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

 Why do they pull me close and still my feet? Why do I photograph them and stare at them and look at other people's door pictures?

    I linger in front of them and sometimes want to sit and make myself at home? Why is that? In my head begins a story. 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 yard where swings and hearts dwell.

     Why do I imagine it? That's not my door. Not my right.
     But still there is a compelling that holds me. Maybe the threshold wants me there. Maybe not. But sonething brings me back to stand and photograph some of same porches and doorways over again.
     Are they like the first notes in the song of a life? Pretty on the outside, but perhaps just blushed and mascaraed to contend. A pretense? Beautiful first notes don't mean the song won't be sad.
     And where is it exactly in the cracks and holes and peeling paint, things old and broken and faded, do I see beauty? Im not sure, except that I do. The story in the scarred wood makes my curiosity run far and fast and sometimes I can't catch it so I just let it go. But what if this door's song sings of the greatest love? 

I know all these doors carry their real songs on the other side where the truth and the secrets and the lives really dwell.
     Do I want the song of the door side I see to be true? Authentic to the rooms behind? 

How many of them like faces with eyes are practiced?  Facades that manage their outcome. Do I really want to hear all of the voices and know all the secrets inside? I think not.

        And yet, the charm and notches and knockers and ivy. The beauty and colors and mystery of peep holes carry a story and I want them all. 

       And when I see my porch I ponder there too because on it and inside my door is my story. One only God and I will ever fully know. It's messy and beautiful and sad and miraculous.
        My hope would be this...if you push inside and see my mess, stay long enough and dig deep enough to find love.

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 tastebuds, it's like...it's like... the meaning of my name. "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.

       

     But now, 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 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 will thank him for the deep and beautiful contemplation of my name. Pamela. All sweetness and honey. 

     And with this knowledge, do I want to live up to it's meaning? "Yes." My answer is "Yes," I do. Will I? Most definitely not. 

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 had 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.

My Fathers hands...

       I wanted you to know that you were beside me today, Dad. Right there beside me with your hands in the bike.

     Today was bike day at an aftersschool program where I work, called, Husky club.  And as the cast of wild things rode round the blacktop, I noticed that one of the older boys was sitting with his head hung. His bike was on the ground. I walked over. 
     "What up buddy?", I asked him.
     He looked at his bike and then at me. Pointed. The chain had come off. It was hanging loose on one side and stuck on the other. 
     "Yeah," I said, tugging on it. "It's stuck
pretty good." Then I tugged it again. 

      "Don't bother," He said as he kicked the tire in frustration, "I've been messin' with it for 10 minutes. It's useless."

      I looked down at the two freshly polished fingers that I used to tug on the chain.They were black. Then I saw your hands, Dad. The hands I'd watched put the chains back on our bikes so many times that I could see you do it in my mind.   
     "You know," I told him, "I have two sisters and a brother and I saw my Dad fix this kind of stuff alot'," I knelt down beside him, "So is it okay if I try?"
     The boy shook his head resigned and I moved in. I angled the bike against my leg the way you always did, Dad, and then I began to move the pedal back and forth and back and forth and guided the greasy chain back onto the teeth. I had to tug hard on it hard a couple of times, but I fixed it.
     I stood up holding my hands in front of me. They were covered with oily black bike chain goop.
     But the smile on the boy's face as he jumped on his bike made my hands look beautiful. "Thanks, Miss Pam!"
      Thank you, Dad, I thought smiling as I walked inside to wash up. I had never put a chain back on a bike until today. But today my hands became yours. Efficient, dirty, and working in love.
     I watched you and I learned something I didn't even know I'd learned.  Thanks for always fixing our stuff, Dad. And know that I really loved having you at work with me today.
     There's nothing like a Father's hands
     
     
    

Then Sings my Soul...

     I have a story to tell in spite of the fact that I owe a friend a phone call. I probably should have done that first but I know she'll understand.  The story comes about from my love of Hymns. I grew up singing them and many of them are buried deep in me. So deep in fact, that a few make me weep just hearing them.
     Sometimes a particular song will come into my mind and I spend the whole day singing the words I remember and then humming the tune over hoping to remember more.
     On Thurs. I walked into work and found a sack in the office with my name handwritten on the front. I grabbed it, smiling. I love surprises. Inside it were two books of old Hymns. Oh my Gosh, I love this, I thought as I opened one of the books and looked inside. It got better when I saw what else was inside. The left side pages held the music and lyrics, on the right were the stories of how the songs came to be. Wow, I thought.  It doesn't get much better than this. Anyone that knows me knows how much I love a good story. I love reading them and I love telling them. I had just hit pay dirt. This was the most amazing gift. I couldn't stop smiling.
     There wasn't a card but I was pretty sure I recognized the writing on the bag. It was a friend that I hadn't seen in quite awhile. I knew she was back in the area and I had been thinking about her. We had talked about getting together for lunch, so I picked up the phone to call. When she didn't answer, I decided to take a chance and thank her for the books, so I left a message. In it, I went on about how much I loved Hymns and stories and what a great gift it was. I said I'd been thinking about her and hoped to get together with her soon. Before I hung up, I laughed and said something about if the books were not from her than at least I got to tell her she'd been on my heart, or something like that. Then I said goodbye.
     All afternoon I thought about the moment I'd be able to dig into the books searching for all the songs that I couldn't quite remember. I couldn't wait to read the stories. I knew God was going to have something for me in there.  When I got to my car I laid the books on the front passenger seat and glanced at them, as I began to head home.  
     Here's the crazy part. Sometime during the 40 minute drive home as I glanced at the books on the seat, I had a flashback of picking the books up in a bookstore.  I remembered seeing the piano music in them and buying them for my friend, Vernita. She is a gifted piano player and has a sing-a-long Carol party every Christmas.  I remember grabbing them at the last minute as a second thought.  Almost selfish on my part because I know I pictured a great Hymn sing-a-long, (starring me) with Vernita behind the piano bringing the songs back to life. 
     I suddenly felt embarrassed and foolish remembering the phone message I had just left her about this great gift and remembered that she was preparing to move. I pictured her going through things and making the decision to give me back the books.  Oh Boy.
      Before I got home though, God reminded me that my excitement in receiving them was genuine and that nothing had changed other than I was feeling embarrassed and forgetful.
     God also reminded me that Vernita was a precious friend and that she would most likely laugh about this with me later.   
    I don't think I ever noticed or realized the songs stories were in the books when I gave them to her. At that moment in the gift store it had been all about the sing-a-long. At this point, God reminded me of my other friend Lisa who, like me, is a lover of old Hymns. She sings worship at church and in our small group.  I also knew that she would love reading the stories behind them. 
     I decided that I would give Lisa the books at small group on Wed. night even though one of my hands might still be clutching the pages. I told Paul to be prepared to pry it loose if necessary. 
     At home, I took the books upstairs and found all those old songs that were buried in my spirit.  I squawked with joy and sang with gusto while my gracious husband lied beside me in bed.  He smiled during the first few renditions, began to frown a bit around number seven, and then somehow, managed to fall asleep. 
     I'm still reading the stories, but God did have something very sweet for me.

     I'll share it with you tomorrow...and Vernita...I owe you another call.

A simpler life...come back in time with me.

     You don't have to step too far out your front door to understand that the world can be a big bad ugly place. But as a follower of Jesus, I am thankful. I'm thankful that I have the benefit of the gift of eternal life Jesus gave from the cross. I am thankful for the truth and promises of God's word. I am thankful for his supernatural power and provision. These are the things that help me see and arrive on the high road as I wallow through the mire. I do, however, still get pretty dirty in the mire at times.
     I spent the last two and a half weeks sitting on a criminal jury. I have always wanted to do this and have said as much to many family members over the years.
     So, when God gave me the desire of my heart, He also knew how very hard it would all be for me. It was not a case I would ever chose. It was a felony molestation case. Two teenage boys. As my friend Lisa pointed out, I got "Slimed."
     Nothing about it was typical. Nothing was cut and dried. It was a convoluted mess of story that required 24 pages of yellow spiral notes and ended with me empty and sick.
     I did the job I was called to do and I took it seriously. I prayed through the entire three weeks, that God would be glorified through my service in the courtroom and in my sequestered time with the jury. I hope he was.
     But because God is God and knows what we need and when we need it, I got a repose. After the trial, but before deliberations, I got a day off, and spent a long day with my Godson in a place called, "Laws."
     It is an old train depot and town that thrived in the mid to late 1800's. It felt like a breath of fresh air compared to where I had been the days before, and I wanted to blink my eyes and disappear into it. I would have been extremely challenged by such a difficult life, but I looked into it quietly and deeply with the eyes and a heart that yearned for a simpler life.
     So if your willing, come travel with me.
     Let's go back in time.
    

Two little girls and supernatural love...

     On the day that the dirty, angry, challenging little four year old girl walked into the door of Husky Club, God knit her tight into my heart. Her name is Cynthia, and I loved for her from the moment we met. It was supernatural, because she was not an easy child to love. But she looked so much like my niece Tiffany. Another little 4 year old who was knitted deep inside my heart. Seeing Cynthia sent me reeling back in time.
     I was suddenly back in my living room in Oklahoma with my 3 kids and my niece Tiffany. She stayed with us for a season while my sister was at work and she took an immediate and rightful place into my heart and into our family.
     Cynthia had the same haircut as Tiff did at that age. They had the same huge brown eyes, precocious nature, awkward clumsiness, and huge vocabulary.
    And, just like Tiffany, Cynthia's father had walked away, leaving her broken. And her Mother was a mess.
      I see God's heart very clearly in this. It is not a coincidence. God knew that I would fall in love with Cynthia despite everything because of how much she looked like Tiffany. And He was right. I waltzed right in and fell hard.

     God knew that Cynthia and her mother needed someone to love them and He chose me for the job. He knew that the deep love I had for the first little 4 year old dark headed challenging girl, would blossom again in my heart for this new one. And it did. 
     Cynthia spends the night with Paul and I 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 morning Cynthia was unusually quiet as I drove her the 40 miles to school. When I glanced in the rear view mirror to check on her, I saw Tiffany 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 for her life. Now there Cynthia sitting there and God reminded me of His love for her too. I could not fix all the things broken in  this little girls life, 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 spoken to me about her life that day. That I felt his love for her, and that he 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.
     My tears began all over again so humbled by God's presence and power. Why am I still so surprised, I wondered.  Isn't this who God is? Isn't this what God does? Wasn't he just reminding me of these promises that very morning because he knew how much I loved my niece?
     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."
     Tiffany was with her father's parents tonight for the very first time. And my smile...
      It is full and deep.

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!