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. 

Wow Lord...

     We got an early snow this year. It dampened spirits. Especially mine. The beauty in the color change of Fall simply feeds my spirit, so I began to whine.  I just knew that the leaves would drop off the trees and Fall would be over before it had even begun. Winter had come fast and hard and I wasn't ready...
      Then God did what God does. The colors haven't been this vibrant in years.
     My spirit is dancing...

    I see you Lord! Thank you for this gift. Your glory in nature overwhelms me...

My Fathers hands...

       I want 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
     
     
    

Introduction

   

     There is a place where story-tellers go.  A room where drama holds court. In this room, the shadows of  characters and stories ricochet off walls, then fall to the floor and lay there. 

     It is where we dress them up, or dress them down. It's where we first hear their voices, and  finally, place them on a page. 

      We will laugh with them, cry with them, argue about our rightful place in their story, then,  we settle them into the skin of our people. It’s where our words become a tale only to be tossed back up into the air unfinished. They then land re-arranged with a whole different shape and sound. 

     It is a place I have loved and know well.

     But buried deep in my heart is my confession.

     here is my confession.   

     It is this. I still yearn to tell you a different story. A suspenseful fictional tale of mystery and drama that would drop you deep into the walls of that story-teller room and I know my blog posts will never do that.   

      But something changed this morning in my heart when I read this quote from Donald Miller.   

   “If I have a hope, it’s that God sat over the dark nothing and wrote you and me, specifically, into the story.  And he puts us in with the sunsets and the rainstorms as though to say, ‘Enjoy your place in my story.  The very beauty of it means that it is not about you, and in time, that will give you comfort.”

     Quoted from Donald Miller’s book, “A million miles in a thousand years.”

     So this idea that God, the first and last greatest teller of stories wrote mine just for me, settled over me and gave me comfort. I saw my life as a beautiful chapter in God's great book. One that was compiled by his love and whose breath gave it life. I knew that He set me apart and called me his before I ever knew my name, and suddenly I was back in the story-teller room. But this time, my God-written story was inside the walls with me. So when the light and shadow of my very own tale began to shift around me, it was beautiful and powerful. Its drama pulled the breath from me, the joy of its laughter made me weep, and the walls pulsed with its mystery.   

      So I can lay down the other writing for now, remembering what God showed me in the storyteller room with him because it is more than enough. It's everything.

      

     So now, come walk with me down the Glory Road where there will be tears and laughter. Beautiful things and ugly things. soft things and hard thing. But in the end, joyous beautiful redemption. 

     And so...   

     'Blisters or not, we will trudge up hills and pull thorns from our feet because the road ahead leads to the Valley of Glory. Where babbling brooks will sing in Worship, and the Mountains will bow down."

     It will take our breath away.         

      

Before you were born...

Jeremiah 1:5

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you; I appointed you a prophet to the nations

Psalm 71:6 ESV

[6] Upon you I have leaned from before my birth; you are he who took me from my mother’s womb. My praise is continually of you.

Ephesians 1:4 ESV

[4] even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him. In love 

    So now...Let me take you somewhere. 

     Often, as a story-teller, my imagination tries to fill in the blanks of the untold parts in a story.  So come with me for a moment and imagine what it might have been like right before God breathed life into your human spirit and knitted you inside your Mother's womb.

     Imagine this...

     You, a preciously loved and perfectly made child, placed at the beginning of a road. It’s not at all familiar and it’s full of things you’ve never seen and don’t understand.  God tells you that it is the road leading through your life on earth and that it ends in eternity where you’ll be back with Him forever.  

     Then you watch, as your Father, the creator of all living things, sends someone down the road ahead of you in the greatest of love.  “This is my Son,” He tells you, “of whom I am well pleased.”  Matthew 3: 1 Mark 1:11, 2 Peter 1:17, Luke 3:22.  “His name is Jesus.”

    You watch as this Jesus clears your path and lights your way.  He gathers up everything dark and ugly and takes it upon his back.  The pain of this is unbearable, the terrible weight of it brings the Son to his knees before the Father.

     “But I love her,” the Father says as He helps the Son back to his feet.  “Go on to the cross now.  This child is worth it.” 

     So Jesus does what his Father tells him.  A bit further down the road you see him sit and break bread at a table with twelve He loves.  Luke 22:19, Just after that, you hear his cries to the Father from a garden, Luke 22:42, Mark 14:36, and then you see his hands get hammered into a board with nails.  His blood is shed.  

     Your Heavenly Father cries as the 

Son utters from the cross, “It is finished,” John 19:28-30 and Jesus takes his last breath.     

     “Go on now.”  Your Father says as He gives you a pat.  “I have chosen your family.  They are waiting. Your life on earth is about to begin.”

     You place your foot onto the terribly stained road and notice it is dark and full of deep ruts.  “I don’t like this road, Daddy.”  You tell him.  “Im scared those ruts will swallow me up.”

     “You must go down it.”  He tells you with love.  “It is simply the way it must be. And know this too... you will leave your own ugly stain behind on this road because you have become a daughter of Eve and it is your sin nature now.  Soon, a time will come and you will turn away from me.”

     “No Daddy! Please?  Don’t make me go. I want to stay here with you?”

     “You cannot. ”  He says firmly.  “You must walk in faith and trust me.  My Glory will be everywhere so if you look for me, you will see me.  When my Son Jesus died, He saved you from death and left with you a helper, the Holy Spirit, who I sent in His name.  It will teach you and help you remember the things you've learned from me.  John 14:16-17, John 14:26.         So study my word and ask the Holy Spirit for revelation.  Do this, and all truth you know will return. Then you will remember and know my plans for you.  Jeremiah 29:11 These are the things that will lead you back to me.”

     With crocodile tears you take your first small step and your Father engraves your name into the palm of His hand.  Isaiah 49:16  “I know every hair on your head,” Matthew 10:30, Luke 12:7,  “and every sparrow that falls.” Matthew 10:29 “So you run along now.”

  You turn around for one last look and plead.       “Please Daddy. I’m not ready?” 

     “You are ready, sweet child. I know everything that is coming and I'll never let you out on my sight. You’ll see me at the other end of this road.”  He points to something very far away.  “It is glorious. Just remember Eternity. Its what youll be living for."

     And then, as you start to walk away, God knits you together inside your mother’s womb for your time on earth, Psalm 139:13, where you will form and grow.  

    Then, your Father in heaven picks up the Book of Life and places it on a table shining with gold and emeralds.  He opens it to your special chapter and looks at the topography of the road you are now on.  He records every twist and turn, your every sin and every praise.  Rev. 3:5, Rev. 20:12, Rev. 21:27 In the place where He finds you on a mountaintop in communion with Him, he draws a heart.  Your every thought and word has been recorded, so with his palms open and laid upon the pages of your life, He sits, and closes his eyes. 

     A tear rolls down his face.

    It is then that the Son comes alongside him and places his hand on the Fathers shoulder.  “She will find her way back to us, Father.”  He tells him.

     The Father nods his head, “I know she will.”  He pats the hand of His Son and then wipes the tear from His cheek.  “But she gets lost for quite some time and the enemy’s strongholds against this little one are great.  Her life gets very dark.”  The Father pauses and another tear falls from his eye.  “I miss her so much while she’s away.”

     “It is because your love is so great, Father.”  The Son says.  Romans 8:38-39, Lamentations 3:22-23, Psalm 103:11-12

     “And she finds her way back because of your sacrifice and grace from the cross.”  Says the Father.  Ephesians 2:8, Romans 5:8, 1John 4:16

     “I only do what I see you do.”  Jesus adds.  John 5:19

     “Yes.”  The Father stands. “I know.”   

    He embraces the Son and closes the Book of Life.  Together they walk to the doorway.  The Father smiles.  “Now my Son, what are the Angels going to sing to me today?” Zephaniah 3:17

               

       

A quiet prompting...

  No longer just something I carry around in my heart, I have now  begun to fine-tune the words on the page. What began as God's quiet prompting seems clear and perfect in the dark moments right before dawn,  but then,  the rest of the world wakes up and cloudy and ugly.  I am vulnerable and find myself  ill-equipped as I walk this out into the world.   As I edit, I  wonder who wrote this. The writing is terrible, the sentences childish, and  I don't want to continue.  

     But I know these arent God's thoughts. so I'm fighting my way through it. I cut and paste. I re-write and re-write and re-write. I am choosing to persevere. In my heart I want nothing more than to do this right.  And I know He knows. I can feel Him right beside me.  

    So....I go back and read my own beginning in my own words and it reminds me.  

     And here I am. My feet still planted on the road, but in truth,  this latest stretch is rocky and hot and I really just wanna to jump off.  But I wont because God has placed me here and I trust him. So I'll take another step, blisters or not, and keep my eyes on Jesus.  I will trudge over its hills and pull its thorns out of my feet.  I will pull my shoes from the sticky tar,  and when I cry out  because I step on a sharp rock, I will know my Father hears me cry. I will hop through the hot spots because of the cool green valley at the end of the road where fragrant flowers will take my breath away and the babbling brooks will sounds like worship. I will bring glory to my God...

A Dream

      I walk down a dirt road aware that I am happy. I am wrapped in the innate awareness of God's glory which is everywhere. I look at trees, notice clouds, take deeps breaths, and watch the wildflowers in the meadow beside me bend in the wind.  In the distance, here and there, a few people are scattered about. 

      In the dream, I suddenly realize that I don't know where I'm going, but I begin to walk faster.  I'm carrying something that gets very heavy.  "Put it down!" Someone yells from the distance. I look down, but can't see it.  I don't know what it is, but I hold on tighter knowing I will not sit it down.

     I continue down the road as things begin to change around me. They are subtle and quiet at first.  A shift in the sky, movement in the meadow, colors grow dim. 

     And then I know. I see God's breath leave the trees beside me and they wither.  

     I fill with panic and begin to run. I look around but no one seems to notice what is happening.  

      The sky grows dark and I begin to cry out, "Jesus! Jesus!"

     Inside my dream I am aware that Paul is beside me in the bed and I think, "I know he can hear me, why doesn't he wake me up?"

     And then, just as suddenly as it died, everything in my dream fills with life again.  The trees beside me saturate with color and life and my spirit settles as the meadow flowers blossom with glory.  

     A child appears beside me the road and smiles. Everything is fine. God is back and I fall to my knees. I'm clutching a Bible. 

     When I'm fully awake I say to Paul.  "Did you hear me screaming? I was screaming. I was screaming Jesus' name?"
     He says he didn't.

  Philippians 2:9-11 Therefore God has highly exalted him and bestowed on him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bow, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

    

         

Dear Beth Moore

 

Dear Beth Moore...

    (Okay...so...I'm admitting on the front end that I know this is a little weird considering the person I'm writing this to will never read it, but that being said, I'm going to write it anyway...)

     Dear Beth...

      I picture myself sitting across a small table with you in a quiet corner of Starbucks laughing. This scene is a picture of two woman who are made so uniquely alike by their incredible creator, that he ordains their meeting, and is sharing in the joy of the moment. 

      I don't know which one of us is older, but I think our Father saw what a kick he was going to get out his beautiful and unique creation, that he couldn't help himself from making a second one so much like the first. 

     These two women, born in the mid-west around the same time both raise children alongside each other, yet they are hundreds of miles apart. Both watch their firstborn daughter's, with head fulls of thick brown hair who smile and roll their eyes when their Mother's tell stories about them, fall in love with amazing young men and begin lives of their own. They watch these precious daughters become wives and then mothers. They both become the giddiest of Grandmother's and can not stop gushing about these precious baby boys. Both of these women are more in love with their husbands than they were thirty plus years ago, and share, with precious tears, each of these things alongside their men.

     To one, He gives gives a southern accent, a painful childhood, an amazing testimony, and a redeemed life. He takes this precious little buck-toothed daughter from Arkansas, moves her to Texas, and gives her a huge ministry. She is a fashionista, a Starbucks coffee lover, a girl who knows and appreciates big hair and is a dramatic and funny storyteller. She is a woman who loves His word, a woman who is transformed by His love and grace, and whose heart and obedience directly effects the other. 

     To the second woman, He gives a bit of redneck spirit, a husband at age nineteen whose childhood was so painful that it is unimaginable, and He redeems them both. He takes this precious little daughter, (who had extra teeth growing in under her tongue and wore a a device to school that went with it ) and moves her family to a tiny mountain town in the Eastern Sierra's of California where she leads the other woman's Bible studies. She too is a fashionista, a Starbucks coffee lover, a girl who knows and appreciates big hair, a dramatic storyteller, and a lover of His word. She too is transformed by His love and grace.

     The second woman wants to tell the first one how her heart for, and obedience to, Jesus, changed her life. She wants to thank her for her dedication, thoroughness, and consistence in writing Bible Studies and traveling the country. She wants the first woman to know that there are woman in a little California mountain town that call the second woman, "Mini Beth," and that have been changed, healed, set-free, and empowered by the gifts of the first one. She wishes they could share stories across a table about Jackson and Jude and laugh so hard that they almost cry. She wishes they could talk about clothes, hair, sin, the challenges of this life, the promises of the next one, the power of prayer, and the blessings that come from a life lived for Him. She knows that words like darlin' and precious, would be exchanged and that tears would flow. And, she believes, their loving father in heaven would see this all play out, and smile...

     So in closing, this second woman wants to tell the first one that she is not only her precious, Sista, but also appreciated, understood, and loved...

    Your California Kindred....Pam

Remembering a Father...

 

Remembering a Father...

In the first second memories I hear you laughing. I hear the noises you make when you play with us in the yard on warm summer nights. I remember how you taught me to catch fireflies, and how you hammered small holes into the lid of a miracle whip jar for me to keep them in. They became my bedside nightlight. I see you happy, smiling, and I understand that my playful nature comes from you. I see us sprawled across the living room floor playing a board game, or playing cards around the kitchen table. I remember how your laughter comforted me, how it settled my spirit. Made me happy.

     The next set of memories is of you fixing everything. My childhood is full of snapshots of you behind the washing machine, re-wiring electric sockets, putting in a ceiling fan. I see you under the hood of the car, and lying on the garage floor beneath it. I remember the day we heard baby kittens crying inside the pantry wall, and being amazed that you knew right where to cut a hole to rescue them. They came out covered with drywall chalk. I remember the time the baby chicks caught on fire in the utility room, and how safe I felt because you were home and in control of the situation.

     We could count on you to take care of whatever needed taking care of. There was order and purpose to the things you did. You were reliable and trustworthy, and I always felt so safe because of that.

     I love the look and smell of fresh cut grass because of you. I remember the long bike rides I would take on summer nights up and down the streets of our neighborhood and remember how my heart swelled with comfort and pride as I headed home and our yard came into view. Our grass was always freshly edged, mowed and manicured. The nicest on the block, and I knew that you had given it the best of your care. And that care, spilled over onto me.

     I remember the time you found tomato worms on the plants in the backyard and took me out there to show me what they looked like so I could help you find them .We sat together for a while and watched the giant worm eat its way across a leaf and I was mesmerized. You showed me how to handle them and how they used their large thorn as a weapon. Then I watched you poke it with a stick and I saw it bend its back end over itself as it attacked the stick with its thorn. I remember being amazed. I could not stop watching it.

      I remember running out to check the plants, so excited, yet also freaked out, every time I found one.

     One night you came home from work and I had three of them trapped in a Miracle Whip jar. I remember you were proud of me.

     (We sure put those Miracle Whip jars to good use, huh?)

     The next set of memories comes from your athetisism and love of sports. I do not remember how old I was when you played softball, but I have a clear memory of knowing that you were the pitcher and that that was quite a big deal. I remember your wind-up and how fast the ball flew from your hand. I remember standing around with some kids one night by the concession stand and saying proudly, “My Dad’s the pitcher.”

     I remember all the nights we spent at the bowling alley during your years in bowling league. There are smells and sounds buried deep inside me unique to that place. Every time I walk into a bowling alley, the sounds and smells take me back, and I remember. I watched you throw a bowling ball so many times, that I see it clearly if I close my eyes. I see the curve of your ball right before it hits the center pin to make a strike. You would do it over and over and I'd hear you, “Whoop,” and watch you do that funny little jig that always followed it.

     You sat in the recliner and I sat on the floor beside you while we watched John McEnroe, scream at Jimmy Connor’s on the tennis court.  How that entertained us.

    I learned about Arnold Palmer and Jack Nicholas’ golf stats, and I watched you sit on the edge of your seat as they made their putts.

     But my favorite was the boxing. It was Cassius Clay who sucked me in, but by the time Clay became Ali and fought Norton and Frasier, I was hooked. To this day, whenever I see a boxing match my blood pumps up a notch.

     You taught me how to throw a ball, (well, you tried to anyway) to swing a bat, (and boy did you smile when I pounded it.) You taught me how shoot a basket, ride a bike, roller skate and water ski.

     The last picture I have of you begins at the beginning and stays consistent throughout my childhood. This is the Dad in the suit who left in the morning, and came home every night at 5:30. This Dad provided for his family and was faithful and responsible every day of my childhood. Because of this, I felt safe, care for, loved and protected…

     So thank you Dad, and Happy Father's Day...I love you!

Missing Summer Storms

     I grew up in the Midwest,  to be exact, right in the middle of tornado country, and there, spring always announced itself in the very same way.

     Late in the afternoons, the horizon would grow dark as blue-black clouds bellowed and burped their way across the sky. I have vivid memories of watching them roll in and knowing their power. My heart would beat faster as anticipation, fear, and awe all fought each other for their rightful place inside my spirit.

     There was a drill in my family and we knew what to do. When a storm began to make its way across the sky, we would head home and turn the TV on to Gary England. He was our local meteorologist, and he would be the one to tell us when to worry. He was the man who would change the, “Thunderstorm Watch” into a “Tornado Warning.”

     If Dad was home, and it seemed more often than not, he was, we would head for the garage where Dad turned on the radio, and our ritual began. My two sisters, my brother, and me, would gather our lawn chairs and line up side by side next to Dad just inside the open garage door. We would scoot to the very edge and lean out as the sky cracked open with lightning, and we would shriek as the gigantic booms of thunder vibrated forth from the darkening sky. We would compare lightening bolts and cracks of thunder, and on evenings when each one seeming brighter, closer, and more powerful than the one before it, we knew the storm was headed right for us.

     Sometimes, just when we thought the sky couldn’t possibly get any angrier, it would open up and explode with hail. Once, hailstones rained down the size of golf balls, and shocked, I stood holding my ears, mesmerized by the sight. I had never seen power like that, or heard a natural sound so loud. Other times, we watched funnel clouds dance down from the darkness looking for a place to land, then they would hop back up and disappear. But if the sirens sounded, and they often did, we had to go inside.

     I felt safe if Dad was home when this happened, but his expression and the glances he gave my mother, told me if he was worried. On these occasions, he gathered us kids into the bathtub, he and Mom on the floor beside us with a mattress from their bed as shelter.

     The worse tornado of my childhood, one of the bathtub times, took a neighbors roof completely off his house and sat it down on the roof of a house two streets over. No one was hurt, but when Dad came back from visiting them the next day he took us over there to see it and he showed me a vase of flowers on their kitchen table that never even tipped over.

     I remembering standing there and looking up from that table at nothing but blue sky, as I came to a new understanding about the power and awe of a God that had control of something like that.

     As I recall these things, and share this story, I can’t explain clearly, why I miss all this so much, but know that I do. I believe it is the power of God that draws me in, but I also see his glory in the lightning, hear it in the thunder, and smell it in the rain.

     And in our neighbors kitchen that had no roof yet held a vase of flowers untouched on the table, I felt God’s Glory.

    This, I know, is why I miss them.

God amidst Technology

     I was at my daughter’s house the other day when she handed my 2-year-old grandson her Iphone. “Watch this Mom,” she said with a glint in her eye, “It’s pretty amazing.” Jude then took the phone, smiled at me, and proceeded to flip through the application pages until he found an icon called Monkey Lunchbox and then he opened it. I sat with him in my lap in utter amazement and watched him play a game similar to the card game we used to call concentration. His memory of where the matching fruits were astounded me.
     This precious two-year-old seemed to have an innate ability for this type of technology, and I was reminded of another time with my own son, Michael. He loved to build things with Lego’s, and when he was about four, Lego came out with these new intricate designs. Michael saw this Pirate ship one day when we were out, but there were hundreds of pieces and I thought it would be way too much for him. But when he kept asking for it, the day finally came to make the purchase, so I blocked a chunk of time out of our day so I could sit with him and help him build it. As Michael settled on the floor with the box, I went into the kitchen to fix a glass of tea and make us a snack. When I came back into the room, he had half the ship put together already. I remember being amazed by that too. No instructions necessary, just the picture on the box alongside his little brain and hands.
     The truth is that the Lego Pirate ship challenged me that day, and I was not prepared for all the technology that lied just around the corner. However, what I know now, is that our God was prepared. He was not surprised or amazed by any of this. He knew exactly what kind of world Michael and Jude would be born into. He knew the skills they would need to be successful in 1989 and in 2010. God knew all of this was coming.
     So…my point is this. Although I am constantly challenged by all the latest computer and phone technology, I am embracing it. My husband used his upgrade and got me an Iphone for Mother’s day. Most of my family members already had one, so it was not a new deal in my world, but I wanted to figure it out all by myself, so I did. Well…I may have called ReAnnon once or twice.
     And now, I can't imagine living without it. I love that I can play scrabble with daughters, nieces, friends, and Mother on and off throughout my day. (This also keeps my brain working) I love that I can take a quick minute to engage with them, or send a simple text of love or encouragement. I can leave a quick comment on a friend’s blog post, or laugh with someone on Facebook…and all this…I can do in my car in between errands, while I water my garden, when I stop at the creek on a walk, or when I take a work break.
     The other day, while I was watering, my niece sent me a picture text of her Mom, my sister, wearing a hat like one that I have. “She’s looks like you, Aunt Pam,” her text said, and I laughed. They were traveling in the car, and after a few texts back and forth, I felt like I was in the car with them. What a precious gift that was. Then my youngest daughter, a big city girl, found a curio cabinet the other day and sent me of photo of it right away. I then got another photo a few hours later after she had filled it with all her special treasures. I felt like I was right there with her too. Another gift.
     So whether you’re on board with all this new tech stuff or not, it is the world we live in and the way of the future. The social networks, like them or not, is how people communicate these days. My parents, siblings, kids, nieces and nephews, friends, all of us, we laugh, post pictures, and share our lives with each other this way. And as God inspires me to write about what He is doing and what He has done, I can share those things with all these people as well.
     I watched my oldest daughter bring God Glory amidst some very difficult suffering by way of a personal story a young pastors wife shared on a blog of her own similar journey.
     I believe that to be a successful disciple in the world today, to share the Gospel with the largest audience possible, we need to Facebook, Blog, Tweet, set up Web sites, and Email, because it is the way of the world. You may not like it, and you can fight to the end, but you will lose. It is our future.
     I understand the internet can be a dark place, but it is not going away. If we want to be in touch with our children and grandchildren on a daily basis, and I do, it is our only choice.
     As we embrace it, we need to use it for the Glory of God. Let us not lose the foundations of biblical truth and the heart of God among all this new stuff, but let us instead teach, love, minister, and encourage more people than ever before through these amazing tools that God has placed in front of us.
     So I encourage you to learn how to use this stuff. Embrace it! If my Mom can do it, and I can do it, you can too. It’s all part of God’s perfect plans…

Reflections of a life

I woke up this morning very early...not quite 3am...flooded with memories of my life with Paul. Like watching old movies, the play-by-play of my husband and childrens lives unfolded before me. I'm not sure if the memories were triggered by a day spent with precious new mother's, who are experiencing their own lifetime of firsts, or by the celebration of another year of my marriage to Paul. Perhaps God just wanted to remind me of His love, and the journey He has taken my family on.
Our lives started out with some dark stuff...Paul with his own before me, and then together we had more. There was Charles death right before our wedding...then finding David dead in his room in our apartment not too long after that. Then the Fear came...it overtook me and stayed too long. Those first years were hard.
Then the joy began...real joy...seeing Paul cry as he held our first baby, a little girl, in his arms. I still remember the smell of her. I could do nothing but just hold and look at her for hours. I watched Paul change her diapers, sing her songs, and take her on tractor rides. I saw her at one, already precocious, sitting on the floor in red panties and blue knee socks eating a plate of Cheetos. I saw myself lying on the sofa, as Paul rubbed my huge brown belly wondering what the baby boy inside me would be like. I saw Paul cry again as he held our baby son in his arms for the first time. I watched ReAnnon hit a ball off a tee, and dance around in her Michael Jackson t-shirt to Paula Abdul and La Bamba over and over while her baby brother sprang and laughed from the jumpy in the doorway beside her. Memories of watching ReAnnon run across 2 acres when her Dad whistled from his tractor with a big glass of ice tea as my husband mowed our yard and the two that bordered our property every weekend for an extra $40. He would take us out for hamburgers and ice cream.
I watched Michael as he sat on the soccer field picking grass and chasing bugs and then jump up and turn all serious when the ball came his way. I saw ReAnnon dressed like Madonna, and Michael as Teen Wolf. Our little family, so full with our drama queen and bug catcher as our lives took on new purpose.
And then Michael, barely four, his eyes so full of excitement and wonder came running from the Van to show me something. He was carrying a bullfrog by its back legs that was almost as big as he was. I had not slept the night before...so worried about my baby boy. (Paul took him on an overnight frog-gigging expedition where they sat in a canoe from Midnight to 2am and waited for the frogs. Then they would shine a light in their eyes to paralyze them and stab them with a giant spear) No wonder I didn't sleep. And can you just say…”Redneck!”
Then I saw my little girl at age six as she placed her suitcase, packed and ready, by the door. She was so eager and excited to leave home for the first time. She was going to fly on a plane from  to  with a Great-Grandmother she barely knew, to visit her MIMI, my Mom. And I remember thinking...how can she leave me so easily?

After that...times got tough again. Paul lost his job and couldn't find work. He got depressed. I got pregnant. Family and friends stepped in to help as they could. Our priest gave me a key to the food closet at our church. I would go while Paul watched the kids. I told them I had gone to the store. I stood in lines with other pregnant mother's for WIC vouchers. It was humbling and hard.
Then another gift from God came to us in the form of a baby girl. Her hair was the color of fire, and again, I saw my husband cry. But this time it came from a place even deeper than before. My broken man needed that baby girl at that moment in our lives, and God knew it. I remember begging the nurses to let me stay in the hospital just one more day so I could have her to myself, and they did. I cherished those last 24 hours with her because I knew too well what it would become when I took her home.

Then more joy as I watched her sister and brother fall in love with her, and Paul got a job working at an art gallery. Our lives moved on. I began cleaning a Montessori preschool so ReAnnon and Michael could attend. My niece, Tiffany, went there as well, and she became one of my own as she stayed with us after school while my sister Kay worked. She was clumsy, precious, beautiful, and so smart. Our love for her grew as she became part of our little family, and I knew that she would hold that place inside my heart forever.

Not too long after this, we got a visit from some relatives in . And through them, God opened a door. Paul said goodbye just a few weeks later to begin a new job in , He would return for us 4 months later after ReAnnon finished 2nd grade.
I can still pull up the memory of Paul backing out of our long driveway that day with tears in his eyes. Eight month-old  settled on my hip, as I held tight to one of Michael's hands while he wiped away his own tears with the other. Our little/big girl stood just in front of us and waved goodbye smiling, trying so hard to be brave.

That next four months was tough. Michael missed Paul so much. 

Because of Chandler, I couldn’t do the things that Paul had always done with him. The boy things, so Michael was mad a lot. But the time went by fast, and before we knew it Paul was back, and this time, we would all go with him.

I have another clear picture of our little family in Paul's Mother's black Thunderbird, as the four of us entertained  by singing ourselves across the country to our new home. “James Taylor, Roy Orbison, John Mellencamp, The Beatles.” And as I remember how we all sang the song, “Tweeter and the Monkey man," I say now with a smile, “Thank goodness Lord for your mercy.”

A new life...a new beginning. A cold triplex we couldn't afford to heat. Campouts on the living room floor in front of the fire. A bear in the parking lot. Waterfalls, mountains, sunsets, more stars than we could count, and so much snow. So many moments of awe and wonder. Memories of tearing down a wall so that two, two-bedroom apartments could become home for our little family. Memories of laughter among the hardships. 's first words...her beautiful and crazy red hair. How ReAnnon and I would laugh about it. Kids hiding food under the table leg.

Michaels first real soccer game, and then we watched as he hit a baseball the way a baseball should be hit. He was a natural athlete. Everything came so easily to him. .

ReAnnon got her first part in a musical. She performed in her first dance recital. Paul and I watched as our beautiful daughter came alive on the stage. We had never seen anything like it before. Her gift shined from the inside out, and it was magic. Their sister, my little ...my best buddy...my shadow...content to happily cheer them both on.

Then times got tough again. The snow stopped coming to the mountains. Our little family moved into one of the motels Paul managed. We were now, “On-site and on-call.” I hated it...grieved for my children. Cried myself to sleep, so afraid that we would never have a home again. Yet still, among it all, are memories of laughter and joy. A fluffy white puppy who we thought had run away the first day we got him.

My five-year old boy with a towel for a cape in tighty-white underwear diving off the check-in desk onto the lobby sofa. "Welcome to the Wildwood Inn", I would say to the guests, “I hope you like kids and puppies”.
Memories of sleep-over’s and swim parties, Chan in her pink Barbie car that we couldn't afford, Michael and ReAnnon in the parking lot learning how roller blade. Michael were three sizes too big and still he skated better than his sister. Their first real bikes. Michael so smart, so good at everything but always negotiating and pushing the limits. Always pushing the limits.
Chan's first day of preschool. Her first song. Her first dance recital. Her first musical. A shadow of her big sister, and our little family, celebrating each milestone right alongside her.
We dug in deep. A friend’s son moved in with us. A high school baseball player. We made mistakes. There were first communions, a little altar boy, a wedding on a boat, an adorable ring-bearer. Years trying to fit into a church that didn't fit. Struggling through too little money, long hours and broken promises. Doing what we had to do, trying to stay focused on the blessings.

I wrote letters to my kids with a dream in my heart that I would one day turn them into a book for them. I wrote inspirational essays for the Mammoth Times. Shared little snippets of our lives.

Life...love...laughter...compromise...discontent...sadness...heartbreak...joy. and yet always ...always...believing God for more.

ReAnnon began to drive...went to her first dance.
Then the Motels sold and we were without jobs again. Our children were settled. They had friends. What would we do now? Where would we go? So when God opened another door of opportunity, my husband wanted to take it. I remember walking into the  for the first time hoping that my husband wasn’t crazy. Praying that he wasn’t. My husband the visionary. I will never doubt him again.
The next years were fast and furious, as I watched Paul make his dream come true. Our investors were paid, and we were blessed with something I never though we would have in . A home.

Stress came too, a kind I had never known before, and an intense responsibility. Our employees became like family to my husband, and years of hard work followed. Memories of too much togetherness. Issues with partners...issues with employees...always trying to fight the fights with integrity and truth. Watching Paul struggle to give everyone what they wanted. My husband became my Boss and I didn't always like it. I no longer had holidays with my family.
More athletic successes for Michael...more dances...musicals....swim-meets…plays. My read-headed sweetheart.

Kids struggling with school, with friends. An angry husband. An angry Boss. A wife and mother who didn't want to do it anymore. And yet somehow, God always showed me where He was in the middle of it. He called out to me. And even when everything swirled into one big torrent that was our life, I felt His presence.

Then, through our oldest daughter, God brought us to a new church, and my husband took our family on a mission trip to . I began to make new friends...got new perspectives. There were changes in hearts, in minds. I had a new relationship with Jesus. Renewed faith. I learned a new and different way to pray.
ReAnnon graduated high school, worked for a while, and then made the decision to go through the Ywam program where she learned what it is to have a servant’s heart.

More long years working too many hours, fighting too many fights, but settled. We tried to do it with integrity and honor.

A championship football season for Michael his senior year. College in his future...Money we didn't have....I can not count the days I walked and prayed over that. A season of learning to be faithful and learning how to trust God.

Then our daughter got engaged and we planned a wedding. A big, beautiful one. Friends and family came from all over the country and we were so Blessed. Our son-in-law, a gift from God.
Then we had one last horrible season of the worse snowfall in our Mammoth history. A mother and daughter from our community got lost in a snowstorm. People gathered and looked for them for 3 days before they were found, but the daughter died after getting out of the car to walk for help.

Our business was more chaotic and stressful than ever that winter, and then God ended it as only He could. As our baby was getting ready to graduate high school, the vision my husband had all those years before became a reality and our business sold at the top of the market.
The season that followed, God's gift to us of rest and blessing, surpassed anything we could have hoped for or imagined. I was given the home of my dreams, and I have become a gardener. Last year, Paul and became grandparents, and a new love has blossomed inside me like no other love before, and it takes my breath away.
I do not know what the rest of my life with Paul is going to look like. I don't know what the future for my children looks like either. I know each of them will have their own set of trials and lessons to learn in the process, but I also know that God's promises and His faithfulness are real and true. He is sovereign and sufficient.

So I am thankful for my journey, with its darkness and its light. Through it, God has shown me who He is, and taught me how to trust him with my life.  I am humbled by it all. So thank you God, for your unconditional love, your mercy, and the gift of our salvation through your gift of grace! I give you all my praise!