God Loves You Enough to Frame You

There was nothing particularly special about this day except that ... I had to take my daughter to a dental appointment, to a periodontist, for an evaluation of tissue grafting. Her braces have shifted her teeth, which is a good thing, but the gum line for one front tooth has dropped down ... and it looks like the one next to it might end up with the same problem. 

For goodness sake—the problems.

We had to drive through the big city of Mesquite, Texas, and up to Richardson. I'm a small town girl, but glory hallelujah, we made it. By accident, of course. And by accident, we ended up walking into the back of the building, and the first door we came to was our needed door. Another accident and another glory hallelujah.

Sitting in that waiting room, all alone with my two girls, I looked up to the wall and saw this huge frame. I almost laughed out loud when I saw the display—a rug. A small rug. Not new or old ... just a little bold. Bright green and fuchsia pink. A little frayed around the edges. Maybe there was something special about it ... like maybe it belonged to his grandmother or his mother or someone the dentist loved.

I said to the lady behind the counter, "Ms. Kelly, what is the story behind that rug?" Did you really just ask that? Out loud? To someone you just met? Yes, I did.

"It's a funny thing," said Ms. Kelly. "There's nothing special about that rug. You'd think it had belonged to his grandmother or something. You'd think it had sentimental value."

"That's what I thought," I said, with my grandmother's kitchen rug placed in my mind.

"But it doesn't. The doctor and his wife, well, they like to antique shop. And well, they just found this rug, and they decided to frame it," Ms. Kelly added.

"Well, you know, that's really what makes it so special," I said. "There's nothing special about it at all. It's just an ordinary rug. But someone found it. Someone loved it enough to frame it."

And that's why I love God so much. Because I'm just ordinary. I'm not young or old. I'm not even bold. I'm a little frayed. There is not one special, unique thing about me. Not to my eyes. 

But not to God's eyes. He loved me enough to make me, to find me, to reach down to me ...

It's like He daily frames my face in His hands and says, "You are special to me. I love you. I want you. I love you, and I want you with all your problems. I know what you've done and what you haven't done." 

He straightens the frame just a little and eyes me. "Look at me. Look at me. I'm the door you need."

And just like that—our ordinary becomes extraordinary. How could it not?

And just like that, we become guilty of being special. Of being wanted. Of being loved.

~~~

"He sends from heaven and saves me, rebuking those who hotly pursue me—God sends forth his love and his faithfulness"—Psalm 57:3. 

Call me crazy, but I like to think of God's hands as "love and faithfulness" reaching down to save. Amen? Can you envision it?

And because sometimes I just need to talk to you face to face ... I love you ...

If you hear that hammering in the background ... that is our neighbor's home being rebuilt. Glory! It burned to the ground last September. 

**

Do ever feel ordinary? How has God shown you how extraordinary you are? Has He shown you in a unique way how special you are to Him? How much He loves you? I wish you'd share your stories with me.

To the Youngest Cancer Survivor

I slid my finger to open the envelope's seal, and as I pulled out the invitation, a rush of memories came spilling out—


My whole body trembled, while my heart peeked past the fingers sheltering it. I wanted to hide in the locker room. A crowd always makes me tremble. But I pressed forward, one step at a time, through the parking lot, through the grass, until the sky opened up.

Two little trusting bodies tagged along.

Tables had been placed everywhere, and people scattered here and there, passing out flyers of information. Some in a hurry, some sitting and talking, some eating.

"Let's get you all signed up," said the lady.

"Okay," squiggled out of my mouth. I would have been biting my nothingness of a fingernail had I not been holding my littlest.

I always held her, or at least held her hand, because I didn't want her falling. She'd been hurt enough. And the chemotherapy she'd taken—Vincristine—had damaged her ankle strength. Her tiny one-year-old ankle strength. Vincristine ... sounds like such a sweet name, doesn't it? I have a love/hate relationship with Vincristine. It helped kill any wandering cancer cells for which I'm so thankful, but I didn't like the big hook that went into my baby's chest for each treatment. And I didn't like the way it weakened her walk, in every aspect. Vincristine treated her good, and Vincristine treated her bad.

"Here are your T-shirts. Everybody put them on." The lady smiled.

I evaluated my Relay for Life T-shirt, wondering how I'd wear it over my overalls, while my oldest daughter put on hers. The littlest got the cutest T-shirt with a kid in a cowboy hat, riding a stick-horse, and it proudly displayed the most beautiful words: Kids Kickin' Cancer.

The lady stopped us. "Wait a minute. Do you know what? Katelyn is our youngest cancer survivor. She sure is."

At now three years old—the youngest cancer survivor.

I must have bit my lip. And then I might have scrunched my nose. Being the youngest cancer survivor is such an honor. Or is it? Good to be a survivor ... bad to have cancer ... What baby should ever have cancer? I was still making my way through the whirlwind. Trying to figure it all out. What have we just endured? Oh, God, what have we endured?

I'd been so tough until a year or so after it all. And the pictures of hair loss, paleness ... it just all came washing over me. I lost it. Working on that baby's photo album, I lost it.

"Follow me," the lady said. "You've won this prize for her being the youngest survivor." She handed me a sack of lotions and make-you-feel-better stuff. It was sweet. And her heart was so precious. "We'll do the survivor's lap first. You can walk with your daughter. And then you can walk the caregiver's lap. So be ready when we call for you." 

"Okay." We placed our belongings down on the stadium bleachers. The girls opened up their pink umbrellas to fight off the Texas April sun.

Look at those curls on one. And look at that proud sister smile on the other.

And just like that, we were up. We began walking the lap around the stadium track. I held my littlest's one hand, and her big sister held her other. She would not fall.

And my cautious expression eased to a smile at the love and friendliness that welcomed our baby. And then hands began to clap, as pictures were taken, and military men began performing what my heart could barely take—they fell down to their faces and began push-ups.

People we didn't even know. They fell to their faces.

Tears gathered in my eyes and air seemed scarce. 

As we made our way to the other side of the track, those people walked to the other side, clapping, and the men in uniform ran to the other side to fall to their faces again.

When the caregiver lap began, they did the same. And more tears. More clapping. More push-ups. 

My heart felt overwhelmed at the love shown to the youngest cancer survivor. But I especially couldn't believe the love shown for me. Because every ounce of effort I had made on my littlest one's behalf was out of love. I had only done what any parent would do ... to the youngest cancer survivor.

Planting my Boots & Hanging my Coat on Jesus

Moss is growing on our walking trail. It's just beautiful. Amidst all the brown dirt and leaves, there is this beautiful green trail, like God rolled out the green carpet just for me.

I ran out to take pictures the other day and ended up sick. Later, I heard that the pollen level was high. I missed hearing Becky Wade, one of my favorite Christian authors, speak in the Dallas area.

But I wondered what makes moss grow? I don't remember it growing here the past years, but it's amazing how much we can forget from year to year. 

Wikipedia wrote, "Mosses are small flowerless plants that typically grow in dense green clumps or mats, often in damp or shady locations." Wikipedia went on to say that it doesn't have seeds. I found that interesting. Something so soft and colorful and so plentiful could be seedless and flowerless. And soon, it will all be gone as though it were never there.

I love walking the mossy trail because my boots don't get so dirty. And I don't have to scrape them off as much when I walk back inside.

And it made me think about what is covering my life's ground. Am I allowing Jesus, my beautiful Savior, to cover my ground? Or am I resorting to damp and shady locations?

I've had a rough week. It sounds silly to say that because I'm healthy and so are the girls. But one needs dental surgery to help her receding gum line, probably from her braces causing her teeth to move too rapidly. The other needs two wisdom teeth removed. Thankfully, she only has two. One daughter's high school graduation is bearing down on me, and my mind wishes she could just stay little. And I've got more issues to add to the list, but I won't do that to you.

I'm afraid my path is being covered with anxiety and fear—damp and shady. And I don't want something temporary covering my ground. I certainly don't want anxiety and fear to take up permanent residence either. I don't want damp or shady.

Rolling things over and over in my mind can initially seem colorful and a soft place to step, because it's my secret. Only God knows. But soon it becomes plentiful, and worry crowds out all good and good sense.

So what do I do?

I run to God. I run to Him in prayer. He's my place of rest. And I plant my worn out boots on Him. He's permanent in my life, and I want to reflect that, reflect His calmness, assurance, trust. I want to cover my boots in Him and never scrape Him off.

Because He makes walking this life's path easier, more enjoyable, more peaceful.

Like the palm leaves placed down for Jesus, I want to place down my faith in Him. For Him to see, and for my heart to see. And I want to give Him a solid and dependable place to grow, and a solid place for me to trod. I want to welcome Him to my life, my problems, my heartaches, my joys.

I don't want to hang my coat on things that are seedless and flowerless. I don't want my relationship with Him to be seedless and flowerless—gone in time, poof, as though He were never there.

I want to hang my coat on Him.

The One strong and sturdy. The One standing. The One who will make me stand, when life feels like it's dragging me down. I want Him to take center stage, take my hand, allowing the seedless and flowerless to disappear.

For the rest of my days. Because He meets me in the damp and shady.

~~~

Has life been hard for you lately? What action do you take to make God center stage? How do you plant your boots and hang your coat on Jesus?

Looking Up in the Face of Fear

My great-uncle sat there, in his same ol' chair. Precious man. And every now and then, he'd reach over and flick open a section of blinds to quickly peek outside. 

My grandmother, his sister, could never understand. Was he afraid? What was the problem? Why not open the blinds fully ... see fully? The blinds weren't broken. The light would be so good for him. Open that window.

"He needs to get out and walk, get out in the sunshine, soak in that Vitamin D," my grandmother would say.

I don't know. But I think he was broken. He'd had bad health since he was a young man. Somehow he had managed to continue working up through a decent retirement age. He and his wife never had a family. Something was heart-breakingly broken inside, was the feeling I got ... maybe there was an area in his life that God hadn't been quite allowed to heal. And the sweet man could gather tears instantly in his eyes. 

He was a tender soul.

But one thing I learned—fear is contagious. As the years pressed by, as my grandmother's health began to decline and my grandfather had passed on to Glory, she became the one to peek out the blinds. Fearful. With the full light still warming and lighting the earth, come the touching threat of sundown, she began shutting up her home, shutting out fearful things. Imagining fearful things and voicing them.

The face of fear can be terrifying ... hair raising sharp fangs and sharp claws. Or closed doors, closed shutters, four walls. No visible steps upward.

When life is hard on us ... when we fear ... when we don't have the strength to open the shutters or doors ... when we aren't sure we can see God in the midst of it all ...

when we are certain the light is just beyond the enclosure ... when we can even feel its warmth ... but we feel crippled ...

It seems dark. We can't seem to get out from under the sheet that we pulled up over our head and shaking body in fear, and we are suffocating.

What can we do?

Go low ... to our knees, to our faces.

And look heavenward.

For The Light.

For just the glimpse.

The Light who is so good for us, who allows us to see fully.

And we can be mindful to pass that search for the Light on to others. 

Although we might be looking through our lives' dust and dirt and pain, our focus presses through. Our children and their children will understand that though we might not have an ounce of strength, though we might be broken, though we might not can understand our lot in life, we know where to look for internal strength and understanding. 

We know who to make our glorious crutch. Our crutch is not an enclosure ... our crutch is beautiful, peaceful ... our crutch is alive. 

~~~

How do you handle fear? Have you ever been crippled by fear or witnessed a family member crippled by fear? What advice can you give?

I Found Love at Disney World

After traveling the interstate from Texas to Florida, we approached the waiting line for one of our favorite rides at Disney World. 

My youngest daughter had injured her knee, so we'd rented a wheelchair. Thoroughly excited to help her little sister, my oldest daughter pushed the wheelchair to the wait line. And baby sister hobbled out to wait.

There.

Who is that? What's going on?

Our attention was totally captured.

Off to the left, a lady, cute as a button, sat in a wheelchair, her long brown hair hung down her shoulders, her legs clearly useless. And her husband busied himself around her. Then he gently and purposefully moved in front of her, bent, and proceeded to pick her up in his arms. As she dangled helplessly in his strong arms, he carried her ... he carried her to the ride. 

My heart broke into a thousand pieces. And those thousand pieces melted on the cold, heavily trampled ground. And then those pieces rose and pulled together to form two hands ... and those hands clapped. What love! I thought. My breath caught.

Love.

What love.

What a man! Oh, how I loved him instantly ... for his strength, his patience, his endurance, his love, his kindness, his mercy.

As the girls and I proceeded to the line, tears pricked my eyes. 

My oldest daughter touched my back gently. I turned. "Mom, you're crying," she said. 

I smiled. "That's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Mom, I love you."

"He carried her."

"Mom ... I love you."

That precious man's actions—something he'd probably done a million times—touched my heart. The beauty of it. And his touching of my heart dominoed, touching my daughter's with the gentlest of fingertips. 

There.

Who is that?

Our God. 

Love.

What love.

I'm so crippled, y'all. I have so much baggage from childhood, from things dropped on me and then from my own heart-breaking crippling choices. 

The dominoes fall, and fall, and fall. Blackened, spotted ivory piece after ivory piece.

But God loves me. He sticks by my side. He moves in front of me gently and purposefully. He takes me everywhere I need to go ... places I never dreamed I'd go. He takes me where He wants me to go. And as I wait on Him, He bends down, picks me up, and carries me on this amazing ride called Life.

I don't deserve the ride. I deserve to sit on the sidelines, only able to watch. And even that is more than I deserve. I deserve nothing.

But He is merciful, and beautiful, and kind.

And as I live with a reserve of grateful tears, overwhelmed by His love, my girls see. They witness it all. 

And when they say, "Mom, I love you" ... I know they love my whole package. They know my whole package. Me. All my rights, all my wrongs, all my attempts, all me. 

But more importantly, they love and admire He who carries me. They see Him. They see His every move. They see me dangling helplessly in His strong arms. And they believe He's the most attractive thing in the universe.

Love.

What love.

And they lift their sweet arms ...

They reach for their dream come true.


He reached down from on high and took hold of me; he drew me out of deep waters. --Psalm 18:16

~~~

Have you witnessed something so beautiful? Beautiful humanity. Something that took your breath? That brought instant tears? Would you care to share? What about your own experience? Do you have a sweet story of lifting your arms to Him?

To: My Girl—The Day I Adopted You & My Hope For Your Future

Oh, My Girl, I cannot believe you are a senior this year and nearing graduation. I can't even think about it or write these words without tears gathering.

I will never forget the day you burst forth into my life and the day I ran with open arms into yours.

You, little thing, were my heart's desire.

This road of adoption is something I wouldn't trade for anything. It's something I'd do over—again and again and again—in a heartbeat. But it's something I wouldn't wish on anyone. Because it was the hardest thing I've ever done. The most agonizing. Gut-wrenching. I didn't know if I'd get to take you home. I didn't know if you'd be mine. I felt so out of place in that hospital. I felt like an invited and welcomed thief. I felt like an invited and welcomed intruder. Internal anguish. And I cried a hidden ocean in that hospital restroom before you breathed your first breath.

My very first glimpse of you. My hands on you. Little baby, were you praying?

I wouldn't wish it on anyone because you know your momma ... when I fall, I fall hard. And the day I held you in my arms, I fell hard.

You were mine.

And all through your baby years, you and I were joined at the hip. A permanent mark wrinkled my clothes from you backing up and plopping down in my lap with your book to read. You'd just begin backing up, and my lap had better be there.

But adoption was hard because I had to deal with internal struggles like—

~What if she doesn't love me when she finds out?
~What if she is disappointed in me?
~What if she is disappointed in life?
~What if she longs for another?

And I've had to deal with issues and tell you things over the years that I wasn't sure I'd survive ...

Like—

~You didn't grow in my tummy because my tummy was broken.
~You grew in someone else's tummy.
~I believe God gave you to me because I prayed for you for so many years.
~You might hear that I'm not your real mother.
~Someone might ask you who your real mother is. 

Until someone experiences adoption, they never know how much pain the word "real" can cause. 

But I did survive because I had no idea at the time of your birth that God would do such sweet things ...

Like—

~Let you favor me, just a little.
~Give you a freckle on your arm in the same spot as mine on my arm.
~Give you a heart to love the broken.
~Give you a heart that says I'm real.
~Give you a heart that trusts God.

And I remember the first time we talked about adoption, and I was scared to death. And you acted like you didn't even care. You wanted to keep playing with your toys. You made it so easy for me, and I sighed a huge breath of relief. And you still loved me. I couldn't believe it—you still loved me.

My Girl, through all the uncertainties, the thing I'm certain of is that I love you as though I'd given you life. I couldn't love you any more. You were never my second choice, you'll always be my first. I choose you.

You are joy. You are beautiful. You make me laugh. I love shopping with you, dancing with you while I'm shopping with you, singing out loud in the car with you. I love that you talk to me, that you share your heart's secrets with me. I love watching you walk away from me when we arrive at church to go work with the children. I love watching you walk into the hospital to volunteer your love to premature babies and whatever else they need you to do. I love your sentimental soul, that tears can prick your eyes instantly. I love that your fierce strength can surface in 60 seconds, including your protectiveness over me and your little sister.

I want you for my BFF for the rest of my life.

Because you say back to me—"You were never my second choice, you will always be my first. I choose you."

And you have no idea the joy that brings to me, the tightness that gathers in my chest, the feeling that my heart could just 4th-of-July-explode with happiness and love and relief.

Oh, My Girl, with all that I know and have experienced ... I wish adoption for you. I do. Because God has given you a heart for children. And when you tell me that you'll adopt one day, I fully believe you will. And I can't help but smile over the fact that you've redefined generational bondage. And I wish adoption for you because when you fall, you fall hard ... just like your momma. And every child needs someone to fall for them, to fall hard for them.

I couldn't be more proud of you, proud that God let me be a part of your life—your little days and your big days. 

I am blessed, and I know it.

You are my girl ... my real girl.

And I love you ... I really love you.

Pressing Through One of my Greatest Fears

Fog greeted me this morning. So happy to see me. As I stood on my front porch, I cringed at the sight of his uninvited visit. For he is one of my greatest fears. Because he steals my vision. And he's treated me miserably in the past, and I have not forgotten. I may be unforgiving.

And I took pictures of him. Why would I do that?

This is one of those days I plant myself home until visibility is high. But I had to drive my daughter into town for her volunteer job at our church. My shoulders slump.

I can do this. I have to do this. I will do this.

Fog has gained a little weight since I left home, gotten thicker around the middle, and he sticks by me like the most faithful dog, following me all the way into town.

I can see more than two feet in front of my vehicle, thank goodness ... more like three car lengths in front of me. But beyond that, all blurred, like God had used whiteout on His beautiful spoken creation.

Panic begins to rise inside. I remember that time all those people were killed in Florida because fog and smoke filled the early morning air ... and we barely missed it. And I remember that time in Spokane, Washington, when my truck got stuck in a wheat field, the fog so thick, and the dog and I had to walk home some two miles in the drizzling rain and darkness.

And the panic rises more. But I have to be calm because I'm a mother. And my two kids are in the backseat.

What if a car is stalled on the road?

And I stumble on it. 

And I don't see it.

And I plow in to it.

I don't want to die yet. 

I don't want to get us all killed.

"I can't see. I should have texted the church to tell them we weren't coming, but we're already on the way ..."

"I'll help you, Mom." My daughter is my second set of eyes, and her youthful eyes are way sharper than mine.

A truck passes me. 

"Was that a man?"

"Yes," says my daughter.

I'll follow the truck. I'll stay close so that he can light the way for me. My daughter chimes in with the same advice from the backseat. She's a good backseat driver. 

"He's going so fast. I wish he'd slow down a bit. Can't he just slow down? If I'm in a car accident, I don't want to be driving 75 miles-per-hour." Oops. My fear slipped out.

He slams on his brakes and heads into the shoulder. He didn't see the cars stopped at the stoplight until it was almost too late. Thank goodness, I had plenty of time to stop, because I had kept my distance without losing sight of his tail-lights. My prayer rose up that the people behind me would see me stopped. They did.

We finally reach a busier area, getting closer to town. There are more vehicles. Traffic is going slower, with higher visibility. My heart is settling down. 

We make it to the church. 

I thank God. I thank Him for bringing leaders into my life, to light the way, even if they aren't perfect examples. I thank Him for the people He brings into my life to help me, to keep watch of the path ahead, to encourage me to keep putting one foot out in front of the other, to help me focus on the beauty before me and not the bad. So many reasons to be thankful.

As we pass the youth building, my daughter says, "Mom, did you see the Southern Baptist Disaster Relief Trailer?"

And I remember our pastor saying relief workers were camping out at our church during the tornado disaster clean-up. And I thank God for the precious people who came alongside those hurt by the recent tornado. 

I thank God for all those who've come alongside me, to help clean up my life's disasters. Who've loved me in spite of me, who've loved me through it, when life's path seemed foggy. Who've shown me love, love, love, more than words ... anyway, anytime, anywhere.

Father, thank you that because of you, we can press forward even it it's moving slowly and behind the backs of others. 

***

Do you ever feel crippled by fear, like me? Do you have those in your life who help you move past your fears? If you could thank one person, who would you thank?

When Your Heart Longs for a 5-Star

The book starts slow. Not what I'd expected. My lips stretch with a yawn. Maybe this book is a 3-star.

In a world that craves action, I close my eyes, slip down into the covers, and sleep overcomes me.

Rejection.

For the moment.

The next night, I see the book on the bedside table. The simple glance begins to grow my heart's curiosity. Maybe I should give it another chance. I reach out and take hold. 

The speed increases slowly, along with my heart-rate. The characters and hope spring alive. I can't put the book down. It has my heart wrapped around its shortest page. My heart is so happy as I read "The End" ... I can't wait to rate it a 5-star and tell the author how wonderful it is. 

That book—those words—will remain in my heart forevermore, and I'll share it with others. I want everyone to know how much it meant to me, what it did for me, how it helped me, how it grew me, maybe how much it made me laugh or cry. It ends up being the best book I've ever read. 

O Soul Within, do you see the reflection of your life in that mirror? Not everyone has a Pollyanna beginning. And yeah, it's okay to mourn the loss—the loss of sound mind, good judgement, wisdom, blessing. 

But just because you started out a 3-star doesn't mean you are destined to end there. God will never reject you for that slow start. Don't give up on yourself. The expanse of sky is immeasurable. Because our God is brilliant. Those stars are right before you. Sometimes you have to wait for the clouds to part. But they're there. Dangling there. Reach out and take hold of the remainder. Pluck them right out, claim them, and cling to them. The 5-star belongs to you. 

God has plans for you to end well. Even after despair, in the midst of despair, you will remember. He's taught you well. You can be the best He has to use. The best He has to offer. You can spring alive with hope.

Be the one your Heavenly Father just can't put down. Be the one wrapped around His tiniest finger. Be the one that makes His chest puff with heavenly pride. Be the one that He can't wait to use, can't wait to share ... His prize pupil. Be the one He can count on to help others, to show others we can rise above. 

Your Heavenly Father has faith in you. He's the God of second chances. The God of heavenly glances. And He uses our 3-star as a heavenly staircase to reach our 5. He uses it. He wastes not so you can want not. Can you envision the climb? One step after another ... put one foot in front of the other ... higher and higher ... stepping through the darkness of the 3 and into the bright light of the 5, where you can see ... really see ...

See what He's done for you, through you, in spite of you.

For this new year, new you.

Reach out and take hold of His gentle fingers, beckoning you ...

Be the one.

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. —2 Timothy 4:7

***

Do you ever feel stuck as a 3-star? Does it loom over you? Do you receive daily reminders? What helps you reach that 5-star? And aren't you thankful God sticks it out with us?