When Did I Stop Moving Furniture?

Driving home from the hospital, from time with my mama, I think over the last moments with her that day and ask myself, When did you stop moving furniture?

I don’t know.

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.

Mama would come home from work, eye my room over, and say, "You’re going to hurt your back."

Tidy and comfortable. Worth the risk.

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.

A family member went to the hospital, but I needed to stay home, because I couldn’t risk bringing COVID to dinner.

I hide away at home, in my safety. Stay home, I’m told.

And I ask myself on the way home: When did helping others become untidy and uncomfortable in your life, Shelli?

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.

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 her? What does it matter if I’m safe? How can I keep her safe?

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.

"I will," Mama promises.

Dread seeps into my soul through the wee morning hours … what if in hugging her, I drew too near, I hear … 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? And worry deprives my weary body of sleep.

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."

"Oh, honey," Mom says, in that tone that tells me her only concern is my worry.

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.

"I’ll move the table," I say, with a smile. "Do you think they’ll mind?"

"I don’t see why," says my mom.

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.

There.

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.

"You could sing 'Jesus Loves Me.' "

Slowly, our voices lift, together, until "the Bible tells me so."

"Thank you," she says. "I couldn’t do this without you."

"I’d never want you to," I say.

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.

Are you finding yourself willing to take a risk during difficult days? Love will do it. Love brings courage.

(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.)

Update: I initially wrote this post in July of 2020. I lost my mother to a stroke back in August 2020. 

Finding That Conversation Place

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?

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.

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.

Just do it, Shelli.

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.

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?
Little Bit, daughter #1, pops out the door. She couldn't stand it any longer. "Can I sit with you, Mama?"

"Of course. Grab popsicles."

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.

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?"

"You're a good writer, Mama," Little Bit says.

I release my empty popsicle package to the ground.
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.

Breaking the short silence, my girl says, "What's wrong with me, Mama?"

"Not a single thing. You're perfect just the way you are. You have to be patient, trust, and wait on God," I say.

Little Bit tosses her empty container to the ground.

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.
We two smile big and unanimously say, "Yes!"

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.

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.

And would you look at that? Each baby girl has followed me, owning that white, distressed as it may be.

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.

I observe the pile of emptiness that's fallen to the ground. "I think we might need a trash can out here."

---

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?

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.

My Little Girls Are All Grown Up

It's going to happen. Everyone thinks it will finally come down, it'll finally snow.

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.

"Mommy ...!" she shouts, running to me.

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.
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:

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.

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--

I started slumping down the wall I was leaning against.
I returned to the chair with the cat.

I laugh again. Yes, my daughter wrote those words. The words that would begin her very first college English paper.

Did you get that? Her first college paper. 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.

Hugs and "mmmmm ... smack." 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.

Shivering, I slump against my car, leaving my imprint in the dust and watching them get situated in the car.
Words from yesteryear peek over my shoulder--

"Why does she pucker her lips like that?" he asked. "Monkey kisses." He laughed.

"I don't know," I said.

I turned to my daughter. "Goodnight, baby. Give me kisses." I leaned in. I puckered. She puckered. Big puckers. "mmmmm ... smack!" 

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.

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?

The car inches forward, not waiting for the answer. All routine for #1. And now routine for #2. Could you just wait till I figure out the answer? Till I figure out this whole thing? 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.

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.

I go sit with the cats.

---

What chapters are ending or beginning in your life? May I pray for you? 

The Right And The Left Unite For A Merry Christmas

The phone rings. It's my girl.

"Hi, baby," I say, using my softest tone reserved for my girls.

"Mom, I don't know what to do. I'm scared. I'm shaking."

"What's up?" My legs begin to tremble, and the hair on my arms raises.
"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.

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."

"I know, Mom." Determination laces her voice. "But ... I'm so scared."

"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.
The phone rings.

"Hi, baby." Hurry words ... assure me. God, let her be okay.

"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.

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.

"One girl from the group kept glaring at me through class."
Weeks pass.

I step into Chick-fil-A and take a seat across the booth from my girl.

"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."

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.

"And Mom, he said he'd never met a Christian before."

"He's met one now." I nod.

"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.'"

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.
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?

"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." 

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.

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. If one tends to be right-handed. 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. If one tends to be left-handed. Because it's all in the reaching, the softness, the kindness--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.

---

Do you have a story of kindness to share? Merry Christmas, Y'all.

Shards Of Glass: Letting Go Of Fear In The Grip Of Pain

"Something pierces the inside of my cheek.

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."

---

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. 

So I am honored to be a guest writer at Jerusha Agen's website, sharing about my struggles in dealing and not dealing with the pain and fear. I appreciate Jerusha for the invitation. Please click on the link to join me there for more of the story ... and a giveaway.

Love, Shelli

Living on the Border of Danger

My girl reclines in the dental chair. Her x-rays hang enlightened on the wall behind her.

"You need to wear this retainer," the man says.

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.

The dental assistant jumps up and runs toward me. "Did you hear there's been a mountain lion spotted in your area?" 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 ...?).

I want to buckle over with grief. 

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.

A Return to Family Devotion

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. When did life get so serious? 

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.

"What?" I nearly fall over laughing.

They jump up, place sweet hands in mine.

It's bedtime.

"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. 

Both nod so eagerly.

Whew! Because I'm going on fumes right now.

And I need to get at least one weight off my heart. Taking something off my shoulders would be nice, too.

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 God in thee. 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.

I need jumper cables. Um, okay ... spurs kicking into my sides.

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.

And one daughter wraps her arms around me. My teetertotter emotions .... "I understand, Mama. Shh. It's okay." I adore her motherly way. What gave it away? Hands that I used to hold everywhere—once so tiny with tiny nails that I used to clip with the baby clippers—soothed over my face, wiping away the moisture. Tight hugs. My other daughter gifts me with one, too.

Life has been so busy. Where has my time with them gone?

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. 

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.

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.

And when I'm too tired, I'm reminded I'm too tired not to. 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.

And a brush of wind swirls past me, sweet arms envelope me. "You ready to read our devotion?"

"We better do it now, while I can." Anxiety only falls away when we fall into the arms of God.

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.

"The verse of the day," she says, "is Ephesians 4:2—'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. 

Verse 16 ends with, "So the last will be first, and the first will be last."

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—"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.

fishing in the swimming pool ... caught a plastic fish each and every time

floaties in the shallow end

They laugh. Then nod.

"I remember, Mama. I say that to all my Sunday school kids," one daughter admits.

Yes. They haven't forgotten. Full circle. God is writing on their hearts. The giving has been received. Because when we give, we always receive. An honest servant is always rewarded in time. It might seem like a rough draft, but it's the real, published deal, where purchases are final. 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.

We take the limited time in this life together by the reins.

A return to family devotion.

~~~

Do you have a family devotion? Have you had to take life by the reins recently? 

I Guess I'd Follow My Daughter Anywhere

"I wish he would quiet down," said someone ... I can't remember who. "Boy, that's annoying."

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. The cat balks louder and louder, over and over. 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? 

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.

My snow-girl. Her New Year's resolutions are to become well-rounded and to get in shape.

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. 

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. 

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.

The wind rattles the house, along with the windows.

My daughter picks up the cat, opens the front door, steps her new boots out into the snow. 

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. 

She sets Azzie down into the snow. He leaves a trail of paw prints.

And in no time, we're all outside.

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 ...

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.

What moves you to action? Others' words or actions? 

When A Broken Heart Yearns For A Break

From my heart to yours this Thanksgiving—


My daughter's normal morning 3-day-a-week school routine begins.

"You awake?" I text to her from downstairs, under the covers, snug as a bug in a rug.

"Yup," she texts back.

One foot slips out from under the covers, then the other. Un-snug as a bug out of a rug. Leaning over the bathroom counter, I get partially ready for the day, make-up and hair, then I'm off to scan the living room and kitchen to see if my daughter has left any school work there that she might need for the day. I grab a bottled water out of the garage fridge and a granola bar from the pantry for her.

My heart yearns for her success.

The door to her stairs/bedroom billows open and the rush begins. I open the garage door, hug and kiss her goodbye, shoving the water and granola bar into her backpack. She backs the car out, careful not to hit a tree. I wave goodbye and blow kisses to her ... she stalls the car to wave and return my kisses. We realize it's our last gaze at each other. 

That little black car zooms off down our driveway, kicking up leaves, beginning that 35-minute commute by busy, 18-wheeler interstate.

And I pray, like every day—Lord, watch over her, protect her, get her home to me.

My heart yearns for her safety.

But this particular day, after some 5 minutes have passed, my phone buzzes with a call. It's her.

"Hey."

"Hey, Mom." Her tone is urgent. "I left my driver's license in your car. I'll be home in two minutes. Will you get it for me?"

I run out to the car. There it is. I open the garage again.

My mind starts going wild. Will she be late for school now? Will she drive too fast to get there on time? She's almost home ... she said 2 minutes. I'll save her time.

My heart yearns for every good and perfect thing for her.

With barely a moment's thought, I take off down my long, wet driveway, barefoot, in my pajamas. I'll meet here there at the end of the road. Lord, please don't let me step on a stick or an acorn. As I near the end, I see her car between trees. 

She pulls into the driveway. She sees me running. Her expression? Priceless.

My heart yearns to make her smile.

"I can't back out, Mom."

"Yes, you can. I'll help you." I walk out into the middle of our county road in my pajamas, guiding her, motioning to her which way to turn her wheels. She does it. I knew she could do it. 

My heart yearns for her to be confident.

She zooms off again. My prayer goes up once again.

At the end of the day, she barrels through the door, crying. Wrapping her arms around me, she spills her precious heart. She barely missed being in an auto accident. I sink in despair over the details her precious eyes witnessed. My fractured heart looks heavenward, and my prayer shoots up—thank you, Lord, for bringing her home to me.

My heart yearns for peace. 

For her. For me.

Every week, I hear her near misses or what she's witnessed on the road. My heart can barely take it. 

My right eyelid's been flickering like a fluorescent light for days now.

It's all worry, y'all.

My daughter's first semester of college has been the hardest change for me. If there is one downside to homeschooling that I've discovered, it's that a mama's heart is too sheltered. It's the mama's heart that's cause for concern. And the heart stays invested regardless of your child's age.

But she loves it. She loves every single thing about it—the school, her classes, the commute, time in her car, lunch out with friends—which is all that matters. And I'm so thankful. 

But this mama thought she knew how to lean on God. This mama's heart is learning to lean, lean on my Savior, more and more. 

After Thanksgiving, my daughter will only have about two weeks left of school, before she has a month break. I'm so grateful because—

My broken heart yearns for a break. 

What has you concerned lately? And can you imagine our Father's love over us?

~~~~

Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. And many thanks to all who entered the magazine subscription giveaway from the last post. Thank you for playing. I'm blowing kisses your way. I cherish you. 

And the winners are ...

Cindy Hasko and Norma Brumbaugh Wieland

Woohoo! I pray you are blessed by the magazine all year long.

Stepping Into My Characters' Shoes

God, what are you doing with my life?

"Do you want to go?"

"Yes, of course."

My curiosity soars. My novel, work-in-continual-progress, has a scene in this very location. I'd love to go. I need to go. I need to get inside my characters' heads more, know their hearts. Plant my feet where they planted theirs.

We pass Greenville, Texas, heading into Commerce—my novel's setting and the city I have grown to love. "There's Karalee's school," I say. Wonder where she's at? What's she doing? Hard to believe my oldest daughter is there and I'm here. This thing called change is interesting. Our hearts are so intertwined that I feel present with her all the time. Rejoice when she rejoices. Cry when she cries.

We proceed out toward the state park, passing farm after farm. Beautiful Texas, always beautiful to this Texan. 

I gasp. A city limit sign announces "Posey" ... Posey, Texas. My heart claps. That's part of my itty-bitty character's nickname. I missed that detail on Google Earth. Wow. Unbelievable. 

Believable.

God, you've got this thing covered. I know you do. And you're showing me the signs. Thank you.

We park the vehicle. 

My youngest steps out, branches out, and begins exploring. The one who's seen devastating hardship. My cancer survivor. She's discovering shells along the water's edge. She's found her niche.

Have I found my niche? I think so. 

My feet hit the ground. I pivot, absorbing the surrounding beauty, standing right where my characters stood. Building their imaginary lives has been sweet. They've so obediently taken each action I've required of them. Walked when I needed them to walk, erased what I needed them to erase, built what I needed them to build.

God, you stood right where I'm standing. You made all things, and you came here—living, serving, loving, building, accomplishing, finishing—to know me inside out. To know your creation, your people. 

"I could stay here all day," my daughter says, beaming. 

Stay here all day. That's it. I made the connection.

God, sometimes I'm slow, but I made the connection.

Walk out on the water. Go exploring. Discover the growth. Through the difficult, the scary, the times of ease, the times of beauty, times of uncertainty, times of seasonal change ...

 

When you don't know what God is doing, do what you love. 

He's given you love. O Soul Within, find what you love. Do what you love. Continue doing what you love. He gave you a heart, to please, to love, to obey, to build, to follow, to lead, to accomplish, to do the thing He's called you to.

Step in character with whom God made you to be, into the very shoes He designed for you.

Change is never easy ... but proceed.

So ask the hard questions. Get inside God's head. Yearn to know His heart. 

You are His and He is yours, intertwined. He's where you are. He rejoices when you rejoice; He surely cries when you cry.

Find that place—with Him—where you could stay all day. The place to do the living and dying. The place to type—The Beginning and The End.

Do you want to go?

~~~

How has God been speaking to your heart?

Gentle Applause To A Generation Not Crippled By Acne

Daughters, I'm so impressed with you. I want to be just like you when I grow up.

Standing at the glass back door, I overlook the shimmering water in my swimming pool. Perfection. I can't believe I have that in my backyard. I'm so pulled to open that door, step outside. Oh, how I've longed to take one of those pictures of my feet propped up at the pool on a hot summer day. But one has to be outside, in the sun, by the pool, to do that.

One day, Daughters, one day.

One has to slip on the bathing suit, the horrid reminder. Of all those years of pain, of fear, of embarrassment. The reminder of imperfection. Of being different. 

What happens when you wish your self away? The very skin you're in.

Sometimes you were publicly exposed to insult and persecution; at other times you stood side by side with those who were so treated. You suffered along with those in prison and joyfully accepted the confiscation of your property, because you knew that you yourselves had better and lasting possessions. So do not throw away your confidence; it will be richly rewarded.

You need to persevere so that when you have done the will of God, you will receive what he has promised. For,

“In just a little while,
    he who is coming will come
    and will not delay.”

And,

“But my righteous one will live by faith.
    And I take no pleasure
    in the one who shrinks back.”

But we do not belong to those who shrink back and are destroyed, but to those who have faith and are saved. --Hebrews 10: 33-39

Do you hear that, Daughters?

Years spent wishing away acne-prone skin, especially on my back, can cripple a person. My confidence, confiscated. The lack of confidence still follows me around today, like a shadow. Go away, shadow. 

Years thrown away.

I've shunned the outdoors for years, only able to bear it with joy alone. We have the most amazing swimming pool, with a hot tub and even a fireplace. The view is incredibly beautiful and serene. We're so blessed. Who wouldn't long for that?

Who wouldn't long for freedom?

I slip into my memories of yesterday. But some reminders are not longed for in the heart.

Starting in high school, for years, I didn't want my bare back revealed. Being in the drill team made that extremely difficult. Going to my changing area, I'd try to hide, hurry to change, cover myself. Cover my shame. 

Keep your back turned from everyone. Don't let them see.

A visit to the dermatologist for slight facial breakouts led me to the threshold of help, but I was too embarrassed to tell them about my back. 

"Do you have any other problem areas?" 

"No, I don't." 

Fear and embarrassment, even youthful foolishness, lingered.

I'll never be free.

In my very own prison. The prison that moves when you do. Secret miseries running deep through your pores into your very soul.

I hated to wear bathing suits, tank tops, bridesmaid gowns. No, don't make me put my hair up. Torture. The beautiful topknot with ringlets hanging down only reveals my ugliness. Let my hair hang long, covering my back. Covering my embarrassment. Covering my shame.

Don't see. Don't look at me.

Shrinking back. Destroyed.

And who knows the pain of acne? Like needles sticking into my back. The slightest touch brings pain, to my back, to my heart. 

Years of on and off antibiotics, only to have it come back once off the medication. Persistence could define me.

Ushering out my appendix, along with an ovary, ushered away acne. Praise be. After all these years, praise be. After 30 years, I finally love the skin I'm in.

My daughter fights the same thing. How amazing that even though she's adopted, God made her just like me. She comes to me. Her dress is gorgeous. Zipping up her dress, I notice the speckles of acne on her back, her shoulders. Acne that persists once off antibiotics. 

"Daughter, do you want to wear a light jacket? To cover the bumps?" My handicap trying desperately to cripple her. Generational bondage. Bondage that yearns to imprison others. I think I'm trying to help.

"Mama, I don't care about it. All kids have it." She smiles. She even beams. She doesn't care. Well, okay then. Her confidence is like the dawn of a new day.

Daughter drags little sister to me. "Mama, look. She has her first bump on her face. Isn't it the cutest thing?" Both girls are giggling, unencumbered, unembarrassed, unafraid. Beaming.

I'm amazed. 

Fearless. Flawless. Free.

Go therefore, beautiful girls. Love the skin you're in. Don't take 30 years to go out in the sunshine. Throw open wide that door, release your hands, and embrace life. Do not throw away your confidence, sweet girls. Remember the One you belong to, Beloved of the Living God. Go out into this world. Persevere, Daughters. Prop up your feet. Live and love. Bring pleasure to your King.