Two little girls and supernatural love...

     I worked at an afterschool program for many years. We had children from pre-K to 4th grade. It was a popular program in my small town, and during the summer it became all day childcare. I loved the littlest ones, and so my time was spent with them. We took lots of field trips in the summer. Hiking, swimming, parks with ice cream, moto-cross. We did it all.

     And then, one summer morning a dirty, angry, and very challenging four year girl and her mother walked through the door of Husky Club and God knit her tight into my heart that very minute. 

     The only way to explain it is that God placed a supernatural love for her into me for his purpose under heaven. 

     She was not an easy child to love. She was mean and didn't make friends. She smelled bad and wore the same sets of dirty clothes every week. She got bullied about it. Her mother was raising her by herself. The child had never met her father, and Mom had addiction issues. She was a hot mess. But I befriended her, knowing she needed support, and she began to trust me.

     This precious girl looked so much like my niece Tiffany at that age. This coincidence did not escape God, and I smile as I write this, because that alone helped me love her. 

     When Tiffany was four, she stayed with us while her Mom worked for almost a year and she became part of our family. I loved her so much. My sister was raising her alone too, and this did not escape God either. 

     There were so many times, while spending time with my new little Husky Club girl, that I was suddenly back in my living room in Oklahoma with my 3 kids and my niece Tiffany. They had the same haircut, the same huge brown eyes, precocious nature, awkward clumsiness, and huge vocabulary.
    And, like Tiffany, this little ones father had walked away, leaving her broken. .
      One afternoon when the Mom came to pick her up, I asked if I could help them. She began to cry, but said I could. So that Saturday, I picked my girl up and we went shopping. We started with personal bathroom supplies. I bought her a pretty pink box with a handle and we filled it with Shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, a brush a comb, scrunches and barrettes. I told her that she had to let her mother wash her hair and not to fight with her about it. I told her that she had to brush her teeth and put lotion on after a bath. The skin on her feet and elbows was so dry it was scaly. 

     She smiled so much that day, and stood up a littler taller. We held hands when I walked her to her door. I asked Mom about child's dirty clothes, and found out they didn't have a washer or dryer. It was expensive and far to go to the laundromat and they had no car, so the Mom could only to laundry when she saved enough money and had a ride. I learned that day too, that they rode the town shuttle to and from school each day. 

     So with tears in her eyes, Mom helped me load all their clothes into trash bags so I could take them home and wash them. The next weekend, I went to Kmart and bought them some knew clothes. Jeans and a jacket for Mom, and lots of pretty new school clothes for my girl. 

     The Mom said she had never felt so loved, and thanked me from the bottom of her heart. I invited them to church, and they came a few times. We picked them up, and Paul and I prayed for them.

     Cynthia became a different child at school. She was kinder, smiled more, felt like a normal girl. Her

hair was clean, her clothes new. Such simple things made such a difference. 

      They had a Christmas tree that year with presents underneath it, but in time, the Mom's drug addiction grew worse. 

     The sweet girl spends the night with us from time to time, just like Tiffany used to. The last time was a week ago and I still haven't put her bed away. Last Friday she was unusually quiet as I drove her the 40 miles to school after our sleepover. But when I glanced in the rear view mirror to check on her, it was Tiffany that I saw sitting there  and God's quiet voice laid a word on my spirit. "Remember." he said.

     Quiet tears ran down my cheeks for the remainder of the drive as God reminded me of the prayers I had prayed for Tiffany over the years. Her life too had been full of struggle, but I knew in that moment that God had heard every cry of her heart. I felt his love for her, and he reminded me of His promises over both their lives.  I could not fix all the things broken in the life of the little girl I drove to school that day, or her Mothers. But I could love them, pray for them, and trust God for the rest.   

     And when He reminded me of the words he whispered to me just a few weeks before, I pulled into the school wiping tears off my cheeks. And as I opened the door for the little girl who sat in the back of my car, my smile was full and deep.
     Cynthia's hand was inside mine as we walked to the classroom, but between them, in that small space that held us together was so much more. There was faith for her life inside our hands. There was hope for God's promises over it.
     When I got home that night I sent Tiffany a text telling her that God had reminded me about her life that day. That He showed me his love for her, reminded me of his promises for redemption over her life.
     Right after I sent the text, I opened an email from my sister, Kay, Tiffany's mother, telling me that Tiff had located her grandmother and grandfather. These were people Tiffany had never met. They were 94 and 97 and she would be meeting with them this week.

     But life with my girl and her Mom got really tough after that. The Mom had shoulder surgery and got addicted to Oxy. She got mean and out of control. Hateful when I told her she needed help. 

    Almost three years had gone by since the day I'd met them when I showed up unannounced with groceries. I'd been told that week by my girl, that they were out of food. Mom didn't want to let me in when she opened the door and saw mw, but I went in anyway. 

     I saw a broken child's tent set up on the living room floor in front of the cable TV. I asked questions. The girl answered them while Mom yelled and told her to shut up. But I learned that the tent  was now the girls bed and that another person had moved in to the her room. When I asked why she couldn't sleep with her Mom, I was told that Mom had friends over a lot that slept with her. 

    My heart ripped open wide as I walked back to my car, and I immediately reported everything I knew to child services, then I cried all the way home. 

     I made a second report a few weeks later, when the child's teacher told me she was sleeping in class all day and wearing the same clothes to school over and over. The girl told me she watched TV all night which was why she was tired. 

     The Mom stopped opening the door when I came over, and screamed at me to leave them alone.

      I didn't know what else I could do. 

      I asked Paul if he was up to becoming foster parents, so we could take her for awhile, but he wasn't sure he could do it. Honestly, I wasn't sure I could either. I was drained, completely exhausted. So I prayed. I had really given everything I had to them. 

     Then I remembered that the uncle of the child's biological father had been to Mammoth a few times to help them, and I knew that I still had his number, so I called him the next day. He said he would take some time off, and come to help as soon as possible. 

      Paul listened to me cry myself to sleep that night, but in the morning, I had a peace that surpassed the circumstances. God reminded me of the love we had showed them. The care we had given. Our job from that day forward was to pray and trust Him. He reminded me of His words. "I am your Redeemer. I transform hearts and breath new life."

     So I did just that. I trusted and let God be their Redeemer.   

     Years passed, and I hugged the girl whenever I saw her in town, and Mom got better. She hugged me in the grocery store one day and didn't want to let go. She looked good. She told me she had a car now, and a job. She said that our girl was doing good in school. 

I didn't ask questions. I didn't need to.

     Then I got a message out of the blue one day that the her daughters 8th grade graduation was coming up. The evening of it, I snuck in late and sat in the back. While her daughter stood on stage, the Mom found me and hugged me again. 

     Inside that hug was the knowledge that God had accomplished something beautiful and good by putting us together all those years ago. It mattered. It was all worth it. 

     And in that moment, God's love for ME overwhelmed my spirit and I heard his quiet promises to me again.  "I am your Redeemer. I transform hearts and breath new life."

      And when Mom let me go from the hug, I handed her the flowers I was holding. "For our girl," I told her. And my heart was full.

' I said. It is truly full and deep.

A rainbow in the sky and words on my heart...

     We all have those moments. Those things that happen that absolutely change us.  Sometimes they're tragic, sometimes they are powerfully beautiful, like when you first see the face of your baby,  and sometimes you simply don't know what to call them, you only that you know you will never be the same after they happen. My revelation was one of those last ones, and it was powerful, so I planted a memorial stone so that I would always remember. I never wanted to forget this very clear moment that I had with God.  

    I had been in a season of waiting. Waiting for what, I did not know. But in faith I was waiting still. I was no longer writing my great American novel. God had won that wrestling match as I knew he would. But he let me fight it out with him for many rounds. When it was over, I laid on the rug in my living room in a heap of tears. I was drained and sad, but I knew how much I was loved and I absolutely believed that God had something else for me. So that was that. 

      Several months later, I had just spent a week with my sister in Dallas and was driving home from the airport, when God's presence came on me so powerfully that I had to pull over to the side of the road. It's hard to explain it, but God's presence was powerful. Quiet tears ran down my face as I glanced at the clock and realized that my sister Kay, and her daughter Abbi, who I had just left in Texas, were probably getting baptized at that very moment. I felt like God want me to pray for them. So I did. 

     "I want you to write again." God's words, so clear, brought me out of my prayer and I opened my eyes. What? The words had been so clear. Did I just heard God's voice? 

     On the windshield in front of me, were raindrops, and behind them, a sunny rainbow filled the sky. Tears rolled over my cheeks.  "Call it, The Glory Road. And I want you to paint." 

     These words were not audible, but they could not have been more clear. It was like He'd written them across my heart.   
     Now, as I sit down to share this, I still can't wrap my head around the place I find myself. God's presence continues to overwhelm me at times though, and at this moment I find this whole experience very hard to describe. Call what, "The Glory Road?"  I  wondered. What is that supposed to be? And paint what? I couldn't remember the last time I'd painted anything. Ever. 

     So I sat with it. I planted the memorial stone. And then, for several day in a row, I went back and sat there. Sat quietly with that moment of knowing God spoke to me. I was excited to write again, but confused about what that meant. So I just thanked Him and waited. 

     Later that week, I was working on my Bible study for my Fri. meeting, and I had this idea. The Glory Road? The road to Glory? I pondered this for a bit, and picked back up my Bible. How many times is the word Glory is used in Scripture, I wondered? So I looked it up. 

     Over 600 times. 376 times in the Old testament, and 230 times in the New Testament. Was this it, I wondered? Does God wants me to trace the word Glory through Scripture and write about it. I was suddenly very excited. With a bit more research, I found out that the word itself, glory, has many meanings and can be difficult to translate from the original languages of  Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek. I also learned that it can refer to: God's greatness, worth and value, how we can be changed, a synonym for heaven, an adjective that gives honor, dignity, and majesty to God, and is sometimes its a verb. 

     Of course it is, I thought. 

     Glory is often used to describe God's majesty and greatness, which is reflected in His creation and His people. Yes! God's creation of nature has always brought me to a place of worship. I must be on the right track. 

     And so now...I had a plan. My work was cut out for me, but the excitement I had filled me with energy and I took it on with a crazy new energy. I used a program that told me what language the word glory came from in each place I found it as I traced it though the Bible. It was exciting and the pages filled as the words flowed. I shared with my friends in my Bible Study group what I was doing and why. They encouraged me and prayed for me. We even went through several of my Chapters around the table. 

     I was full. 

     Long story short, I never finished tracing "glory" through Scripture, because it wasn't about the finishing line, it was about the journey God was took me on. I spent an intimate year with him. The Bible I used during that time of tracing glory, still has all the page tab stickers with all the earmarks and all the printed translations slid between the pages. I will never take them out, because they represent another memorial stone. That time in my life was so precious to me. God healed something in me during that year I walked so close beside Him. I got filled back up with Faith. That time reminded me of who He is and who I am in Him. 

     And it was that time in my life that transitioned into the stories and pictures you will find in this book. I realized that my life was already full of his Glory. He'd been weaving it into my spirit and heart heart since my earliest childhood, and so I began to write my stories. 

     This became my Glory Road. And it all belongs Him. He is after all, the greatest ever writer of stories. 

     And so...may our story, (the one God wrote for me) bless you, and may you feel His presence in these pages. 

     

     

        

Willie and the Poor Boys are playing on the corner, so bring a nickel and tap your feet....

      ...they do not, however, have anything on the, "Higerd Cousins family band."

     My oldest daughter loves Thanksgiving. She begins to talk about it as soon as the air outside gets crisp and cool.  She loves tradition, friends, family, and has the sentimental heart of her Father. She loves to cook, and I, on the other hand, do not, so I welcome her position of "Boss" over the Thanksgiving meal. (She's been trying to take charge since she was born, so it's comes naturally)
     We typically spend Thanksgiving with my son-in-law's family which include his parents and his three siblings. We live in the same area so we are blessed to share life and love with our children and grandchildren.
     In the Eastern Sierra we never know what November weather will bring. We had a wedding at our home several years ago in late November where yellow leaves drifted on breezes and landed on tables. The bride still in her dress while the band played until sundown. We have also had Thanksgivings with blustery winds and snow.
     This year, the weather was warm and sunny so, with the "Boss" at her post in the kitchen, I took Jude and his cousins on an adventure.  
     I love the ages of children when a walk with a wagon in search of adventure gets rousing shouts of enthusiasm.
     We headed with smiles and dug into sagebrush for hidden treasures. The girls squealed with delight as the wagon filled with rusted cans, buckets, old camping utensilsand great sticks.  I still smile thinking about Annabelle's enthusiasm. (My grandsons are my heart, but I I love being around the girl cousins.)
     When we found the old Dodge tailgate, we knew that the ultimate treasure had been found and getting it home was not an option. So Annabelle and I balanced it precariously in the wagon atop the other treasures while Caroline, (a Higerd to the core), pulled, and she and Jude pushed us home.  
     By the time we arrived we had become the, "Higerd cousins country band," and were ready to take the stage. There are six Higerd cousins. Three girls in one family and three boys in the other and the juxtaposition between the two is something you can only appreciate live and in person. But it is a precious thing indeed and nothing less than four star entertainment.
     When all our instruments were set up on the rock wall outside, we called for the audience.  "Ladies and Gentlemen, Moms and Aunts, may I present to you, The Higerd Cousin Family Band!"
      My youngest daughter, wearing a huge smile, jumped right in beside us while Gramma Kathy and the Mommies stood with aunt Hannah and clapped and laughed.
     When the Dads, Uncles and Papas returned from hunting, the Higerd Cousin Family Band was called back to the stage. And as Credence Clearwater Revival sang of, "Willie and the Poor Boys" from my phone, Uncle Grant, (a UCLA pre-med student whose classes I can't even pronounce) joined us playing paint can.  
     Grace and Reed and Gideon (the three youngest) were napping when our treasure hunt began but two of them woke up in time to bang on a few buckets
     And so...may the, "Higerd Cousin Family Band" have years of performances together in life and love and laughter stemming from a families deep roots of Christian faith. May their hunting of treasures and adventures together be great, and may "Christ" always be the solid ground on which they stand and sing and dance and praise.
    Willie and the Poor Boys may be, "Down on the corner out in the street," but their nickel down foot tapping doesn't hold a candle to this! 

                                      

I am yours Lord...

     What began as God's gentle prompting seems clear and perfect in the stillness before dawn but when the rest of the world wakes up the clouds roll in and its get dark and foggy.       I try to walk it out but my feet are unsteady. I am vulnerable, ill-equipped, unsure, it's too hard.  I don't know what I'm doing and I read and pray and think, "Why am I doing this?" and  so I stop.   

     When I am empty, I draw near, God pours in and I push through.  I cut and paste. I write and learn and read and learn and write and learn and re-write.   
     My heart is full of desire to bring glory to God and I know He knows this but I am terrible at it and I grumble and I fail.
      But He holds my hand as we walk back to the beginning where I read in my own words how this whole thing started and I know it is my journey so I take a deep breath and sigh and take another tiny step.   

     Here I stand.  Feet planted on the Glory Road but confessing that the last several miles was uphill and rocky and I am not strong and I am tired and I really just want to find a different road. 
     But this road is mine because God placed me here and I trust him so I walk. I want to run and dance and jump and sing and climb while full of great worship because He is worthy of all my praise forever and ever and ever!  That's want I want to do. 
     So I put one foot in front of the other and then I do it again because I it becomes my worship. Blisters or not I will look at Jesus as I trudge over hills, pluck out thorns, and pull my feet from tar because I know what Jesus took to the cross for me and I want it all to be my joy. 
     So when my feet land on sharp rocks, when it gets hard and I cry out and I'm out of breath and need living water I will remember that my Father loves this Psalmists heart and will hold me in his lap and let me drink from his well.   
     He will put my feet back on the path refreshed and I will have a joyful spring in my step like a child because of the hope and promise of the cool green valley that waits for me.  A place where the fragrance of flowers I've never seen take my breath away, where babbling brooks sing, where mountains will bow down and a baby Orangutan will jump into my arms.  
     I am yours, Lord. May you be glorified in me...

A man sits hunched over a table by candlelight...and then... he writes my name.

      There is a drop that forms in the middle of every honeysuckle flower. If you rush, and try to get it out too soon, it simply isn't there yet. And if you wait even a little too long it'll dry up before it ever becomes yours.
    But... when the timing is perfect, you pull that center string and the dewy drop slides along, comes out of the end, and lands on your tongue. When it hits your taste buds, it's like...it's like... the meaning of my name. Pamela, "all sweetness" from Greek (pan) "all" and (meli) "honey."

      And as I ponder this, I can't help but wonder who the first person was to do this most amazing  honeysuckle thing, and then, I wonder what their name was.

       

    So now, let me take you to the place where my name was born. Picture this...it's 1560-ish, and Sir Philip Sidney leans over a desk by candlelight. The wax makes a pool at the base of the candleholder and spills over onto the old oak desk as he dips his quill pen into the night black ink. "Pamela," he says out loud as he places the pen against the onion paper. He begins to write. "Yes," he says. "It's perfect." 

    And here now, are the "exact words"  that Sir Philip penned that day when my name was written down for the very first time. 

     "And so she might perceaue that Pamela did walke vp and down, full of deep (though patient) thoughts. For her look and countenance was setled, her pace soft, and almost still of one measure, without any passionate gesture, or violent motion: till at length (as it were) awaking, & strengthning her selfe, Well (she said) yet this is the best, & of this I am sure, that how soeuer they wro[n] g me, they cannot ouermaster God."  

     (A excerpt from Pamela's Prayer (Arcadia 111.6) in it's original language and writing.)

     

     And so...this was the moment my name was born. This quiet moment of a man amidst his searching and want. Was it really by candlelight? I picture it so. A waning moon and a sky full of stars and a poet in the dark trying to find the perfect name for his person. And the name was Pamela.

     You must know that I love this story of my name for I am a creature of story love. 

     And soo... from now till forever I will picture Sir Philip leaning over the candle in the dark with the stars and the waning moon and I will be thankful for his deep and beautiful contemplation of my name. Pamela. All sweetness and honey. 

      I truly believe that names matter, and wish I'd given more thought to that when naming my children. I also know that my parents did not know the Sir Philip story when they named me, but I was told that Pamela meant sweetness and honey. 

     Imagine if everyone truly became the meaning of their name. Wow. Parents would have a serious responsibility in picking the oerfect one, and that could be a world changer. Until then, I'll just try to live up to the meaning of mine as best I can. It certainly isn't easy, but I do want to try.  

     Footnotes: (Sir Philip Sidney also wrote, "Dorus to Pamela" sometime between 1554 to 1586, and in "The Old Arcadia" Book 1, also written by Sidney, the eldest daughter of Duke Basilius also used my name.) And In 1740, another author, Samuel Richardson, used the name Pamela as the heroin in his novel, "Virtue Rewarded." It was after this that Pamela was used as a given name. It did not become popular until the 20th century.

4:10 am, Wed.

     I woke up with words stirring deep in my spirit. I opened my eyes. I was foggy and the words weren't completely clear yet, but I knew that God was telling me something. What is it, I wondered as I 
      sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I thought hard. "I am your Redeemer." Yes, I thought I remember now. I felt for stool, stepped to the floor. There's more, I thought, walking to the bathroom. I repeated the words. "I am your Redeemer." What else? There was something else. "I transform hearts and breath new life." Yes, that it. I thought and I said them out loud. :I transform hearts and breath new life."

      Still sleepy, I sat on the side of the bed for another moment before sliding back in. I whispered the words out loud again. "I am your redeemer. I transform hearts and breath new life.

     Paul stirred and reached out for me. "Did you say something?" 

     No. Just mumbling. I lied back down, but sleep did not come.

      I sat back up, lifted my phone off the bedside table and got out of bed again. "You okay, honey?"

Paul asked sleepily. 
      "I'm fine." I told him. "I'll be right back."
     Sitting in the moonlit kitchen, I opened a text box to myself and typed,  "I am your Redeemer. I transform hearts and breath new life." It was 4:12 am.
     I had a long day in front of me, and now that I'd placed God's words in a safe place to remember, maybe sleep would come.
     I went back upstairs and found Paul staring out the bedroom window. "Did you see this moon?" He asked. The light coming in lit up his face.
     "No." I said, "But the kitchen was really bright."  Still holding my phone, I stood beside him and looked. Clouds were moving across the moon. They were shifting its size and light around. I realized then I wanted a closer look. "I'm going outside to take a picture," I told him. "I'll be back in a minute. "

     When I stepped outside, the moon was behind a tree and there was a rainbow prism around it. 

It was beautiful, so I sat there with them both. Gods words and his gift of the moon. We sat together until the light came.

     A few hours later my daughter joined me in the kitchen and a regular conversation soon turned very serious. Her eyes filled with tears. "You left me alone a lot, Mom. I was alone a lot." I heard real pain in her voice and knew that she had said similar words before, but never like this.
     The last thing a mother wants to hear is how her child got wounded by decisions she made. My response was quick and there was offense in it. "You weren't alone. You were at the ski lodge with us, you were at home with your brother and sister, we did the best we could. You just need to forgive me."
     She stood up and started to leave the room.  I called out, "Really? You're walking away? I ask you to forgive me and you're walking away?"
     In the same moment I spoke those words, God turned me inside out and showed me my heart. My words had not come from a place of true repentance. I had not asked for her forgiveness, I had justified my own actions. My heart was not pure.
    I hurried down the hall after her. I wanted a second chance. I wanted to do it better.
    She told me to leave her alone.
    I went back to the kitchen and began to weep. My cry turned deep and long and loud. I couldn't stop it. It's hard to describe what was happening, but I was feeling her loneliness. All the time she spent at the hotel with Paul and I while we worked, she really was alone. All the time at home with her older brother and sister, she felt alone too. God was showing she how she felt, and I was grieving.
     When I felt her hand on my shoulder I turned and hugged her tighter than I had in my entire life. "I'm sorry," I said, wailing with the words, "I'm so sorry that you felt so alone."
     She let me hug her for a long time, and when I let her go we separated silently.
     I went upstairs trying to regain control. I couldn't remember the last time I had cried like that, but suddenly, the words God spoke to me at 4:10 that morning took on new meaning. He knew this was coming, and His promises were for Chandler too. "I am your Redeemer. I transform hearts and breath new life."
     I began to to cry all over again.
     It was an hour before the quiet tears stopped completely, but by the time I got in the car to head for a long afternoon with the kids at Husky Club, I felt peace.
      My tears washed my spirit and with His words imprinted deep inside me, I walked into work with a lighter step.
     I believed that the hardest part of my day was done, but there was more.  I have co-workers who I genuinely love. Our job is to walk side by side guiding and teaching little ones, but God also knitted our hearts together for his purpose. We walk out real life together. We talk about the tough stuff and give praise for the blessings. We know each other well. We laugh, we cry, and we pray!
     One of these beautiful woman has heartbreaking struggles with her son and I had also had a few heartbreaking struggles with mine. It was late in the afternoon that we both became part of a tough episode in her son's life.
    After all was said and done, God reminded me of his words he gave me that morning, and I believed he wanted me to share them with my friend, because they were her words too. I sent them to her via text. "I am your redeemer. I transform hearts and breath new life."
    God held five hearts in his hands that day with the promise of those 4:10 am words.  And they are words I have shared many times since. We all go through life facing challenges and some simply break our hearts. But God's promises are true and He reminded me of that very early that morning. God does redeem lives, and, he takes our broken hearts and transforms them.  This I know is true, and I will always and forever be grateful for that. 

Doors...like eyes... are guardians of story.

       Why do these thresholds pull me close and still my feet? Why do I photograph porches and doors and look at other people's door pictures? I find myself longing. Some are just so beautiful that I want to sit there and be part of it. Others speak of mystery and I feel my curiosity pumping through my blood and I want to know the story. 

     As I linger and photograph them, I hear whispers calling from the other side. A promise waiting to open before me.

     Let me just have a little peak through the window. 

     No. That's a lie. I want to feel the knob in my hand. Invade and go all the way to the back porch and  sit in the swing where hearts dwell.

     Why do I imagine what inside and beyond. These doors aren't mine. It's not my right.
     But still there is a compelling that holds me. Could it be that because I think it's beautiful that it invites me to stay? Perhaps not. But something draws me back. 

     I have photographed the same porches in all four seasons. And as I stand there knowing its the same door I photographed in January with a snow drift blocking it's way, now, in late Spring, it feels completely changed. The cold dark winter beauty of it lit up at night by a golden lantern, is now soft and sunny and ivy covered. It's dewy. A sea green planter sits beside the door now with a thriving pink Mandevilla vine stretching out as as if trying to touch me. And in the Fall, as the colors and light and shadows change again everything becomes new all over. Do they know how beautiful I think there porch is? Have they ever seen the stranger taking pictures from their yard? I truly have no idea? 

     

     Imagine doors like the first notes of a song. A song that continues behind it. One that I can't hear. I imagine both beautiful, and sometimes, sad hard melodies, finishing themselves on the other side.  

     Does a beautiful door mean that beautiful people live behind it? Maybe it does. Probably not.  Maybe, like lipstick and mascara, these pretty porches are trying to put on a good face. Are they a pretense? Just because the first notes of a song are beautiful doesn't mean the song won't be sad.
     And where is it exactly in the cracks and holes and peeling paint, of things old and broken and faded, do I see beauty? I'm not sure. But I do.  I think it's in the stories of the lives lived there. In the scarred wood and cracked door. Sometimes it fills my curiosity with sadness so I have to let it run far and fast so I can't catch it. And then I think, "What if this door, so full of scars and cracks holds the greatest of love?" 

     I know that behind all these doors are the truths and the secrets and the tears and the love. 
     Do I want the beginning of the song I hear on my side to be true? Authentic to the rooms behind it? 

     And do I really want to hear all of the voices and know all the secrets inside? I think not.

     And yet, the charm of notches and knockers with ivy, the mystery and magic of peep holes, all carry a story that I want to hear.   

       And when I see my porch, I ponder there too, because inside my door is my story. It's a beautiful song. Parts of it are hard and sad. Parts of it are scary. But the melody is filled with the joy of a family and the end is a crescendo of glorious redemption. It's our song. Paul's and mine, so I'll take it. It's one that only God and us will ever truly know. 

     And in the end, my hope would be this...

     When you see my porch, please come inside my door. You will no doubt find a mess somewhere, but please stay long enough to feel the love here. And I promise you there will be a song.