't look; I just use it. The stain doesn't bother me anymore, and come to think of it, that weathered look has always appealed to me anyway, the perfectly imperfect.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And would you look at that? Each baby girl has followed me, owning that white, distressed as it may be.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The cool air greets my flesh. I prop one bare foot up on the seat, while my other sways that chair and me back and forth. And somehow everything feels so clean and new. Just right.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I observe the pile of emptiness that's fallen to the ground. "I think we might need a trash can out here."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7271 - Copy" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4633" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/07/dsc_7271-copy.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<hr />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">Do you have anything needing to be tossed away? What is threatening to trash your confidence? And do you have a place you love to gather with those who get you? How did you stumble across that conversation place? </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-size: large;">I would crawl into bed with my girls when they were little, and we'd talk hours into the night. But somewhere in their growing up, we'd lost that cherished time. I'm so glad I sat down in that rocking chair at the onset of summer, that I found that conversation place, because every day I hear, "Let's go sit on the front porch." I drop everything, because I know that means we'll gather popsicles and do some mother/daughter talking. I know their reasoning is partly because they get a break, and partly because they love me, but mostly because we always see God.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-4108292569560150792018-05-13T19:25:00.000-07:002018-05-13T19:25:54.247-07:00To All The Ruined Mothers<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #5c3508;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I'm ruined, Shelli."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #5c3508;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">One petal falls.</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_3014 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4609" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/dsc_3014-3.jpg" width="750" />I can't bear to hear her utter those words. I cover my ears and eyes. "La, la, la ..." I love her so.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When did this point arrive? When did the words "ostomy," "colostomy," "colectomy" think they could enter their little world? Her son is only 10. He's endured more over the last couple of months than most adults could bear. But he's past the stage of hugs, and high-fives have taken their place. Yet I know that little boy inside that big boy yearns to reach his arms up, be taken up, and rocked, swaying back and forth, until all things are made better. Until the pain is all gone. Until the bed of tears runs dry.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #5c3508;"><span style="font-size: large;">"I can't smile anymore, Shelli."</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #5c3508;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Another petal loosens.</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_3016 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4610" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/dsc_3016-3.jpg" width="750" />I can't begin to imagine what it took, the struggle within her mother-heart, to give her consent ... her consent to release something so important to her son. To let go. To say goodbye.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">What can I say? What can I do? How do we help when one petal after another seems to slip away? One thing after another. Nothing is easy. What else can go wrong? Mothers so want good for our kids--a pleasant, perfect, pain-free, prosperous life.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">What are you thinking, Mother? That this is your fault? That you could have prevented this? That you did something to cause this? That you didn't do enough? Or that you simply want your child's life the way it used to be?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #5c3508;"><span style="font-size: large;">"We are having a very difficult time finding an ostomy bag that is a good fit ... and we've tried several," she wearily says.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #5c3508;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">One more petal breaks free and drifts to the ground.</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_3021 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4611" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/dsc_3021-3.jpg" width="750" />What if ... you're not ruined? What if you were ruined before, and you just didn't realize it? Maybe what we thought was good was the ruination. Because the tissue was so damaged it was about to fall apart. "One more day, and it would have been a different story," reported the doctor. One more day, and instead of arranging ostomy bags, they could have been arranging ...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">What do <em>you</em> know, Shelli? When have <em>you</em> felt ruined, Shelli? When you found out you couldn't have children, your heart's desire since childhood? When you found out you were doomed to be different. When all your hopes and dreams disintegrated. When your future didn't look bright and pretty anymore. When everything was stripped away, and all that remained was a barren stem. When all you could do was look up, reach up.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #7d5327;"><span style="font-size: large;">Mother scans over his irritated skin surrounding the leaky bag, tears surfacing in her eyes. Only God knows the amount of tears she's cried.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #7d5327;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Another petal falls.</span></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_3024 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4612" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/dsc_3024-3.jpg" width="750" />But what if when we love God so much, when we've given Him our hearts, we change? What if God is making a new thing? What if that's exactly what He intended? What if the goal is to have the only thing remaining of you be Him, the lifeblood, the foundation that keeps us standing. We hold so tightly to the color of "the way things <em>should</em> be."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<em><span style="font-size: large;">If I could have given birth, I would have wanted to birth my daughters. My adopted daughters. My children. I wouldn't select any other. No one could take their places.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<span style="font-size: large;">Because what if God knows exactly what He is doing?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #5c3508;"><span style="font-size: large;">"It breaks my heart when I look at your bag," Mother says to her son. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #5c3508;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">The last petal breaks free. </span></strong><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_3031 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4613" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/dsc_3031-3.jpg" width="750" />If we reach our arms up, do we think God would lift us up? Would He set us on new, different ground? Safe ground. Good ground. What if that new ground is our testimony? The testimony that makes us beautiful, colorful, whole. New. Healed.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #5c3508;"><span style="font-size: large;">"Well, it makes me happy every time I look at it," he says, "because it saved my life." </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_3008 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4608" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/dsc_3008-3.jpg" width="750" />And maybe that's it. Maybe the stripping away is salvation. Maybe the ruination is our salvation. Maybe it's God's method of rescue, His method to rescue others. The old tissue is so damaged, wilting, it cannot remain. It must fall away. Because the truth is ... that 10-year-old lifted his arms to his Savior over a year ago, and he's been rocking with Jesus ever since. He's waltzing in to his brand new testimony, and in his humorous and warrior-like attitude, he calls that bag "Frances."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Mothers, why shouldn't we see something new?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_3037 (4)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4614" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/05/dsc_3037-4.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<hr />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Mother's Day, beautiful friends, especially to those who are hurting! </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<em><span style="font-size: large;">And prayers for a special Mother's Day for my loved one. She's so much stronger than she knows. She's my person and a wonderful mother. She's so loved. ♥</span></em>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-90640956309020213292018-04-26T11:30:00.000-07:002018-04-26T11:30:11.059-07:00When The Right Door Opens<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I barely have the strength to continue. I'd climbed that hill at the Mount Hermon conference center already once. My feet ache. The key wouldn't unlock my room door. It allowed me into the building but not into my room. And now this new key isn't working either. Darkness covers the sky. Loneliness surrounds me. I hadn't slept the night before, actually days before, and I'd been on an airplane all morning, conference all day and night. The first time I'd flown alone since I was a 20-year-old.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Tears flood my eyes. Stopping on that cement path, I gather my coat around me. <em>What are you doing here, Shelli?</em> I throw my arms out to the open sky. "Lord, what am I doing? What is this carrot I'm chasing?" I've heard this whispered into my ear so many times, from behind my back. "Do I need to let it go, Lord? What my family must think of me ..."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">And I think of all the many things that transpired to get me here, to this place. One door open after another. "Would you like to write a blog post for my upcoming release?" a friend asked. Sure. And through that, I connected with a lady whose book helped me over 20 years ago when I dealt with infertility. I wrote a blog post about her. And through that blog post, that author's friend contacted me--"Have you ever been to Mount Hermon Writers Conference?" she asked. No. "There's a writing contest. You should enter." And not long after, I received an email saying I'd won a trip to Mount Hermon.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Shelli, these doors aren't coincidental</em>, the trustworthy voice speaks straight into my heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'll give it all up, Lord, if that is what you think best. I need your direction." A not-so-pretty cry seeps out of my being. I struggle for breath, talking right out loud. I don't even care if anyone is around, if anyone hears me. But I feel like I'm the only one on the planet. "My work needs so much help, Lord. What am I doing?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_2835 (2)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4596" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/dsc_2835-2.jpg" width="750" />I get one more room key. Bless their hearts. They could tell I was distraught.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The next day, I meet with an editor from a publishing house. She wants my whole manuscript. I'm shocked. The next day, I feel so free--I have an open door. By sheer accident, I sit down with another editor at dinner, because my friend is sitting there. When I share what I write, the editor pulls out her business card. "I want your proposal," she says. My friend bangs on my leg underneath the table. I keep my composure, on the outside. Another open door?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The next day, I meet with the agent of my dreams, Wendy Lawton from Books & Such Literary Management. She's so brilliant, and she represents amazing writers. I could never deserve her. <em>What are you doing? You'll never be ready for this. </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><br /></em></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Do you think you're ready, Shelli?" she asks.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I think so," I say, staring at the ground and wondering where that hint of boldness came from.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Let's do this then."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="20180424_172245 (2)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4593" height="421" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/20180424_172245-2.jpg" width="750" />I walk to lunch in a daze, sit down at the table, and poke at my salad. I can't believe ... I have an amazing, knowledgeable person to help guide me now ...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My dear friend--the one who banged on my leg, my roommate, Jennifer--finds me after lunch. "Well?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Sit down," I say to her. I'm laughing to keep from crying.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">She knows. Without saying a word, she knows. She embraces me the Canadian way, as she mocks my Texas talk in fun, like always, always teasing that I need an interpreter. And I love it. "You have an agent."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I keep laughing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_2858 (4)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4594" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/dsc_2858-4.jpg" width="750" />In the quietness of our room, I ask Jennifer, "Do you want to know about that first night room key mix-up?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Okay ..." she says.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="Shelli (4)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4597" height="562" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/shelli-4.jpg" width="1000" />"I had been in the wrong building all along, the one right next door to ours ... the men's building." It had been dark, you know. I'm new here, you know. "The key allowed me into their building, just not into what I thought was 'our' room. A man came out into the hallway because he heard a woman's voice, and he knew a woman shouldn't be in there." I was so embarrassed. He probably heard me crying. "Then he got locked out of his room." The funniest thing. "And I had to help him get back into his room."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The door didn't open, because I wasn't in the right place. When you open your hands and release ... when you continue on ... when you find yourself in the right place, the door opens.</span>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-58965094275076546282018-04-19T10:05:00.000-07:002018-04-19T10:05:03.130-07:00What Makes Us Work<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Let's get pictures in the bluebonnets," I say. It's that time of year. It's a Texas thing. Everyone does it. From young to old. You can't fiddle around too long, because they only last about two weeks.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"You wear your blue sweater ..." I say.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'll wear my new sundress," one says.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'll wear ..." I enter my closet, excitement flooding my heart.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But then my heart sinks. Because year after year, I know <em>who</em> is coming along.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Our same ol' spot isn't there anymore. We head to another patch. It's not as pretty. Hilly. Rocky. A house is being built close by. Getting decent pictures is going to take some brainstorming. Creativity. But who has time for that? "Shelli, you should have pre-planned." The words whisper over my ear.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_2601" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4571" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/dsc_2601.jpg" width="750" /><img alt="DSC_2608" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4573" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/dsc_2608.jpg" width="750" />I pull the car onto the old county road and ease over to the side. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">One girl gets out, fabric swaying to the breeze, another exits, I place my pink boot onto the asphalt road, and then <em>Attitude </em>slides out. Every single time, <em>Attitude </em>comes with us. We didn't even invite her.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"The ground is wet," one says.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Attitude grins.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"It doesn't matter. It's once a year ... Come on." It's possible that I say that. "I'll go first." I grab a raincoat, hand over the camera, and evaluate the situation. After placing the coat on the ground, I try to sit where my bottom won't get wet. My new pants, you see.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"How do you want this picture, Mom?" asks the camera girl. A truck needs to drive by us. Camera girl scoots to the side of the road, allowing the vehicle to pass on that narrow strip. Another car. Scoot to the side. Another truck. Scoot. What? Grand Central Station? Isn't this the country?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I can't even imagine the look on my face.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Attitude smirks, rubbing her hands together.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_2561 (2)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4574" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/dsc_2561-2.jpg" width="750" />"Be creative," I say. Attitude walks up beside me and leans over my shoulder, wanting in the picture. I can't even begin to push her away. And actually, I suddenly kind of like her. Her dress is pretty and so is her hat. Look at those sparkly sandals.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I don't know what you want, Mom." Another truck passes, another truck, and another truck. My girl scoots over. Scoot.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Just do it. Hurry. Before another truck comes." Fighting the persistent breeze, I attempt to put my hair back into place. Another truck. Another truck. Scoot. "Switch places. I'm done." I take the camera. Another truck. Another truck. Pink boot scoot. Boot scoot.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Construction is clearly taking place down the road, while I'm deconstructing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"It's wet." Another truck. "There's a bee." She's terrified of bees, and I'm the bee-charmer.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Another truck. Scoot.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_2606" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4572" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/dsc_2606.jpg" width="750" />I look at my two girls. After 20 years, I still can't believe they are mine. The mine-of-the-heart kind. I find myself climbing into my grandmother's lap, in my mind, and she says, "No matter how big you get, you'll always be my baby." My babies. No matter how big they get. I love these babies. And I loved my grandmother. She wasn't perfect, but I loved her so. What made it work? What makes us work?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Attitude taps me on the shoulder and points a finger, letting me know one girl is bothered by another bee. And then look ... there's the pesky breeze.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_2567 - Copy (2)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4576" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/dsc_2567-copy-2.jpg" width="750" />In the car, Attitude locks her passenger seat door and turns up the heat.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I scan through the photos on my camera. "I look aggravated in that one. Why didn't you tell me? We're supposed to help each other out."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_2598 (2)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4578" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/dsc_2598-2.jpg" width="750" />Attitude smiles.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"We didn't get <em>one</em> good picture." I stomp my proverbial foot. Can you even have a proverbial foot? "Why does it always have to be like this? It's once a year. Can't we just manage once a year? One day you'll be so glad to have these pictures." <em>Or will they? What will they remember? Attitude? </em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><br /></em></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"You're a bad mother," Attitude whispers, and she locks everyone's car doors and laughs. And goodness, it's hot. Where is the air conditioning?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I load the pictures on my computer, once we return home, and browse through.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Attitude peers over my shoulder, shaking her head.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Well, I don't know. I think I disagree. That one turned out okay. And look, that one did, too. I open the door and invite Attitude to leave.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">One baby is sitting there. The other sits there.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_2574 - Copy (2)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4577" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/dsc_2574-copy-2.jpg" width="750" /><img alt="DSC_2564 - Copy (2)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4575" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/04/dsc_2564-copy-2.jpg" width="750" />A knock comes to the front door. I hurry to slip out of sight, not wanting <em>him</em> to know anyone is home. Because I know better than to let <em>Pride </em>into the house.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Look, baby girl." My arm slips around one. "We got a good one." I smile. She smiles. We all smile. "I'm sorry."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'm sorry, too."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">They climb onto my lap, and I rock. "No matter how big you get, you'll always be my babies." And right there, I know.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I know what makes us work.</span><br />
<hr />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">What do you do when Attitude slips into the room?</span></em>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-71923038971731855012018-03-15T07:46:00.000-07:002018-03-15T07:46:30.683-07:00God Uses The Puddles<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>Would she really trade me for ice cream and candy?</em> On the way home from my meeting, I stew--the warm, tasty kind. My girl ... she was just a little too excited for me to depart from home today. "When are you leaving, Mom?" she'd asked with a smile.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I pull into the garage. My girls step out of the house, waiting to hug me. My focus locks onto my youngest. "You are in so much trouble," I say. I head toward her. She laughs, crouching into the wall. "You wanted me to go." I tickle her. The veins on her neck pop out, like always, through her belly laugh.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<em><span style="font-size: large;">Don't ever want me to go, baby girl. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Let's go jump in the puddle down the road," I say. The girls slip on their rain boots, I grab my camera, and we trek down the road. The marshy ground boasts hoof prints and foot prints. The sky recently released loads of rain on us. A once empty bucket under a tree now holds over ten inches of water. Such a novelty for dry, Texas land.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We pass our neighbor's home that burned completely to the ground two years ago. Rebuilt. Loss, but brand new. <em>Oh, how we needed a downpour that night.</em> Many of our neighbors' front yards resemble ponds now. Even lakes. Water threatens their doorsteps.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Have you decided what you want to do for your birthday?" I ask the youngest. We pour over a few ideas as we reach our destination, still lacking vision.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Let me go a little farther, so I'll capture the prettiest scenery behind you." As I turn around, the girls step out into the water that covers the road. They touch it, really feel it. They stand there across from each other, smiling.</span><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_1288 (5)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4556" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_1288-5.jpg" width="750" /><img alt="DSC_1379 (5)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4555" height="485" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_1379-51.jpg" width="750" />Don't ever lose these moments, I want to say, reflecting over the past. Hold on. You've shared so many amazing years together. Don't trade them for anything. Always be there for each other, no matter how old you get. <strong>You're sisters, not by birth but by your worth.</strong> God loved you so much, that He had a plan for your lives. After He knit you together, He placed you together. </span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<span style="font-size: large;">Oldest one is already soaring in the air. I watch that youngest one. She crouches.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_1387 (4)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4554" height="510" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_1387-4.jpg" width="750" />My baby turns eighteen this month. Eighteen.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I bend to the ground, trying to capture their moment. My moment.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">At 13 months old, I didn't know if my youngest would make it. Tears poured from my heart on her 2nd birthday, because she'd made it. Cancer crushes. Disease destroys. We've waded through so many puddles along the way. We've tripped and fallen into the puddles because chemo weakens the ankles of a small child. We've wandered in the puddle of how to stop holding hands, when attachment keeps you from falling but you've outgrown it now. We've muddled through the puddle of fear, fear that another puddle is looming up ahead, threatening. So much personal loss ...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">But brand new. Stronger. Closer.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">In that bent position, her once thinned hair is long and flowing, curly, healthy, bouncing in the breeze.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<em><span style="font-size: large;">I don't want you to go, but I know you will. Oh, how blessed I've been.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<span style="font-size: large;">She soars.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_1397 (8)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4557" height="516" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_1397-8.jpg" width="750" />And when you soar, baby girl, you leave all those puddles behind. And I'll stay right here and watch you, for as long as I can. While you're still in sight. And when you land, because we always tend to land, we stomp them. We make a splash--on ourselves and others. The clean, pure kind--brand new--so welcoming to a land of drought. Because nothing is wasted, young one. Touch it, really feel it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">God uses the puddles.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #633c0f;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">Happy 18th birthday, Katelyn Grace Littleton</span></strong></span><br />
Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-18590861556357852862018-02-14T06:33:00.001-08:002018-02-14T06:33:46.560-08:00Guess How Much I Love You<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>Can I be happy today?</strong></em><em> </em>My first thought of the day. Underneath all the warmth, down feathers, and fluff, an empty feeling tugs at my heart. An uncertainty. I sink low into the pillow-top mattress. I ease back the covers from my face and gasp for air. Still in a daze of sleep, I wonder--<em><strong>Or do I have a reason to be sad today? Am I safe? Is life good right now? Or bad? Is someone upset at me right now? Have I disappointed someone? What's pressing on me today?</strong></em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong><br /></strong></em></span>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Mourning comes in the morning.</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></strong>
<span style="font-size: large;">The light shining in from the window covers me, as the framed-pane shadows inch across the quilt. Golden. I ease into peace. My breathing settles into a normal rhythm. No, all is good right now. You're okay, Shelli.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My reasoning and questioning twists my stomach. How had life come to such? When did I start waking in the morning wondering if I could be happy? When did that become my story? That was a first. Ugh. And I don't like it. When did outside factors take over my happiness? Life pressed me, I suppose. This. That. How had I allowed this wonderful life to stress me to such a degree?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I'm so thankful for this breath--the one I just took--regardless of what is happening in my life. I'm here ... in this day. Do you hear that, Shelli? You're here in this day. You woke to another day.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Regardless of the past. Regardless of anything the future holds.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My thoughts settle on my oldest daughter. Her love for reading came so early on, just a babe. She'd reach for a book, her treasured possessions, and start toddling backwards. My lap or anyone else's had better be there to catch her fall. One of her favorite books was <em>Guess How Much I Love You</em>. When #2 came along, she fell right in line with the love for that sweet book. And the girls were so loved when they came into this world that they own four copies of that precious book.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Those girls and their love for reading alone are enough reason to wake with a smile, to wake with assurance.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_0866" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4544" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_0866.jpg" width="750" /><img alt="DSC_0861" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4542" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_0861.jpg" width="750" /><img alt="DSC_0865" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4543" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_0865.jpg" width="750" />I grip the covers. What's wrong with me, God? Are you listening to me? I'm here, and I'm struggling.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_0814 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4519" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_0814-3.jpg" width="750" />I feel God speak over my heart--</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: #574110;"><span style="font-size: large;">You don't have to wonder if you can be happy or if you are loved. Take my Word. You have so many copies of it, child. Take my Word for it. And start backing up. Fall into my lap. Because you are so loved. </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #574110;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #574110;"><span style="font-size: large;">You know how much. Does it truly need repeating? After all these years. Truly?</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #574110;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #574110;"><span style="font-size: large;">I love you so much that I stretched out my arms ... this wide ...</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #574110;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_0815 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4520" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_0815-3.jpg" width="750" />I looked beyond the thorns ...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_0816 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4521" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_0816-3.jpg" width="750" /><span style="color: #574110;">When someone lays down their life for you, Shelli Ann, every morning blade of grass is graced with joy. The joy that is down in your heart. The joy that you reached out your elementary-school hands to accept. You never have to guess if you are loved. You never have to wonder how to feel. You have been filled with the lifeblood of happiness, peace, joy, love. Know it. Feel it down to your bones. It's your story.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_0763 - Copy" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4547" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_0763-copy.jpg" width="750" />Joy comes in the mourning, on any morning.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I throw back the covers and plant my feet on that solid foundation.</span><br />
<hr />
<span style="font-size: large;">Am I alone, y'all? Have you ever woken like that? Not sure if you could feel happy or if you needed to feel sad, stressed? What a choice, huh? It really is a choice. No matter what ... we can choose love, happiness, joy. And just look at the treasure I discovered in my M&Ms this week--</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_0720 (6)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4546" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/02/dsc_0720-6.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Valentine's Day</span></strong>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-43195051849271786862018-01-30T09:00:00.000-08:002018-01-30T09:02:09.750-08:00My Little Girls Are All Grown Up<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's going to happen. Everyone thinks it will finally come down, it'll finally snow.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, I hope my #1 daughter's university cancels classes. Because at the end of her busy break, I just need a break. I need one more day with her. One more day to hold her close and never let go. One more day to put the phone down, put the TV remote down. One more day to focus on my true loves.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Mommy ...!" she shouts, running to me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Lo and behold, her university canceled classes. I jump for joy and clap my hands. I get one more day with her, with absolutely nothing demanding of us.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_0442 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4500" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/01/dsc_0442-3.jpg" width="750" />And after a little so-called dusting of snow, or ice, commences--beautiful, pure change over the horizon--#2 brings me her writing assignment, asking me to look at it. Taking the treasured pages in my hands, I read:</span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">Ever since I was little, I always dreamed of becoming a veterinarian. I even wanted to be an animal myself for years, because I thought they were so cool.</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;">I laugh out loud. She goes on to explain how she had wanted to be a vet, but seeing an animal surgery made her weak, nauseated, pale. A change of plans. She had to sit down, in another area. The vet's cat came over and loved on her. The doctor gave her a chance to rest, regain her composure, and she returned to the surgery room. But at the sight of surgery, she continues to say--</span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">I started slumping down the wall I was leaning against.</span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">I returned to the chair with the cat.</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;">I laugh again. Yes, my daughter wrote those words. The words that would begin her very first college English paper.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Did you get that? <strong>Her first college paper.</strong> My baby. Because while I was wishing for one more day with my #1, I had no idea that two days later I'd step foot out without #2. Both my babies are in college. Both. #2 hasn't even seen the end of her senior year yet. I kick the ground. I know this isn't anything new for most, but as a home-school mom, I'd anticipated a few more months with my #2 before she started college. Like next fall. But the door flew wide open, and somehow we tumbled right in.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><strong>Hugs and "mmmmm ... smack."</strong></em> I watch them head out the garage door. They're weighed down with full backpacks. Their first day together without me. Because the first two days, I trailed along. I did. I had lunch with them and everything. It was glorious. But that's it. No more. I've got to grow up, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Shivering, I slump against my car, leaving my imprint in the dust and watching them get situated in the car.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_0447 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4501" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/01/dsc_0447-3.jpg" width="750" />Words from yesteryear peek over my shoulder--</span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">"Why does she pucker her lips like that?" he asked. "Monkey kisses." He laughed.</span></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">"I don't know," I said.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="Scan_Pic0024 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4507" height="438" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/01/scan_pic0024-3.jpg" width="640" /></span></blockquote>
<br />
<blockquote>
<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-size: large;">I turned to my daughter. "Goodnight, baby. Give me kisses." I leaned in. I puckered. She puckered. Big puckers. "mmmmm ... smack!"</span> </span></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">Realization dawned and laughter tumbled out of me, causing me to collapse onto the bed beside her. It's me. All me. I taught her that. I taught her the big pucker. The cutest monkey kisses.</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh my goodness. The things I've taught them. The things I haven't. Have I taught them enough? Have I left the right impressions on their lives, on their hearts? Will they be okay? Will I be okay?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The car inches forward, not waiting for the answer. All routine for #1. And now routine for #2. <strong>Could you just wait till I figure out the answer? Till I figure out this whole thing?</strong> The car stops, and they wave and blow kisses. The car can't proceed without kisses. The sweetest monkey kind. I return it all, with all my heart and some. Onto the hand and thrown across the air, like my grandmother taught me. To #1 and now #2. I catch mine and they catch theirs. We prolong the waves and kisses for just a little longer, ensuring we see each other. Not wanting to miss a single thing. Like we could.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The car accelerates down the driveway, leaves kicking up behind it, and proceeds down our Texas county road. When they are out of sight, I push the button and shut the garage--the full weight bearing down and crashing to the ground--as a chapter in our lives unexpectedly ends and another beautifully begins.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I go sit with the cats.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_0451 (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4502" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2018/01/dsc_0451-3.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<hr />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">What chapters are ending or beginning in your life? May I pray for you? </span></em>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-51273654372571470972017-12-16T08:23:00.000-08:002017-12-17T11:55:01.186-08:00The Right And The Left Unite For A Merry Christmas<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The phone rings. It's my girl.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Hi, baby," I say, using my softest tone reserved for my girls.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Mom, I don't know what to do. I'm scared. I'm shaking."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"What's up?" My legs begin to tremble, and the hair on my arms raises.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_9533 (6) - Copy" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4478" height="497" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/12/dsc_9533-6-copy.jpg" width="750" />"I'm in government class, and we've broken up into groups," she whispers. "My group has decided to do a discussion about an issue that I can't support. They all support it. But Mom, I'm afraid to speak up. I don't know what to do." Her voice drifts off into a lonely place. Surrounded by people, yet lonely. I've been there.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My heart plunges into my gut and begins to jostle around for freedom, for peace, for strength. Freedom, peace, strength for my girl. "Baby, you have to speak up. If you don't, everyone will think that you believe it's okay. And you won't be okay with that."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I know, Mom." Determination laces her voice. "But ... I'm so scared."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"You've got this. I'm praying for you." Because we can let some things slide, but some things have to be man-handled. Girl-handled.</span><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_9511 (5) - Copy" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4473" height="501" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/12/dsc_9511-5-copy.jpg" width="750" />The phone rings.</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></strong>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Hi, baby." Hurry words ... assure me. God, let her be okay.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I did it, Mom. I think several in the group were glad I spoke up. I think they believed like me, but they were afraid, too. The leader decided that half can discuss that topic, and the other half can discuss another topic. She didn't seem too happy about it, but ..." She pauses.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I exhale a sigh of relief, then laugh. "That's great, Baby. I'm so proud of you." Yes, you are discovering who you are, what you believe, and that it's okay to have a different opinion.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"One girl from the group kept glaring at me through class."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_9519 (6)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4483" height="531" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/12/dsc_9519-6.jpg" width="750" /><img alt="DSC_9516 (6)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4484" height="500" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/12/dsc_9516-6.jpg" width="750" /><strong>Weeks pass.</strong></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></strong>
<span style="font-size: large;">I step into Chick-fil-A and take a seat across the booth from my girl.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Mom, government class discussion went so good today." She bounces on the bench. "Someone just had to bring up another controversial topic." She nearly slumps. "But, Mom, we had such a good talk." She straightens and smiles. "Those of us against it gave our side. We just told them that though we didn't agree, we don't dislike them for having a different opinion. We aren't mad at them. One guy said that he didn't understand why we felt the way we did, but he told me that he liked how kind I was about everything I had to say on the issue."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">One hand extended and the other accepted. The aisle between disappeared, leaving only people. Beautiful feet. Good people. Kind people. Because difference doesn't always have to equal division. Surely, difference can be united with love.</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></strong>
<span style="font-size: large;">"And Mom, he said he'd never met a Christian before."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"He's met one now." I nod.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"At the end of class, we all walked out of the room, smiling, high-fiving, and talking with each other. Happy. Friends, Mom. And when I glanced over at our teacher, he shook his head, smiling in amusement at us." She giggles. "He said, 'Y'all are the best class I've ever had.'"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I shake my head gently, my lips pressing into a smile. My girl is my hero. Oh, yes. Making friends with non-likeminded people. A beautiful concept. Because one might lean right and one might lean left, but we can all lean in with kindness.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_9530 (4) - Copy" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4476" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/12/dsc_9530-4-copy.jpg" width="750" />I wrap myself in the warmth of my jacket. "Baby, that's so awesome. I'm so proud of you. I think people should be able to disagree, but love." We mingle together in this sorted world constantly. And why not?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yeah. God fought the battle for me, Mom. It was such a great day. Even the girl who had been glaring at me has been smiling at me instead." </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My heart glows--my girl is acknowledging her Savior. All those years of teaching, trying to help her see and understand ... yes. Thank you, Father.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong><span style="color: #573b1c;">Because when the soft strand of the right sweeps over the doubled over strand of the left, with a gentle reach and a little heart-tug, they come together to make the most gorgeous bow. </span></strong><span style="color: #573b1c;">If one tends to be right-handed.</span><strong><span style="color: #573b1c;"> And when the soft strand of the left sweeps over the doubled over strand of the right, with another gentle reach and a little heart-tug, they come together to make the most gorgeous bow. </span></strong><span style="color: #573b1c;">If one tends to be left-handed.</span><strong><span style="color: #573b1c;"> Because it's all in the reaching, the softness, the kindness</span></strong>--the sweetest Christmas present to this mama, for her girl. Love bestowed by and on her girl in the difference by the different. Yes, Lord, yes.</span><br />
<hr />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">Do you have a story of kindness to share? <span style="color: #870000;">Merry Christmas, Y'all.</span></span></em>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-49876004322867648472017-11-18T13:05:00.000-08:002017-11-18T13:05:58.772-08:00Saying Thank You After 20 Years<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The lady's picture of Michelle Ule's new book <em>Mrs. Oswald Chambers</em> caught my attention, and I "liked" it. The book's pages were marked with blue and orange tabs, and a pair of reading glasses sat off to the side.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The following day or so, as I scroll through my Instagram activity, I notice a new follower. Oh ... it's that lady. I click onto her gallery page and sense her familiarity. Yes, that's right. I had seen her picture from Michelle Ule's launch party. <strong>Because I had written a blog post on Michelle's book, I was led here, to this place.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong><br /></strong></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">As I glance over the lady's bio, words grab my attention--author of <strong><em>The Ache for a Child</em></strong>. My heart flutters. I know God is up to something incredible in my life. Anything God does for me, and I recognize it, is deemed incredible. <strong>Because it's usually the small things that bless my heart in the big ways.</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong><br /></strong></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I head into my closet and pull out the clothes hamper. And there against the wall is the bookshelf, the old bookshelf. The one that holds old things, heart things, book things that touched my hands and touched my heart. I can't part from them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_8934 (5)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4468" height="483" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/11/dsc_8934-5.jpg" width="727" /><img alt="DSC_8931 (6)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4467" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/11/dsc_8931-6.jpg" width="750" />My eyes roam over the sections. I shift books around, looking for ... There ... there it is.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_8923 - Copy (5)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4366" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/11/dsc_8923-copy-5.jpg" width="750" /><img alt="DSC_8921 - Copy (6)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4365" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/11/dsc_8921-copy-6.jpg" width="750" />As I open the pages, my past reunites with my present. They hug. They cry in each others' arms. And after the weeping comes the rejoicing. What are you doing here, old friend? After this many years. Page after highlighted page explains away. I read over my scribbles in the margins, never doing justice to the words of comfort God scribbled over my heart. <strong>But how does a marginal human put into words something so vast, something that can't be contained in the tiny space of her heart? </strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_8924 - Copy (4)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4362" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/11/dsc_8924-copy-4.jpg" width="750" />I sit there on the closet floor, pondering God's goodness.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Because I did this ... because I walked through the door you opened, Lord ... you did this. I bow my head. I thank Him, oh, how I thank Him. I'm no stranger to tear-stained jeans.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I follow my old and new heart-friend back on Instagram and contact her. <strong>"Did you write this book?"</strong> I attach a picture of the book.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, a long time ago!" she says. "I'm in the middle of updating it. How did you come across it?"</span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></strong>
<span style="font-size: large;">How did I come across it? What a question. I picked it up from a Christian book store 20 years ago, as I stood there feeling alone in the aisle of pain and misery. As I stood there wanting a family with all my heart and wondering if God would come through for me. After I took that book into my home and devoured it with my whole being, my pastor at that time, Dr. Robert Jeffress, asked me to start and lead an infertility support group for our church.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Holding that little book in my hands, I remember all the doors that God opened for me through the years.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_8928 (2)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4445" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/11/dsc_8928-2.jpg" width="750" />Page after page turned in my life, and new words were written over my story ... my life came alive. God gave me two girls. God gave me a family. God came through with my heart's desire since childhood.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="girlspink05fallrockfish 014 (5)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-4375" height="713" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/11/girlspink05fallrockfish-014-5.jpg" width="750" /><strong>"I can't tell you what your book meant to me," I write. "Thank you. You were a light in a very scary time."</strong></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong><br /></strong></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I bow my head again.</span><br />
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<span style="color: #543d12;"><span style="font-size: large;"> <em>Father, thank you. I follow you, but you followed me first. You loved me first. Your love conquers all fear. You know exactly how to wrap up the chapters in my life. And tie it off with a gold and pink bow. I'm thankful The End of this life hasn't come. I'm thankful you let me say "thank you" after 20 years. I'm thankful that Deb made herself vulnerable and emptied her heart on those pages so that I could find courage. Thank you for leading me to her words that became marked on my heart so long ago.</em></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #543d12;"><span style="font-size: large;"><em><br /></em></span></span>
<span style="color: #543d12;"><em><span style="font-size: large;">I like it, God. I so <span style="color: red;">♥</span> it.</span></em></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: large;">Have you had a chance to say thank you to someone who helped you so long ago? Maybe someone who didn't even know they'd helped you? I'd love to hear your story.</span></em>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-33930549151777187402017-10-24T20:07:00.000-07:002017-10-24T20:07:35.655-07:00Pulling A Biddy: Michelle Ule--Author Of Mrs. Oswald Chambers--& A Giveaway<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<strong><span style="font-size: large;">"I took a train from Edinburgh to Glasgow by myself on what happened to be my wedding anniversary, looking for a man at a train station carrying a copy of <em>My Utmost for His Highest</em>!" </span></strong><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></strong>
<span style="font-size: large;">"You did?" I say aloud, smiling over my favorite line of Michelle Ule's author-interview notes to me and admiring her bravery. <span style="color: #543c19;">She was "pulling a Biddy," as she calls it--<strong>confident in God, no matter the circumstances.</strong></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #543c19;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></strong></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Michelle asked the train-station stranger, a member of the Oswald Chambers Publications Association, <strong>"Have you thought about having a biography written about Biddy?" </strong>(Shortly after Oswald Chambers met Gertrude Annie Hobbs—later to be a Chambers—he nicknamed her "Beloved Disciple," which shortened to "B.D." And she was "Biddy" for the rest of her life.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Sitting across the table from her now, steam rising off his Scottish meal, the stranger laughed. <strong>"Who knows? Maybe you're the one to write it."</strong></span><br />
<strong><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></strong>
<span style="font-size: large;">Michelle shook her head. <strong>"I'm a novelist."</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As time progressed, Michelle continued to pen her novel, which includes Oswald Chambers as a marquee character, but the stranger's words, regarding writing Biddy Chambers's biography, lodged deep into her heart. <strong><span style="color: #543c19;">And while climbing through the pages of Oswald Chambers's history, she fell in love with his wife, Biddy.</span></strong></span><br />
<strong><span style="color: #543c19;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></strong>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Why, Michelle? Why did you fall in love with Biddy?</strong> What was it about her? My hand glides over the notes that I've read repeatedly, over Michelle's words that have wedged into my heart. I press God for direction on writing about Michelle seeking Biddy. In confusion, I hug my daughter and say into her golden hair, "I can't do this." Some things are too big for me. I google an image of the book cover of <em>Oswald Chambers: Abandoned to God</em> on the internet and ponder direction. My computer crashes--the blue screen of death--and I know in my heart that it's no accident because<strong> resistance signals importance.</strong> And I know in my heart that I must press forward. Because I want to pull a Biddy, like Michelle. I want to see what Michelle saw, with her heart, in Biddy's heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Because I knew that Oswald Chambers wrote <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Utmost-His-Highest-Oswald-Chambers/dp/1627076727/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1508900484&sr=8-3&keywords=my+utmost+for+his+highest"><i>My Utmost for His Highest</i></a>, the best-selling devotional in print for over 90 years. <b>But I didn't know that his wife did his bidding some 10 years after his death. </b>He died at 43, you see. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Turning the page of my interview notes and slipping further into pain, I long for time and distance to clear. Because I want to wrap Biddy and Michelle in a hug. You see, Biddy found herself a widow, a single mother, and penniless at 34. But like so many, Biddy knew hardship. She had suffered from acute bronchitis as a teen, and as her health declined, her parents pulled her out of school.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But desiring to help her family financially, Biddy became a spectacular stenographer, according to Michelle, producing 250 words per minute. And in her days with Oswald, she recorded by hand every lecture that he presented to the missionary trainees at their Bible Training College. After his death, instead of choosing security, somewhere hovering over that beloved grave-site, dressed in stark black and wearing a full veil, she placed both feet on the path of poverty and spent her life turning those notes into 30 books with Oswald's name on each cover.</span><br />
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<strong><span style="font-size: large;">Biddy published all of his books <em>after</em> he died.</span></strong><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Rolling every penny back into producing the next book, she didn't use the money for herself or her child.</span><br />
<blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;">Their daughter Kathleen shared: "If my mother hadn't had bronchitis, she probably wouldn't have had the opportunity of learning shorthand to that extent. <strong>My father always used to talk about God's order in the haphazard, and that was haphazard in a way.</strong> If she hadn't had the shorthand speed like that, there wouldn't have been any books at all. None whatever."</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;">Those books. Biddy reserved the right to mail those books, free of charge, to missionaries around the world, and she would do that--encourage them with Oswald's words--for 30 years, because knowing Jesus and sharing the Gospel was of utmost importance to them.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sas1Se5bzwE/We_9iJcIVdI/AAAAAAAAFEo/0L7DUJYaKpoOY5ZqzONMMZ_q5naGA-r8gCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC_8585%2B%25282%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="498" data-original-width="750" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-sas1Se5bzwE/We_9iJcIVdI/AAAAAAAAFEo/0L7DUJYaKpoOY5ZqzONMMZ_q5naGA-r8gCLcBGAs/s1600/DSC_8585%2B%25282%2529.JPG" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">I turn the page of my notes to find more devastation: the London Blitz of WWII destroyed all the books warehoused near St. Paul's Cathedral. Biddy hadn't insured them, and the loss threatened to end her publishing house. <strong>Biddy said, "If that's God will, we'll do something else."</strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But Biddy found books and publishing plates, and she resumed her self-publishing ministry.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Biddy Chambers's life," shared Michelle, "is one of a woman devoted to God's greatest glory, despite obstacles and difficulties that would have challenged the best of us. She remained committed to God and the vision and calling He put on her life, despite countless heartaches. From her, we can learn a great deal about faith, commitment, and the ways God uses the unexpected, <strong>the haphazard as it were</strong>, to produce blessings to a lost world. <em><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Utmost-His-Highest-Oswald-Chambers/dp/1627076727/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&qid=1508900484&sr=8-3&keywords=my+utmost+for+his+highest">My Utmost for His Highest</a><span id="goog_82586314"></span><a href="https://www.blogger.com/"></a><span id="goog_82586315"></span></em> would not have been written if Oswald Chambers had not died. <strong>Is a book worth a life?</strong></span></blockquote>
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<blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;">"If you think over the last 90 years--from the encouragement <em>My Utmost for His Highest</em> gave people through financial depression, war (copies were smuggled into POW camps during WWII), political oppression, and general life--<span style="color: #543c19;">a deeper understanding of what it means to love God came through the work of one woman who gave her utmost for God's highest glory</span>. <strong>Can we do any less?</strong></span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"My personal faith has grown as a result of spending the last 4 years with Biddy and Oswald. It's been an honor to bring this story to light, and I'm grateful I could participate."</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;"><strong>Why, Michelle? Why?</strong> Why did you give 4 years to Oswald and Biddy? I turn my notes over, as a smile inches over my face, and scribble over the page: <em>Love</em>. That's why. It all backtracks to love--the kind that sinks down and lodges deep into a heart.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And with much of her life paralleling Biddy's as she wrote and traveled through the Chamberses' history--rejoicing as they rejoiced, mourning as they mourned, suffering as they suffered--<strong>Michelle endured as they endured</strong>, regardless of the obstacles and setbacks along her writing journey of <em>Mrs. Oswald Chambers</em>.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: large;">You did.</span></em><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<span style="color: #61431a;"><strong><span style="font-size: large;">Michelle Ule pulled a Biddy.</span></strong></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bestselling author Michelle Ule is the biographer of <em>Mrs. Oswald Chambers: The Woman Behind the World’s Bestselling Devotional </em>and seven other books. You can learn more about her and read further blog posts about Biddy and Oswald Chambers at her website: <a href="http://www.michelleule.com/">www.michelleule.com</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">You can also find Michelle on <a href="https://www.facebook.com/MIchelleUlewriter/">Facebook</a>, <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/michelleule">Pinterest</a>, and <a href="https://twitter.com/Michelleule">Twitter</a>.</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: large;">Michelle is giving away one paperback copy of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Mrs-Oswald-Chambers-Bestselling-Devotional/dp/0801075149/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1507043015&sr=8-1&keywords=mrs.+oswald+chambers">Mrs. Oswald Chambers</a>, which released October 17, 2017. Leave a comment below for a chance to win! (Winner randomly selected October 31, 2017 and must have Continental U. S. mailing address.) You can find the book at <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Mrs-Oswald-Chambers-Bestselling-Devotional/dp/0801075149/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1507043015&sr=8-1&keywords=mrs.+oswald+chambers">Amazon</a> or <a href="http://bakerpublishinggroup.com/books/mrs-oswald-chambers/384330">Baker Publishing Group</a>, as well.</span></em><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hRaHj6ybfh4/We83-81lWgI/AAAAAAAAFEM/gslmpcyKHEMXEs7xO3QOR7sBz0xthyt8wCLcBGAs/s1600/Biddy%2527s%2BCover%2B-%2BCopy%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="328" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hRaHj6ybfh4/We83-81lWgI/AAAAAAAAFEM/gslmpcyKHEMXEs7xO3QOR7sBz0xthyt8wCLcBGAs/s1600/Biddy%2527s%2BCover%2B-%2BCopy%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Among Christian devotional works, <em>My Utmost for His Highest</em> stands head and shoulders above the rest, with more than 13 million copies sold. But most readers have no idea that Oswald Chambers's most famous work was not published until ten years after his death. The remarkable person behind its compilation and publication was his wife, Biddy.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Bestselling novelist Michelle Ule brings Biddy's story to life as she traces her from her upbringing in Victorian England to her experiences in a WWI YMCA camp in Egypt to her return to post-war Britain, a destitute widow with a toddler in tow. Refusing personal payment, Biddy published thirty books with her husband's name on the covers, all while raising a child alone, providing hospitality to a never-ending stream of visitors and missionaries, and nearly losing everything in the London Blitz during WWII.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This inspiring story of a devoted woman ahead of her time will quickly become a favorite of anyone who loves true stories of overcoming incredible odds, making a life out of nothing, and serving God's kingdom.</span><br />
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<span style="color: olive;"><em><span style="font-size: large;">To Michelle: I'm so in awe of you for giving your utmost for God's highest glory. I hear you, all the way from California to Texas. You make me love God more. Love, Shelli ♥</span></em></span><br />
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<span style="color: #61441c;"><span style="font-size: large;">Have you "pulled a Biddy" like Michelle, <strong>confident in God, no matter the circumstances</strong>? Would you share? Leave a comment, and you'll be entered into the drawing for a chance to win a copy of <strong><em>Mrs. Oswald Chambers</em></strong>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #61441c;"><br /></span>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-91026184938137353022017-09-08T14:10:00.001-07:002017-09-08T14:10:36.914-07:00Don't Be Afraid To Try Something New<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I'd like a painting for my office," he requests. "Will you try?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I don't want to." My daughter's voice floats into the kitchen.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I will." The words spill from my mouth. I'm not a painter, but I'd like to try something new.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_8166 (9)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3741" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/dsc_8166-9.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I gather the materials--canvas, paints, brushes. It's getting expensive.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When the house is quiet, I lay my three canvas pieces on the table. Paving the way, my hand begins sketching.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Finally, my brush strokes the canvas ... little by little. And I love every glorious minute of it.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I finish working each afternoon, I keep the sections hidden away through the rest of the day, until it's ready. A birthday present.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I venture outside over the following days. The beautiful weather warms my heart. The breeze--such a gift.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7105 (6)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3666" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/dsc_7105-6.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My unsteady hand wobbles, and the paintbrush shifts over of the sketched line. As I'm sitting there, in the daylight, all I see is the mess I've made. The outside border of my attempted subject is too wide, messy. And in the process of tucking them away, I've hit one canvas against another, and paint smears.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Why? I'm not ...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #5c4b1c;">I won't give up.</span> I haven't come this far to give up. When the paint is dry, I decide to try ... Focusing on steady, I take my foundation white and patch over the messy umber.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">With the tip of the paintbrush between my lips, I evaluate the project. <em>It's not so bad. </em><span style="color: #5c4b1c;">Perfectly imperfect has to be okay.</span> Because, well ... it's me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7099 (5)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3665" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/dsc_7099-5.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My heart is nudged. I remember the beautiful canvas we are all given at the onset of life. And look ... the smear, the mess I made. But you, O Lord, you painted me new. The crimson ran down to white, to pure. <span style="color: #5c4b1c;">Free, yet so expensive a cost</span>. You took your foundation and made me ... changed me, covered me. My spiritual birthday--the gift that never stops giving, never stops covering.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But the destroyer creeps in, going into hidden places where he doesn't belong, and pulls me out. He works with ease to scrape away the new, revealing my old, reminding me of my old ... the times I stroked my brush out of line ... the embarrassment of the ugly, the smears, the beyond ugly ...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Not to help, but to hurt. And he so hurts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And I wonder why I allow it. Why do I get pulled out? Time after time. O Soul Within, why ...?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Father, help me "take refuge in the shadow of your wings until the disaster has passed" (Psalm 57:1), where I'm loved every glorious minute. Give me the "I will" .... For you only. My eyes focused intently on you. Unashamed. Because that's where I'm ready. That's where I'm perfectly imperfect.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Until that day, when all is revealed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #5c4b1c;">O Soul Within, don't be afraid to try something new</span>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7196 - Copy (6)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3667" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/dsc_7196-copy-6.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<em><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></em>
<span style="font-size: large;"><em>"Holy Spirit, blow peace, joy, and love in and through us today."</em>--<a href="https://greenlightlady.wordpress.com/">Wendy Macdonald</a></span><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: large;">Have you ventured out to try something new?</span></em><br />
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<em><span style="font-size: large;">*And I thought you might like to know that the painting is hanging on a wall in downtown Dallas right now. No matter how imperfect it is. Yikes!</span></em><br />
Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-81536088121732890822017-08-21T05:50:00.003-07:002017-08-21T07:32:08.212-07:00Shards Of Glass: Letting Go Of Fear In The Grip Of Pain<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Something pierces the inside of my cheek.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As I feel for the problem, piece after piece breaks apart. It’s not just one. More break apart, more crumble. Opening my mouth, I empty the multiplying fragments into my hands. Like shards of glass. With one sharp and shiny piece after another, my hands begin to fill. They never stop coming. So many. More than I can hold. I grasp for them."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7840 (6) - Copy" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3588" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/08/dsc_7840-6-copy.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<hr />
<span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes hard times--nightmares--call for dancing. Because so much has happened to my family since January--health issues, loss, rejection. Instead of allowing the broken pieces to fall into the hands of my Savior, I always tend to initially internalize the pain. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">So I am honored to be a guest writer at <a href="http://jerushaagen.com/shards-of-glass-letting-go-of-fear-in-the-grip-of-pain/"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Jerusha Agen's website,</span></a> sharing about my struggles in dealing and not dealing with the pain and fear. I appreciate Jerusha for the invitation.<span style="color: #0b5394;"> <a href="http://jerushaagen.com/shards-of-glass-letting-go-of-fear-in-the-grip-of-pain/"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Please click on the link to join me there for more of the story ...</span></a> </span><span style="color: #783f04;">and a giveaway.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Love, Shelli</span>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-78180546686454293112017-08-02T11:46:00.000-07:002017-08-02T11:46:43.763-07:00A Lady Still Longs For A Gentleman<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"What do you think about a gentleman?" I ask.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Her eyes shine, a smile inching across her face, and she gathers her knees to her chest. "I love when Harry rises when Ginny walks into the room."</span><br />
<hr />
<span style="font-size: large;">Dear Daughter ...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When many say that in our day chivalry is no longer demanded, wanting not your heart to believe the lies, I'll be a little more candid.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When searching for the qualities to seek in this modern age, Daughter, let's open wide the Bible and respectfully turn the page.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7483 (5) - Copy" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3460" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/07/dsc_7483-5-copy.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When you are weak, needing strength, and struggling to see this thing thru, He will take your lifeless body and breathe life back into you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When you're feeling abandoned, lost, not knowing what to do, He'll offer you his hand, giving counseling and guidance, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When past mistakes try to compress the air from the weighted chest, He'll cast them all away, as far as the east is from the west.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When bad choices seem to define you in all the perceived land, He'll push back your attackers, drawing a firm line into the sand.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When your simple, best attempts somehow seem to become divine, it's because he'll turn the humble water into the choicest wine.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7486 (5) - Copy" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3547" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/08/dsc_7486-5-copy.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">When needs are short, supplies are few, and takers come in droves, He'll take the little you possess and multiply the loaves.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When your downcast face reveals the painful details of your day, He'll listen to your earnest heart, hearing every word you say.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When you're dying inside, a harmful action could surely kill, He'll sooth your heart with gentle words; His loving touch will heal.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When you are blinded by the enemy's daily, constant lies, The Gentleman's hand will grace your face and open wide your eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When at the end of all your self, conviction jabbing like a knife, He'll give you hope anew that day by laying down his life.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7462 (5) - Copy" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3459" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/07/dsc_7462-5-copy.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Oh, Daughter ...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When you feel confused, Dear One, you needn't wonder any more; simply knock, and He will answer, opening every door.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When He treats with favor, rising with your entry to a room, know these are the gracious actions of a gentle, treasured groom.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">When you hear the world's many false complaints against the God-made plan, Daughter, fix your eyes and take the strong hand of the Gentle Man.</span><br />
<h6>
<em><span style="font-size: large;">©shelli littleton</span></em></h6>
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_7400 (5) - Copy" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3458" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/07/dsc_7400-5-copy.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"God created man in his own image ..." --Genesis 1:27</span><br />
<hr />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">I've heard men say that some women won't let them open the door for them. Unreal. I want my daughters to value those kind actions ... to seek that gentleness and respect, because there are ladies who still treasure those actions. What do you want young people to know?</span></em>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-12090231053728295062017-07-07T13:14:00.000-07:002017-07-07T13:14:26.850-07:00A Crown-Of-Thorns Moment<span style="font-size: large;">Trying to hold my heart and stomach in place where they belong, I take the long walk from the dining room to the stairwell. "Honey?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes, Mom."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My hand grips the stair rail, and I lean hard against the wall. "I waited too late to get the tickets. They're all sold out. I'm so sorry. Please forgive me."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"It's okay, Mom." That's all. She seemed genuine in her forgiveness. There's nothing more I can say or do. If I could have an outer body experience and get behind myself, I'd kick myself. My hands drop to my sides in the quiet, and I walk away. How could I have been so ...? She'd been asking for weeks about going to see her friend in the Fiddler on the Roof play, a high school play. She wanted to go for support. And she'd been in the same play a few years back. And I'd let her down.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I pull out a chair and sit down at the dining room table. Footsteps speed down the stairs. The garage door opens. "I'm going walking." Her voice ... something unpleasant in her voice.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I thought you forgave me," I say. I'm sensing other feelings have begun to emerge. She'd had a few moments to think. The door shuts. <em>I thought you forgave me.</em></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><em><br /></em></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I wait all I can. I walk out the door and see no sign of her. She's on the trail, I figure. The sheep aren't in the pen, so she must have let them out. I cut through the middle of the back property. The fabric of her white capris summons me through the forest of trees, the greenery. She's sitting on the swing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I feel like a fallen tree, humbled to my knee.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_6370 (4)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3207" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/dsc_6370-4.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">The two sheep stand there, staring at me, accusing me, almost daring my approach. Like she'd poured out her very soul, her feelings, to the sheep ... and now, everyone knows.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My stomach and heart plunge. I wipe off a spot on the swing and sit down. "I'm really sorry. I feel awful. I didn't want to go to the play without dad, and once I found out he was going with us, there were so many seats still available ... I got busy with work. And I just can't believe they sold out so fast. I can't believe I did that." I twist my hands. "Maybe it's dad's fault." We both laugh.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"It's really okay, Mom." She smiles at me. We talk it through. "Think we could do pizza and a movie tonight? Something fun?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Sure."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We head back through the trail, toward the barn. "Look, Mom. This is a mesquite tree. We had these in San Angelo." She points across the path. "And another one."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_6213 (4)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3000" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/dsc_6213-4.jpg" width="750" /><img alt="DSC_6212 (4)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-2999" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/dsc_6212-4.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"It sure is." I can't believe it. I'd never noticed them before. Two mesquite trees amongst all the oak and cedar. "We had these in Wichita Falls, too."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Look at the long thorns," she says in cautious admiration. She feels over the leaves on top, the groups of tiny leaves covering the thorns all the way down the limb. "But the leaves are so soft. Like roses, something so soft and pretty needs protecting." One sheep stands tall, trying to eat the leaves, and fearful that she'll poke out her eye, we manage to maneuver her front legs back to the ground. "Do you think this is like Jesus' crown of thorns?"</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_6208 (5)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-2998" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/dsc_6208-5.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"It probably is." I wind the long limb into a circle. "It's beautiful though, isn't it?" We stand there, imaging what it must have felt like to have those long thorns pierce through our foreheads, one by one, all the way around. Or maybe all at once. Gratitude fills my heart for the punishment He took for me.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Be careful, Mom. Don't let that pop back on you."</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><img alt="DSC_6253 - Copy (7)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3001" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/dsc_6253-copy-7.jpg" width="750" /><img alt="DSC_6254 - Copy (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-3002" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/05/dsc_6254-copy-3.jpg" width="750" /></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">"I will." I release it gently, moving back away and examining the events more closely.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">We begin our journey toward the house, sheep following. Peace links our hands together, our hearts together. The capacity of love--nailed to a tree, to be given away, free. A love so soft and pretty, it needs protecting. <strong>And I realize that she could have driven the thorns into my head, but she placed the soft side on me instead. </strong></span><br />
<hr />
<em><span style="font-size: large;">Have you had a moment of forgiveness that you can share about?</span></em>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-66328167440855097902017-06-06T13:16:00.002-07:002017-06-06T13:16:21.509-07:00New Website<br />
I'd love for you to join me at my new website ... <a href="http://shellilittleton.com/">Shellilittleton.com</a>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-89105269785457334562017-05-04T08:43:00.001-07:002017-05-04T08:43:23.544-07:00What Alzheimer's Can Never Take Away<br />
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: "Noto Serif", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
Sweet, familiar faces greet me at the glass screen door. Through tender hugs and peering over beloved shoulders, I begin my search for her. It's hard to believe this day is here. I'm amazed. Her kids weren't sure she'd live to see this day. It's been a rough road lately, I hear. But she's entered into the hour of her 80th birthday.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: "Noto Serif", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="17991234_10210741696651658_8583094109327804442_n (11)" class=" size-full wp-image-2905 aligncenter" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/17991234_10210741696651658_8583094109327804442_n-111.jpg?w=526" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/17991234_10210741696651658_8583094109327804442_n-111.jpg" height="526" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/17991234_10210741696651658_8583094109327804442_n-111.jpg?w=526" style="display: block; height: auto; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="526" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: "Noto Serif", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
The last time I was here, she conversed with me. She won't be able to today.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: "Noto Serif", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
I see her. I take in her sweet details from a distance.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: "Noto Serif", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<strong>She's so loved.</strong> Disease can take so much from a person. People can give up on you, and one can choose to give up on themselves and others, but from where I stand, <span data-mce-style="color: #6e460f;" style="color: #6e460f;"><strong>Alzheimer's can't take away your loves</strong>.</span> She is curled up on her side, on the couch, cuddled into her pillow and blanket. So much princess pink. Her loyal Maltese blends in to the white cotton pillowcase, taking up more pillow space than my aunt's precious face is. The beloved caregiver beckons the help of my cousin, the daughter, and they ease her to standing at the walker. The caregiver cups my aunt's face in her hands and kisses her forehead.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: "Noto Serif", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="Resized_20170425_122513 - Copy (2)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-2811" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/resized_20170425_122513-copy-2.jpeg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/resized_20170425_122513-copy-2.jpeg" height="421" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/resized_20170425_122513-copy-2.jpeg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /><img alt="Nove and Izzy (3)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-2911" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/nove-and-izzy-3.jpeg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/nove-and-izzy-3.jpeg" height="421" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/04/nove-and-izzy-3.jpeg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: "Noto Serif", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<strong>She's so strong</strong>, even in her weakness. Because she's all heart--all heart that fought for grandkids, that survived cancer, that survived the loss of two beloved children, that survived the loss of a husband, that fought and survived so much more than I'll ever be privy to. Her fragile fingers grip the walker rails. Because<span data-mce-style="color: #6e460f;" style="color: #6e460f;"><strong> Alzheimer's can't take away a fighting spirit</strong>. </span>Time after time, her kids wonder if she's being escorted away into the arms of God, but to everyone's surprise, He wonderfully escorts her wandering mind and body inch by inch to the table through the hands and feet of Christ. She takes a seat at the queen's chair, the candles are lit, and everyone gathers around her with love, in love.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: "Noto Serif", Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 16px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<b>Please join me for more of the story at my new</b> <b><a href="https://shellilittleton.com/2017/04/28/what-alzheimers-can-never-take-away/">website </a>...</b></div>
Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-36347919592008147832017-03-21T08:00:00.002-07:002017-03-21T08:00:37.353-07:00When You Are Losing Your Vision<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
I fuss in the car. "No one can check to see if they have $7 to loan me?" I huff and puff. The girls remain quiet. "I'm going to have to stop for money. Where can I stop? Time is short. I should've done this earlier today ..." I pull into the gas station, use the ATM machine, and hit the road again.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
Arriving at the church, I’m greeted and hugged by my cousin, and I hand over the ticket money.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
And I just feel ...</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
I’m trying to make peace.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
All 7 of us girls pile into a row of chairs.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="Resized_20170309_180217(1)" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-2184" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/03/resized_20170309_1802171.jpeg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/03/resized_20170309_1802171.jpeg" height="1280" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/03/resized_20170309_1802171.jpeg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="720" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
And the Lord waylays me.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
Anthony Evans … front and center. "Come, Lord, like a rushing wind. We are desperate for your presence. Revive us by your Spirit within. We want to see you again … <strong><span data-mce-style="color: #756e29;" style="color: #756e29;">We remember all the great things you have done. We believe that greater things are yet to come. </span></strong><strong><span data-mce-style="color: #756e29;" style="color: #756e29;">We remember all the great things you have done. We believe that greater things are yet to come."</span></strong></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
My hand lifts into the air. I remember, Lord.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
~~~</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<a href="https://shellilittleton.com/2017/03/14/when-you-are-losing-your-vision/?iframe=true&theme_preview=true">Head over to my new website to read more ... </a></div>
Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-63548167882854320892017-03-01T18:42:00.001-08:002017-03-01T18:42:44.717-08:00Living on the Border of Danger<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
My girl reclines in the dental chair. Her x-rays hang enlightened on the wall behind her.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
"You need to wear this retainer," the man says.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="resized_20170209_103443-3" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-2089" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/resized_20170209_103443-3.jpeg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/resized_20170209_103443-3.jpeg" height="421" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/resized_20170209_103443-3.jpeg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
Hard to believe two years had already passed, wearing braces. I didn't really want to get braces for this daughter because her teeth were straight, her bite was just off a bit. She had the cutest crooked smile. But the doctor insisted that her teeth wouldn't wear correctly, and she'd have trouble in her later years. But she had a gap in her front teeth for years, and I was told she needed this simple surgery to cut the gums between her teeth to allow her teeth to grow together. I didn't buy it. And sure enough, her two front teeth grew together over time without surgery. Why did she really need braces? We don't need perfection. My other daughter's braces came off months ago, and she constantly jokes that it looks like she's wearing dentures because her teeth are just too perfect. Too straight.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
The dental assistant jumps up and runs toward me. <strong>"Did you hear there's been a mountain lion spotted in your area?"</strong> She shows me a picture on her phone. "The dog at Tiger Mart got killed" (this is where we refuel our vehicles, and the sad irony ...?).</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
I want to buckle over with grief. </div>
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<a href="https://shellilittleton.com/"><span style="color: #783f04;">To read more, head over to my new website ... shellilittleton.com. I hope you'll join me. Life wouldn't be the same without you .... Just click on the link.</span></a></div>
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Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-49449221084196988082017-02-17T08:17:00.000-08:002017-02-17T08:17:36.831-08:00He Gave Me A Dr Pepper<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
When someone gives to me, I yearn to give in return. My heart is still melting into a little pool of mama love over my youngest daughter leaving a letter for me several weeks ago out in the mailbox that borders our property walking trail.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
The fragrance of chocolate wafts through the Valentine aisle as I select the perfect little heart box. And what are these? Tiny ceramic type decorations to stake into a potted plant. Mushrooms, squirrels, gnomes. Bright and colorful, except for the squirrel. I know ... I'll place these along the trail. Daughter's been out walking every day. I'll surprise her.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
The girls are gone. Finally. I race outside, insert the little heart box into the mailbox, sprinkle the ceramic decorations along the trail. It's time to wait.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
I'm not a good waiter. Do you remember that my daughter waited 6 weeks for me to notice her letter? <strong>Whatever she has, I don't.</strong></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
We return home from church. "You going walking today, daughter?" I try to hide my smile.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
"Why?" She sees right through me. Blast.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
The door closes, and I can't wait to hear from her. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
"Did you see anything?" I text her.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
She texts back an attachment picture of her hand, holding a broken piece of glass. Oh, my word. Am I going to have to show her?</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
She texts me back. She found the heart box. "Is this for me?" Yep. She's walking the trail, but she's still not opened her eyes to what I've left her.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<strong>Sometimes one has to search a little deeper for treasure.</strong></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="dsc_5115-4" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1835" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5115-4.jpg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5115-4.jpg" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5115-4.jpg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
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<img alt="dsc_5118-3" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1836" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5118-3.jpg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5118-3.jpg" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5118-3.jpg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
I race out, uniting with younger daughter. Our steps join in the same direction. "Keep your eyes open," I say. I'm mentally trying to identify just exactly what makes the heart worthy and open to receive from others, to uncover buried treasure.</div>
<h2 style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;">
<span data-mce-style="color: #993300;" style="color: #993300;">Find Someone To Love</span></h2>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
We come across the little gnome. She smiles while giving me that mom-you-are-ridiculous look.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
I laugh, a proud-mama moment.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="dsc_5124-2" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1834" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5124-2.jpg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5124-2.jpg" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5124-2.jpg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="dsc_5123-3" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1833" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5123-3.jpg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5123-3.jpg" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5123-3.jpg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<blockquote style="background: rgb(233, 239, 243); border-left: 2px solid rgb(135, 166, 188); color: #4f748e; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; hyphens: none; margin: 8px 0px 24px; padding: 16px; quotes: none;">
<div style="margin-bottom: 24px;">
My oldest 18-year-old daughter's words surface in my memory. "Do you remember Evan, Mom?"</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 24px;">
"No."</div>
"I used to buy Evan a Dr. Pepper on Wednesday nights at church."</blockquote>
<h2 style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;">
<span data-mce-style="color: #993300;" style="color: #993300;">T<strong>he Conditions Need To Be Just Right</strong></span></h2>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
Proceeding, the younger and I stumble across the mushrooms that I'd inserted into the soft soil. Both of them. One red. One blue.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="dsc_5121-2" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1839" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5121-2.jpg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5121-2.jpg" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5121-2.jpg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="dsc_5120-2" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1838" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5120-2.jpg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5120-2.jpg" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5120-2.jpg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="dsc_5131-2" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1842" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5131-2.jpg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5131-2.jpg" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5131-2.jpg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="dsc_5119-2" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1837" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5119-2.jpg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5119-2.jpg" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5119-2.jpg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
"I touched it earlier. I thought it was real. It felt real."</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
We laugh. Another proud-mama moment.</div>
<blockquote style="background: rgb(233, 239, 243); border-left: 2px solid rgb(135, 166, 188); color: #4f748e; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; hyphens: none; margin: 8px 0px 24px; padding: 16px; quotes: none;">
Older daughter's voice floods my heart again<b>—</b>"I've worked with Evan at church since he was in kindergarten."</blockquote>
<h2 style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif;">
<span data-mce-style="color: #993300;" style="color: #993300;">Don't Miss The Blessing</span></h2>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
We reach the final one .... She searches all around, but she still can't see it. I bend down and brush my fingertips over the tiny squirrel holding a treasured acorn.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="dsc_5127-2" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1840" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5127-2.jpg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5127-2.jpg" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5127-2.jpg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<img alt="dsc_5128-2" class="alignnone size-full wp-image-1841" data-mce-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5128-2.jpg?w=680" data-wpmedia-src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5128-2.jpg" height="498" src="https://shellilittleton.files.wordpress.com/2017/02/dsc_5128-2.jpg?w=680" style="height: auto; max-width: 100%;" width="750" /></div>
<blockquote style="background: rgb(233, 239, 243); border-left: 2px solid rgb(135, 166, 188); color: #4f748e; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; hyphens: none; margin: 8px 0px 24px; padding: 16px; quotes: none;">
I recall older daughter's final words. "Mom, Evan's in 4th grade now, and every Wednesday, he now buys me a Dr. Pepper. He uses his allowance." I envision her smile, my smile.</blockquote>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
"This one's a bit camaflouged," I say to younger. Brown squirrel against brown dirt and nearby leaves. "You have to really be looking to see it."</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
Sometimes it seems we have to wait, and sometimes it seems we have to search.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
But we are loved.</div>
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<span data-mce-style="color: #993300;" style="color: #993300;"><strong>Love doesn't always come in a heart-shaped box.</strong></span></div>
<blockquote style="background: rgb(233, 239, 243); border-left: 2px solid rgb(135, 166, 188); color: #4f748e; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; hyphens: none; margin: 8px 0px 24px; padding: 16px; quotes: none;">
<em><strong><span data-mce-style="color: #800000;" style="color: maroon;">We love because He first loved us—1 John 4:19♥</span></strong></em></blockquote>
<hr style="background: rgb(200, 215, 225); border: 0px; color: #3d596d; cursor: default; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; height: 1px; margin: 8px 0px;" />
<div style="color: #3d596d; font-family: Merriweather, Georgia, "Times New Roman", Times, serif; font-size: 15px; margin-bottom: 24px;">
<em>What tips do you have for giving and receiving? How have you been loved recently in a not-so-heart-shaped-box way? </em></div>
Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-61136610634814260402017-02-07T11:03:00.002-08:002017-02-07T11:04:45.000-08:00I Have A New Website<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Hey, Friends. I wanted you to know that I've moved. My new website is <a href="https://shellilittleton.com/">shellilittleton.com</a>.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I hope you'll come over and visit.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Blessed by you,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Shelli</span>Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-53998803259205436322017-01-31T05:56:00.001-08:002017-01-31T07:41:46.932-08:00A Return to Family Devotion<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I inch the door open. Two teeners are playing. I'm so happy to see them playing, taking life by the reins. Like they used to. <b>When did life get so serious? </b></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">One's perched on the other's back, having turned into some type of cowgirl. The other's on all fours, and somehow I'm waiting for a "neigh" to bellow out of her mouth. Instead, all contagious laughs, giggles, smiles.</span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kKJs_ULUa2Q/WI9_ZAhK6II/AAAAAAAAE5E/ZUh0_ECw9AcvibgzKZxzg8Ocfty-GF7bQCLcB/s1600/Scan_Pic0014%2B-%2BCopy%2B%25285%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-kKJs_ULUa2Q/WI9_ZAhK6II/AAAAAAAAE5E/ZUh0_ECw9AcvibgzKZxzg8Ocfty-GF7bQCLcB/s1600/Scan_Pic0014%2B-%2BCopy%2B%25285%2529.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J19_65dLPgo/WI-CYcmgLyI/AAAAAAAAE5Q/eABRwGkeGVEoMqZ5_eINjM65eDTJiyXWQCLcB/s1600/Scan_Pic0064%2B-%2BCopy%2B%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-J19_65dLPgo/WI-CYcmgLyI/AAAAAAAAE5Q/eABRwGkeGVEoMqZ5_eINjM65eDTJiyXWQCLcB/s1600/Scan_Pic0064%2B-%2BCopy%2B%25284%2529.jpg" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">"What?" I nearly fall over laughing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">They jump up, place sweet hands in mine.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">It's bedtime.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Do y'all want to start reading together through the New-Testament-in-a-year?" I ask the girls, switching gears and interrupting their Lone Ranger and Silver moment. But it's been weighing heavily on my heart. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Both nod so eagerly.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Whew! Because I'm going on fumes right now.</span><br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fPOeh0-r0u0/WI9-kdiF27I/AAAAAAAAE48/lEBY8xFBLqYhUo4r96ORvgFVab7nESehgCLcB/s1600/DSC_5088%2B%25287%2529%2B-%2BCopy%2B-%2BCopy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fPOeh0-r0u0/WI9-kdiF27I/AAAAAAAAE48/lEBY8xFBLqYhUo4r96ORvgFVab7nESehgCLcB/s1600/DSC_5088%2B%25287%2529%2B-%2BCopy%2B-%2BCopy.JPG" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b><br /></b>
<b><span style="color: #783f04;">And I need to get at least one weight off my heart.</span> Taking something off my shoulders would be nice, too.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We always did pretty good at family devotions when the girls were small. But things shifted somehow. I tried to get them started on Bible Gateway, helping them establish their own routine. No more "we" but <b><span style="color: #783f04;">God in thee</span></b>. That went good for a while, but like with all things, discipline tiptoes out the door, and we're left crumpled on the floor. And that's a complete disservice to my girls.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I need jumper cables. Um, okay ... spurs kicking into my sides.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Because when serious sickness enters your home, even teens can only go on fumes for so long. Anxiety hugs the heart, pinching in the night, demanding conversation.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And one daughter wraps her arms around me. My teetertotter emotions .... "I understand, Mama. Shh. It's okay." I adore her motherly way. <b>What gave it away? </b>Hands that I used to hold everywhere<b style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; line-height: 25.2px;"><span style="line-height: 22.4px;">—</span></span></span></b>once so tiny with tiny nails that I used to clip with the baby clippers<b style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; line-height: 25.2px;"><span style="line-height: 22.4px;">—</span></span></span></b>soothed over my face, wiping away the moisture. Tight hugs. My other daughter gifts me with one, too.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Life has been so busy. Where has my time with them gone?</span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lYgNmg7Pm2M/WI-Copy2gUI/AAAAAAAAE5U/gCV-XgcGpwIRYGH8h_-yxmcTf1dvfETfQCLcB/s1600/Scan_Pic0021%2B%25282%2529%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-lYgNmg7Pm2M/WI-Copy2gUI/AAAAAAAAE5U/gCV-XgcGpwIRYGH8h_-yxmcTf1dvfETfQCLcB/s1600/Scan_Pic0021%2B%25282%2529%2B-%2BCopy.jpg" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Is it okay for a mama to admit she's scared? She's scared of the present, the past, the future. She's scared of every day she tried to make it on her own and failed miserably. She's terrified of the scars etched into her heart from days without holding her Savior's hand. She's scared of every reminder, every memory. She wishes for white-out, do-overs, the delete key for her heart. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">What does she yearn for more than anything for her girls? A clean piece of paper, a clean heart. One prepped and ready to type God's beautiful future, beautiful present on their hearts, to accompany their beautiful pasts.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But we can't pour out our heart's desire on that blank page what we aren't pouring in. The page will be written on, but it won't be desirous, the Godly way. It'll never sell.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>And when I'm too tired, I'm reminded I'm too tired not to.</b> I'm loading dirty dishes in the dishwaser, and I don't think I have the stamina to finish, but I will. That's my disciplined, determined self talking. And I'll collapse into that bed.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And a brush of wind swirls past me, sweet arms envelope me. "You ready to read our devotion?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"We better do it now, while I can." <b>Anxiety only falls away when we fall into the arms of God.</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We plop down onto the floor, circle around, maybe hit the couch, maybe climb into my bed .... She takes my phone, hits the Bible Gateway App.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XinQSzRWM3M/WI-_JHITgQI/AAAAAAAAE6E/VTN-TdYZVvcHuh9hhu2ooE1aKdfKbZpXACLcB/s1600/DSC_5093%2B%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XinQSzRWM3M/WI-_JHITgQI/AAAAAAAAE6E/VTN-TdYZVvcHuh9hhu2ooE1aKdfKbZpXACLcB/s1600/DSC_5093%2B%25283%2529.JPG" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">"The verse of the day," she says, "is Ephesians 4:2<b style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; line-height: 25.2px;"><span style="line-height: 22.4px;">—</span></span></span></b>'Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love.'" She clicks on "Begin A Reading Plan" and continues right where we left off. "Matthew 20:1-16," she says. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Verse 16 ends with, "So the last will be first, and the first will be last."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We all chuckle. "I used to say that to you when you were small all the time," I say. "I wanted you to be giving. It feels good to give." And I didn't want them to fight. But my version usually came out like<b style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: arial, tahoma, helvetica, freesans, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; line-height: 25.2px;"><span style="line-height: 22.4px;">—</span></span></span></b>"If you want to be first, you have to be last." And that's where I might blow a raspberry, if I were that kind of mama.</span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6smD_ZM0opw/WI-38erzHUI/AAAAAAAAE5o/jnXAn5MlHLITmjzZD5c9eYcp55vCgIbMACLcB/s1600/Scan_Pic0056%2B%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-6smD_ZM0opw/WI-38erzHUI/AAAAAAAAE5o/jnXAn5MlHLITmjzZD5c9eYcp55vCgIbMACLcB/s1600/Scan_Pic0056%2B%25284%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">fishing in the swimming pool ... caught a plastic fish each and every time</td></tr>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zBVBcIpM4Ho/WI-5UoNYBqI/AAAAAAAAE50/Defhcau-wb0oWpjZkb0ySwuLIKheIvqvwCLcB/s1600/Scan_Pic0086%2B-%2BCopy%2B%25284%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zBVBcIpM4Ho/WI-5UoNYBqI/AAAAAAAAE50/Defhcau-wb0oWpjZkb0ySwuLIKheIvqvwCLcB/s1600/Scan_Pic0086%2B-%2BCopy%2B%25284%2529.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">floaties in the shallow end</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: large;">They laugh. Then nod.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"I remember, Mama. I say that to all my Sunday school kids," one daughter admits.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yes. They haven't forgotten. Full circle. God is writing on their hearts. The giving has been received. <b><span style="color: #783f04;">Because when we give, we always receive. </span></b>An honest servant is always rewarded in time. <b><span style="color: #783f04;">It might seem like a rough draft, but it's the real, published deal, where purchases are final. </span></b>It's sitting on the heart-shelf, waiting to be taken, to be given to their friends, anyone blessed enough to receive from their hands, maybe their future kids.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We take the limited time in this life together by the reins.</span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">A return to family devotion.</span></b><br />
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<b><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">~~~</span></b></div>
<b><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;"><i>Do you have a family devotion? Have you had to take life by the reins recently? </i></span><br />
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Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-90020883944644830612017-01-17T14:04:00.000-08:002017-01-17T18:23:30.869-08:00I Guess I'd Follow My Daughter Anywhere<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"I wish he would quiet down," said someone ... I can't remember who. "Boy, that's annoying."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ever since we let Azzie, our cat, out of the house for a few moments while we hung up the Christmas lights, he's been completely discontent. We never let the cats out much because ... this right here. <b>The cat balks louder and louder, over and over. </b>And not to mention the summer fleas, the many critters excluding the fleas that would eat him alive. And boy, what if he ran under the deck? </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And right now, it's cold. It's snowing. It's actually snowing (it snowed one day, a week ago ... you get the idea). A novelty in these parts of Texas. And the wind is whipping around something fierce.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My snow-girl. Her New Year's resolutions are to become well-rounded and to get in shape.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />My daughter goes to her room and places on her winter gear. She puts the collar and leash on Azzie. He's really balking now. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My daughter. I'm not surprised. She'll go the extra mile for anyone, especially those she loves. Every Sunday, during "shake-a-hand" moment, she walks all the way across the church to hug and talk to our realtor, the first person we met when we moved here and the very one to invite us to her church, our church. Yes, she ventures all the way there because she loves Ms. Frances. I love her, too, but I'm not so great at going the extra mile. I wave across the way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But that's my daughter. She'll walk the extra mile. She'll brave the new ice cream flavor, while I stick to the safe mint chocolate chip. But she lets me try the new. She'd give her last dime. Her last bite. Her coat. She loves the lovely and unlovely. She doesn't meet a stranger these days. My shy, quiet daughter is coming into her own God-given gifts. A friend to all. A giver.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The wind rattles the house, along with the windows.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My daughter picks up the cat, opens the front door, steps her new boots out into the snow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I throw on my winter gear, grab my camera because when it's all said and done, I guess I'd follow her anywhere. And I want to love like she loves. And I want to capture her love on camera. </span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aOGBtt6T9I8/WHZnOdgg0UI/AAAAAAAAE3c/RS2flBpMwn4fxiC7_IgFiHHvsHgOIg-zgCLcB/s1600/DSC_4617%2B%25284%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aOGBtt6T9I8/WHZnOdgg0UI/AAAAAAAAE3c/RS2flBpMwn4fxiC7_IgFiHHvsHgOIg-zgCLcB/s1600/DSC_4617%2B%25284%2529.JPG" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">She sets Azzie down into the snow. He leaves a trail of paw prints.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And in no time, we're all outside.</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_01dEgzU0Sg/WHZokK5Dr2I/AAAAAAAAE34/3nLONbSxNUIIFZEPIbvHQbm_XnoLqvVAQCLcB/s1600/DSC_4740%2B%25284%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_01dEgzU0Sg/WHZokK5Dr2I/AAAAAAAAE34/3nLONbSxNUIIFZEPIbvHQbm_XnoLqvVAQCLcB/s1600/DSC_4740%2B%25284%2529.JPG" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And almost lying prostrate for a good photo, I think about the prints I'm leaving on this world, on my girls, on my friends ...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I want to leave the kind of heart-prints my daughter has left on me. I want to throw open the door, brave the wind and cold, the unknown, and step out in love ... to love. And I know if I ever step out, I'll never be content to stay inside.</span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">What moves you to action? Others' words or actions? </span></i></div>
Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-631802000219417479.post-550566027762892842017-01-04T17:55:00.001-08:002017-01-04T18:03:13.992-08:00A 16-Year-Old's Guide For A Happy New Year<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">"Do you want to walk the trail with me?" I asked my dear friend.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Yes!"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I wanted to hold her hand and skip down the lane. Could my heart contain the happiness inside? Or would it burst from joy? I hadn't seen my dear friend in over 20 years. We'd moved to Spokane, Washington, in my mid 20s with the air force. We bought a home in the country and immediately formed a tight bond with a farming community. My friend, a farmer's wife, welcomed me into her home, church, heart. We loved each other like sisters from the start and only had a short time together before we returned to Texas. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">She and her family came to Texas to vacation last week (I want to think I influenced her a bit), and they spent New Year's Eve with us.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">We headed to the back property, released the sheep, and made our way around the trail. I couldn't take the smile off my face, the definition of happy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Is that a mailbox?" my friend asked. "What's that doing out here?"</span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-587UXpd9edE/WG1u-uWlOKI/AAAAAAAAE1w/T1TT_9LcZ74cjjI46BTvv74Qh6_QA_TNACLcB/s1600/DSC_4610%2B%25283%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-587UXpd9edE/WG1u-uWlOKI/AAAAAAAAE1w/T1TT_9LcZ74cjjI46BTvv74Qh6_QA_TNACLcB/s1600/DSC_4610%2B%25283%2529.JPG" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">It's an acceptable question that I find myself explaining to everyone. We didn't want to leave it behind, so we brought it with us when we moved. It was a truck, but it began to deteriorate over time, so we took off parts here and there, keeping the bare necessity. Now, it looks like a set of bulging yellow eyes staring at you. It's planted right across from the swing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"We write letters to each other ... or at least, we used to. Like love notes. Now, it mostly holds used popsicle sticks, spider webs."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The red flag stood tall. My husband pulled the handle down, revealing mail. Mail? <b>Mail!</b></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Three letters. One was addressed to: Mom (that's me)</span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J4kNgNxVfj0/WG1vXCglBtI/AAAAAAAAE18/xINu98GZ3EUTWmj8C-ILO7LWgvcvJM8AwCLcB/s1600/DSC_4605%2B%25284%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-J4kNgNxVfj0/WG1vXCglBtI/AAAAAAAAE18/xINu98GZ3EUTWmj8C-ILO7LWgvcvJM8AwCLcB/s1600/DSC_4605%2B%25284%2529.JPG" /></span></a></div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D2vaEsFjF3M/WG1vW-m_WMI/AAAAAAAAE14/F209w9ptYaMnQ92MhFNktGD4jzwGUn6XQCLcB/s1600/DSC_4606%2B%25284%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-D2vaEsFjF3M/WG1vW-m_WMI/AAAAAAAAE14/F209w9ptYaMnQ92MhFNktGD4jzwGUn6XQCLcB/s1600/DSC_4606%2B%25284%2529.JPG" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I opened it ... from my Katelyn. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I teared up a tiny bit. I read it out loud to my friend, unable to share it fast enough. It was just one of those proud mama moments ... raw, tender ... for someone else to see the love your child really does have for you as a parent. Three paragraphs, three points, that pave the way for my 2017. And I'll be glad to loan them to you, too. </span><br />
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<b><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">1. Apologize</span></b><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">To Mom:</span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">I love you, Mom. Sorry for acting horrible when you guys want to watch something. I don't know what's got me agitated recently ...</span></i><br />
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<b><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">2. Encourage</span></b><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Mom, you need to keep writing. You are great at that (and everything else. You are the best mother someone could ask for). I love all the books you write.</span></i><br />
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<b><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;">3. Love</span></b><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">You are the best thing anyone could ask for. Keep doing what you're doing. I love you so, so much.</span></i><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">--Katelyn</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That's my Katelyn. She doesn't like watching TV much, she reads everything I write, and when she loves, she really loves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I gave her a big hug when I got inside. </span><span style="font-size: large;">"Katelyn, I loved my letter. When did you write it?"</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">"Six weeks ago." She chuckled. "I thought you'd never find it."</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It took me six weeks to discover her love, her voice, her heart ... </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That's not acceptable. But what beautiful timing. God-timing. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Father, take me down your path ... the path ... for me ... for this 2017. Let me apologize more, encourage more, and love more. Keep my eyes open. Don't let me miss opportunities. Don't let me deteriorate. Father ... </i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;"><b>I want to go where you go.</b></span><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i3t3kviVwtQ/WG1zXhGhDVI/AAAAAAAAE2Q/Ke2c5zQLu44r59Io3Y-2JvUwss0cO7QDQCLcB/s1600/DSC_2771%2B%25285%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i3t3kviVwtQ/WG1zXhGhDVI/AAAAAAAAE2Q/Ke2c5zQLu44r59Io3Y-2JvUwss0cO7QDQCLcB/s1600/DSC_2771%2B%25285%2529.JPG" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #783f04; font-size: small;"><b>Karalee (kid lover), me (Word lover), and Katelyn (animal lover) from earlier in the year</b></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And y'all, life has been so crazy that I wasn't sure I'd get a blog post written. I'd cherish your continued prayers for a close family member. And ... Katelyn gave me her permission to use the letter. *Grin*</span><br />
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<span style="color: #783f04; font-size: large;"><b><i>What other ingredients can you add for a happy new year?</i></b></span><br />
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Shelli Littletonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00136640834514348086noreply@blogger.com10