A moment in the life of a girl

    As I walked toward the fence behind the batters box, bright lights suddenly popped on, and there he was. Dad was on the pitchers mound warming up. He looked so different than he did throwing pitches at home in the backyard, and I couldn't take my eyes off him. As he wound his arm around and then let loose of the softball, it flew into the catchers mitt with a loud pop.  

     My fingers looped themselves into the chain link fence behind the catcher as I stared at my Dad mesmerized.

     I knew that he was going to pitch that night, we'd all been talking about it for days, but now, seeing him in uniform lit up by the lights with crowds of people watching and cheering, he was so much more than just my Dad. He was, suddenly, some other incredible thing. He was intense, powerful, strong, confident...and oh, so handsome. 

     And as the sky grew dark, Dad looked at me and winked as he ran to the dugout to join his team. I saw him stop and say something to the umpire before the other teams pitcher made his way to the mound.     

    The umpire took his place behind the catcher and looked at me. "Your Dad asked me to tell you to take your fingers out of the fence, honey," he told me, "And to step back away from the backstop. Fly balls sometimes go over the fence." 

     "Okay", I replied pulling my hands away. "I've never seen my Dad pitch in a real game before?" I told him. "Oh yeah?" The Umpire replied. "Well you're in for a real treat tonight then, because your Dad's a real good pitcher."

     And as I walked away from that moment in time, I knew that Dad would always be more to me than he had before that moment. Because in the minutes that I watched him through the fence he had turned into something I had never seen before, and I would never forget it. 

     And later that night, when I stood in the concession line, Dad was on the pitchers mound again, and this time the game was in full swing. When our team cheered, I turned to watch Dad running back to the dugout as his teammates slapped him on the back. 

     "That Pitcher is my Dad!" I shouted to everyone who could hear.  "He's my Dad!"

Red lips and Ribbons

  

     You're right inside the in-between. Almost there but not quite there. You find yourself tettering the line between being an adolescent girl and wanting to become a woman. I know this because I was you.

     I watch as you feel your way along wearing red lips and ribbons. I see you breath deep and slow,  and I watch as you look back, perhaps in hesitation,  toward the place you came from. I see you stop and touch the silky ribbon in your hair. You might be thinking that you should have left it tucked in the back of your little girl drawer. But I can tell that you're not ready for that yet, and I'm glad. Please don’t be ready for that yet.

     Some run ahead of you on this line, laughing self assured, never missing a step, and you stand here covered in the wake of their dust. But then the boy runs by. The Stallion with the smile and the eyes. And when he stops, he turns his charm around and gives it all to you. All of it, and for a second you can't breath. But when you can, you take a deep breath, pop those red lips, and pull the ribbon from your hair. 

     I see you grip it in your hand, rub it with your thumb, and pause unsure. I get close enough to see you wobble on the line and I remember…

     In that moment what I really want to do is run to the line and hold you back. I want to take you back to the playground where little boys and little girls live. 

     But it’s a naïve thought and I know this because you would not stay there even if I did. I know you can't stay there, no one can stay there...and yet…I still wish you could and I'll hope it all the same. Just stay back with me for a little while longer, Please? Just a little while longer.

     But even as I think this, I see your desire to run ahead lured by the magnetic pull of that beautiful boy. You want another of his smiles. I know you do because I remember those smiles and that feeling.

   The desire to find your place in this herd of, "Children no more," is tangible. I can feel it, so  I place my hand on your arm. 

     "Can we stop for a second?" I ask?  You pause and turn to me. "I'm not sure you're ready for that?" 

     "For what?" you ask as you toss back your hair. "For the Stallion," I tell her, and tug the silky ribbon from her hand. Her breath catches, and I watch her face as it leaves her fingers.

     "Let me tie this back into your hair, okay?"

     She pauses, looks toward the direction of the boy, then at her ribbon in my hand. I watch her surrender as she lets out a long slow breath. "Okay, she says." 

     "And there will be many charming smiles ahead for you," I tell her, as I tie the bow into her hair and frame her pretty face.

     "So promise me you won't rush ahead too fast." 

     She blinks her eyes and sighs,  "Okay," she says, "I promise." 

     "And keep wearing this ribbon for a while too, all right? I can tell you're not ready to let it go." Another sigh as she nods her acceptance.

     "Will you walk with me for a little while?" I ask her. Then I nod to everything ahead of her on the line.  "That will all still be there and waiting when you're ready."

     She looks me in the eye and takes my hand in hers. "Thank you," she says.

     And so we walk.  And as I squeeze her hand, I smile.           

    

Before you were born...

"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 Jeremiah 1:5

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. Psalm 71:6 ESV

Even as he chose us in him before the foundation of the world, that we should be holy and blameless before him.  Ephesians 1:4 ESV

  

   So now...as you ponder these Scriptures and consider what they mean, I want you to think about what it might have been like before God breathed life into your earthy spirit, and let me tell you a story.

     Imagine this...

     You, a preciously loved and perfectly made child is placed at the beginning of a road by your Heavenly Father.  You stand there holding his hand and look down the road, but you don't  understand the things you see. This road is not familiar to you at all. It's full of loud voices, and chaos, and dirty things. It's nothing at all like the roads in Heaven. You look up at your Father, confused. "What is this Daddy?" You ask him. He kneels down beside you and places his hands on your face. "It's the road that leads to your life on earth, little one,"  and He draws you in for a hug, "and it ends back here in Eternity where you’ll be back with Me forever."   

     "No Daddy. I don't want to go!"

     It's going to be okay," He tells you, "because I have sent someone down this road ahead of you. It's how I know that you'll be back with Me one day. Now watch."

      So you sit in your Father's lap and see a man you recognize arrive on the road. "Is that Jesus?" You ask Him. 

     "Yes. That's right."

     You watch as Jesus clears a path of light along the road . "He will light your way," your Father tells you." And you Jesus gather up everything dark and ugly and carry it upon his back. You can tell that the pain of this hurts him and so you hold your breath and grab your Fathers hand. "It's going to be okay." He tells you.  And pulls you close. "I promise."

     Further down the road, you watch Jesus break bread at a table with twelve men that he loves. And a bit further you hear his cries to the your Father from a garden." 

     "Oh Daddy!" you say. 

     Then you see Jesus fall as he carries a large wooden cross on his back. "Please help him," you cry as you squeeze your Father's hand, and He has tears in His eyes when he answers you. "I can't." He says shaking his head. "Jesus had to do this. His sacrifice and death on the cross is what changed everything."

     And so you watch as Jesus' hands are nailed to the wood. "His scars!" you cry, rubbing a finger over your palm. "That's how he got them?" 

     "Yes, sweet girl. That's how he got them."

    Then tears fall from your Father's eyes as Jesus says from the cross, "It is finished," and you see Jesus take his last breath.    

     "But... Jesus," you say. "He's here."

     "Yes. His life on earth was over, so He came home. And you will too one day." 

     Your Father holds you for a long time. He knows how hard leaving them will be for you.        "Your time is almost up, sweet girl. You have to start your life on earth. Your family is waiting."  

      So you stand and sniffle. Take a few deep breaths. "Can I give Jesus a hug before I go, Daddy?"

     "Of course you can." Then your Father tells one of the Angels that he'd like to see Jesus, so you stand and look at the road until Jesus arrives. When he does, you run into his arms. "I love you, Jesus!" you say, arms wrapped around his neck. "I love you too, precious girl!"

     When he finally puts you down, you look up at him and take both of his hands in yours. Then you kiss each scar inside his palms. 

     "Go on now," your Fathers tells you. Your family is waiting, remember? Your life on earth is about to begin."

       Still holding God's hand you take an unsteady step and place your foot onto the terribly stained and rutted road before you. "I don’t like this road, Daddy,”  you tell him. “I'm scared."

     “Jesus will light the way, remember? But you must go down it.” He tells you this with love. “It is simply the way it must be. And know this too," He pauses. "You will leave your own ugly stain behind my sweet girl, because you will become a daughter of Eve and you will have a sin nature. A time will come that 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 go. Walk in faith and trust me.  And remember this... My Glory will be everywhere. So if you look for me, you will see me. And when Jesus died, he left an earthy Helper behind. It's called the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit will teach you and help you remember the things you already know. Study the Bible and learn about Eternity, and then all the truth inside you will return. Do those things, and they will lead you back to me.”

     So with crocodile tears you take another small step and you watch as your Father engraves your name into the palm of His hand.  "I know every hair on your head,” he tells you, “and I see every sparrow that falls. So go on now.”

     You turn around for one last look and plead.  “What if I'm not ready?” 

     “You are ready, sweet child.  I promise you. 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 that you can't yet see. "And it is glorious. Remember Heaven, because this is your home for Eternity. Its what you'll 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, where you will form and grow.  

    And then, with Jesus at His side, your Father in Heaven picks up the Book of Life and places it on a table shining with gold and rubies and emeralds.  He opens it to your special chapter and looks at the topography of the road of your life.  He records every twist and turn, your every word, and every praise.  And in the place where He finds you on a mountaintop in communion with Him, he draws a heart, and Jesus smiles. 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 as a tear rolls down his face. "I'm going to miss her so much while she is gone."

    "I know Father, but she will find her way back." Jesus places a hand on His Father's shoulder. 

     The Father nods. “I know she will, and he pats Jesus' hand. "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.  

     "It is because your love is so great, Father.”  The Son says as he sits beside him. The Father kisses the top of his head. "And she finds her way back because of your sacrifice from the cross.” he tells him. "It hurt me so much to watch you go through that." 

     "I know Father," Jesus responds, "But I only do what I see you do.”  Jesus adds.  

     They stay like that for a minute, then the Father says, "Let's walk." So together they exit a doorway filled with Glorious light.

   The Father smiles.  “Now my Son, what are the Angels going to sing to me today?”               

       

A Dream

      I walk down a dirt road aware that I am gloriously happy. I am wrapped in the innate awareness of God's presence which is everywhere. The trees are alive, I can see them growing and stretching their branches up toward heaven as in worship. The clouds dance and dip in the sky and I can almost touch them. I stop and breath deep, and as I take it all in, the wildflowers bloom right in front of my eyes. In the distance, here and there, I'm aware that a few people are scattered about, but there is no communication. Everyone is alone. 

     Then suddenly, something changes. It's a tangible thing that I can feel it. I stop confused. What is happening, I think, and look around. The birds have stopped singing. The breeze has stopped blowing. The clouds are still. I realize that I don't know where I'm going any more and I become anxious. I begin to walk faster and I realize that I'm carrying something and that it's getting really heavy. I look down, but I can't see what it is. "Put it down!" I hear someone yell. But even as I hear it, I hold on tighter knowing I will not put it down. What am I carrying?

     And as I move down the road things continue to change . They are subtle and quiet at first.  A shift in the sky, a movement in the meadows, but then colors grow dim, and I can see God's breath leave the trees alongside me and they wither. There brown branches hang toward the ground. The flowers in the fields beside me die, and birds begin to fall dead from the sky.  I fill with panic and begin to run. I look around but none of the people I see seem to notice what is happening.

     The sky begins to grow so dark that I'm terrified. I cry out, "Jesus! Jesus!" And somehow,  inside my dream, I am aware that Paul should be able to hear me. I want him to wake me up. "Jesus!" I scream again.

     And then,  just as suddenly as God was gone, He was back. Everything that died filled back with life again.  I watch as the the trees beside me saturate with color and reach their branches up into the heavens once again. And as I breath deep, my spirit settles inside me as meadows full of flowers blossom with glory.  Then a child appears beside me on the road and smiles. I bend down to meet her eyes. "Do I know you?" I ask her. "Not yet," she replies, "But one day you will. And everything is fine now," she tells me. "God is back."   I fall to the ground and weep happy tears and it is then that I see what I'm holding. It is my Bible. And it's not the least bit heavy. 

    And then suddenly I am awake, but the dream is still very vivid. Maybe the most vivid dream I've ever had. I sit up in bed. When Paul rolls over I reach out. "Didn't you hear me screaming?" I asked him. My heart is still racing. "You all right?" he asks me.  "Didn't you hear me screaming?" I say again. "I was screaming for Jesus."  Sleepily he pats my leg. "Sounds like you had a bad dream?"  He tells me. "You want to talk about it?" I take long slow breaths. "Not right now," I answer. "I can't believe you didn't hear me? I wanted you to wake me up."   "I'm sorry I didnt hear you." He says sleepily. "You okay?" Paul asks.  "Yes." I tell him and lay my head back onto the pillow. "I screamed Jesus's name, and God came back."     "That's good honey." Paul said as he snuggled close. "That's really good."                

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.

    

         

Come back in time with me....and just let me be a Milliner

     Bodie Ghost town and Laws Museum are two places in the Eastern Sierra that to me, are magical. The remnants left behind from days of old are stunning. And in these places, so close to my home, lay clear and beautiful pictures of a life gone by. In an old An train depot is a room with suitcases stacked up high. They tell me stories as I stand there and listen. And in the gold mining town theres a tiny house with a bef and a dresser, its windows dressed with  ragged and torn lace curtains still hanging in the window, and the Saloon still has the piano and the bar with a mans hat still sitting on it, the shelves behind it filled with bottles of booze. And Oh...do I imagine the things that went on in there.    

      These places thrived in the mid to late 1800's, and often when I stand and look inside these rooms, I close my eyes and try to bring it back to life in my mind. And when I do, I know who I would be if I lived in this town.l I would be a Milliner. 

     I am creative by nature. As a teen, it played out by learning how to play the 12 string guitar and singing. As a young Mom, I found myself painting jean jackets for a family of five. I had so much fun, I painted more. Some of you may have one that I gifted you. Im smiling as I say this, because it was a big and rather opulent thing to give someone, so I'm sorry if you didn't like it.

     In another season of life, I made flower arrangements and wreaths. I gave so many of these away that I truly lost count. After that, I had an, "Everything Homemade Christmas," which will forever be my favorite Christmas ever. After that, I learned to paint. That was truly a thing between Hod and me, and what He did in that place is nothing short of a miracle. And in the season after that, I became a Milliner.    

    The Arts council in our California community had tea parties once a year to raise money, and one year, I made hats. I had more fun than I knew possible making hats for a ladies tea, and I remember thinking at the time, I could do this every day, and be perfectly happy.  

     So come travel with me. Let's go back in time, and pretend that I'm a Milliner..
   

     And even as I know I would have been extremely challenged by such a difficult life as this,  I can see my shop if I close my eyes. It's right down the street from the Depot, and I watch as all my ladies walk around in their beautiful hats. Would I really have been happy there, with a rowdy Saloon and gunfights? Probably not, but I look into it quietly and deeply all the same with the eyes and a heart that yearn for a simpler life, and I truly do believe I could have been a very great maker of hats.          

The mountain that I call mine...

     Some things in life are solid and steady. Always present things that ground you. My mountain is one of those things. It sat at the base of our driveway, and for 15 years, I looked at it every single day. At first, I was just in awe, but after time, I began to feel as if this mountain belonged to me.  It felt as if we were in communion with one another. and so I claimed him, and he became mine. My son-in-law climbed him. Perhaps our Grandsons will one day climb him too.

     I was so mesmerized by his grandeur, that I began taking pictures of him almost every day. I stared at him as the morning sun lit his peak, and when the sunset clouds turned orange over his head. I took pictures of him through a field of wild lilacs framed by a old wobbly arch. I saw him change with every season and contemplated his glorious stature every time I walked outside. 

     He's not outside my front door any more, but his imprint is on my heart so deep that he will live with me forever.  So let me introduce you, his name is Tom. Mount Tom. And although these pictures of him are truly beautiful, they will never compare to standing at his feet. So here he is, "My Mount Tom."

 

Oh Eve!

          Oh Eve! There had to be the moment. The instant when it hit you. The thing you'd done and what it meant to the world. 
         I picture you with your hands in Eden's dirt and sweat on your brow as you stand and lift your face into a breeze with a beautiful smile on your face. I picture the birds swooping around you singing, and I know that you love them. They settle around you and peck out the seeds you are planting, but you smile and let them because in the garden is perfect love. In the garden you  walk with God. You walk in the garden with Adam and God and know His Glory. You know it.
        So you toil and plant and reap the fruits of your labor because your purpose under heaven is for this hard and good and holy work. The breath of God is innately in your spirit and know its gift. You see and you know.
       In your human-ness did you get tired and sore from all the toiling? Was Adam doing his part to help you? Were you exhausted the day the serpent came with his temptation? Or was it all just too intoxicating?    
       Oh Eve...you didn't see it coming did you? 
       But then he was there. That temptingly life changing serpent. Was he beautiful? He must have been, but then wasn't everything glorious in Eden? What made you follow him? What made you listen to his terrible idea? Knowing God, I'm sure he was more than clear about eating the fruit off the tree of knowledge. I'm sure you had everything. What happened to make you open your mouth and bite. And where was Adam?
     How soon after the bite did you know what you had done?  Was it after you swallowed the precious fruit? I know you must've wanted to take it all back. To spit the fruit out in the face of the snake and say, "No! No! No!" 

     But it was too late and you knew it. What  happened in the moments when you realized what you'd done. Did you scream at the serpent? Did you call for Adam? I'm sure you knew God would be there soon. 

      I picture you now outside the garden gate lying on the ground crying out to God with the deepest of wailing. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" You say and beg for another chance.

     But you didn't get one and I'm sorry for that because God had to be God and you had to be Eve. You had to be Eve because God chose you. He chose you.

      I wonder how long you laid there waiting for God to change his mind? Begging him too. And when you finally picked yourself up was Adam waiting or did you find yourself alone? How many times did you stop and turn back for one more deep glance of hope wanting to see God and hear him say, "Come back Eve! Come home!"

     And then you turned one last time and simply couldn't see your Garden anymore.
     Oh my beautiful Eve! What a story you've given us. 
      But I see you once again with your hands in the dirt and sweat on your brow as you stand and put your face into the breeze while birds and Angels swoop and sing. And this most glorious garden is full of students of Eden who watch and learn to toil and plant and reap from the first master gardener. It is full of God and love and eyes that see and spirits that know.
     And one day, Eve, I'll walk into your eternal garden. And you wont be surprised because you'll know I'm on my way. And your garden of fragrant sweet peas with nests of baby birds and the purple flowers of artichokes will fill my heart with love. But you already know that. 

     I'm sorry it had to be you Eve, because it could have been me. 

     When I get there, expect a hug. It's going to be a big one. 

Beautiful Bones...

      There are beautiful bones buried deep on country roads. The marrow and roots of this truth sing to me. These beautiful things, so rich behind gates made of sticks and barbed wire hold life and truth and and move something deep in me. Sometimes I just want to burrow in and disappear inside the story.

    The deep bones inside these cabins are groaning to breathe again. Broken, they have been left to linger alone but I visit them often and I hear their whispers. I think they are beautiful and I want to dig them out of the ground and take them home because I don't want them to be finished yet. I believe there should be more.
      And there are deep God bones in the trees and fields and mountains and sky of this place that lasso's my heart with a knot so tight I will never escape from the lure of their wile. And so I walk and breath and see...
     Wildflowers...sunsets...pastures sprinkled with cows and horses and babies...just give me the babies, Lord. Did you know that certain wood has a crisp golden skin that pops off of it in the Fall? 

    These quiet beautiful things settle in my spirit and sooth my soul. And in those quiet moments, everything is right in the world.
    In this place I know the majesty and glory and truth of God inside the marrow of my own fragile bones and I praise.
     I want it. I want the simple life of barbed wire sticks and keep-out gates and trees and cows and mountains and sky. I want my "road home" in all four seasons.
     Oh... if only...
     A tree, huge with roots and trunk, lay on the ground with years of seasons buried inside. It's battered and broken down by the wind. A giant wonder with a horse-shoe still tangled up in it's roots. And a tree with with white bones stuck them out for me to touch. Until that day I did not know that trees had bones.
     Today I pictured Jesus leaning against the giant tree with a smile as my rebellious spirit climbed the fence where the "Keep-out" sign was clearly posted. "Your foot is not really ready for this fence." I felt his words. But I climbed it anyway and I knew He knew I would.
     Does the idea of Jesus meeting me in the, "do-not-enter" zones help my confession that I climb the fences and push through the barb wire anyway and do not care?
    Just look at the pictures I took of the cabin. Is was worth it, don't you think? The light was amazing. And if you can, look inside the windows where ragged lace curtains hang shredded but loved. Where peeling wallpaper and dusty old broken things are stunning with their story.   
    when I walk I often think about my childhood. Of toad hopping contests and fireflies in a Miracle Whip jar by my bed. I can hear the sound of our turtles in the cardboard box scratching to get out, our nail polished initials shiny on the back of their shells.
    There was a time when glass jars of raw cows milk and fresh eggs, was set on porches by a delivery man wearing a white suit and hat. And while he did, little cowboys and Indian's used sticks for guns and arrows and their mail man walked and waved.
    That life, so quiet, so simple, so full of wonder, it simply strips me bare. It's so pure and I want it. But do I?
    Would I really be happy in the days of old? Just a simple life in the country with with sky and cow fields with furry babies? Where mountains and sunsets are not just seen on occasion, but sat with every day behind barbed-wire gates made out of logs?
      What if I had to chose? Those days or these? 

      Please don't make me. Life without the comforts of this new world I find myself in would be hard and frustrating. I would not be easy to live with, and my company would not have been good.
     But  cattails covered with snow make my breath long and slow and I can not stop the smile that comes. And mountain moons and pop-corn clouds pull my car to the side of the road and when the sky is on fire I can hardly breathe.  So I know the beautiful bones of my quiet country roads, deep and rich with the stories of a different life will always have their way with me.
     So I straddle this place. I walk the line between new and old knowing the gift and beauty of both.            But I will never stop walking my country roads and I will always see the beauty of the bones buried there. 

     And I will too dream of other roads I want to walk down. I'd love to park in a quiet place by the home of the bride of "the farmer" who writes about 1000 gifts with words that make me weep. I want her voice read me stories and see her pictures, because they will be beautiful.  
     And for the Bible teacher in Texas who moved to the country and might be my kindred...with two daughters and a long husband she loves greatly and a beautiful life redeemed. Her heart like mine has exploded in the new love of grand-babies in her arms and she had a son named Michael just like me. 

     This woman changed me deeply, and I'd love to sit on her porch and hold her hand and say nothing because it will say everything.

       So now, go find yourself a country road and look for it's beautiful bones. There are some buried on  every quiet corner under Heaven. And when you take the time to follow it, listen for your whispered name because it might tell you all it's secrets. If you're lucky, it will have a mountain on one side and a barbed-wire gate opened to a setting sun throwing shadows over a pasture with babies on the other. And then the moon will come out and you will smile.
    And another day...you'll go again because the secrets inside the beautiful bones buried there will already live inside you and you wont be able to stop yourself.

     So go. I don't want you to miss it. 

 

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. 

 

 

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.

     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 things. 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.         

      

A revelation conversation...

      "Its time for me to take this whole thing off, isn't it?"  I ask Him.

      "What do you think?" He smiles.

     "I don't think it fits me right," I tell Him and tug on the side. "It's uncomfortable. It bugs me.  It has for a long time."

     He sighs, “Yes, but that happens when you try to wear someone else's clothes."

     "What do you mean?"  My voice fills with frustration.  “You gave me these clothes."

     He tilts his head. "Did I?"

     I look down. "I thought you did." I pause. “They used to fit me better, didn't they?" I hold out my arms. "I love this shoes”

     He laughs. "Yes, I know you do, but the rest of them are way too big for you little girl.  You’ve been tripping over the hem of those pants since you put them on.”

      The truth in His words sting a little.  "I know,"  I admit, “I trip over them at every turn.  And these shoes are wearing out."

     "So..."  He holds out his palms. "I think its time for you to put back on your own clothes?"

      I sink to my knees with my fists clenched.  "I really did think these clothes would fit me." I begin to cry. 

     When I finally look back up at Him I feel his great and deep love. He smiles. “I know you did, " he tells me. "And I'm going to let you keep those shoes. They're part of your story now. I want you to add them to your wardrobe."

     I am weeping. 

     He reaches down and dries my tears. 
    "Tell me something," He says after I quiet. "What do you know from this journey we are on?"  

     I close my eyes and ponder His question. 

     "I know that you speak to me.”  I tell him.   

     "Yes.”  He smiles.  “What else?"

     "I see you. I know you.”

     “Very good. You’re beginning to understand.”  He picks up both my hands in His.  “What else?”

     My eyes fill up with tears again.  "I know you pulled something out of me that I didn't know was in there?"

     "Yes!” He squeezes my hands before He lets them go.   

     I wipe my runny nose with the sleeve of my top.  
     “So I'm just suppose to forget about tracing your Glory through scripture?  After all the time I've given it. After all my hard work." 
     I stop for a moment to collect my thoughts and then, with passion I tell Him, "I'm writing again. I'm being faithful. I want to finish it!"

     He leans back and tilts His head.  "And what is it exactly that you want to finish?"

     "Why aren't you listening?" I'm shouting now. "The Glory Road.”

     For a brief moment He is silent and then He takes a deep breath and pulls me into His lap.  
     "The Glory Road" that I laid on your heart is not the formatted study that you write precious girl, that is just a tiny part of it. I want it to be about your journey. About who I am in you and who you are in me. It is about Us." 

      I begin to weep again and as He holds me I realize that my tears hold more joy than sadness.  

     "So it wasn't for nothing then? 

     He lifts my chin and looks deep into my eyes.  "It wasn't for nothing, precious child. It was for you to better understand my Glory."

     I wipe my nose again, take a deep breath, and climb down from his lap. 
     "Well...all right. It was way too hard anyway." I brush myself off and straighten. "All those computer programs, Bible apps, the commentaries, the research.” I sniffle.  “I’m happy to be done with it.”

    “Are you finished?”  He asks. 

      I nod my head and His smile diffuses me.  I sniffle again. “I'm not a Bible teacher am I?"

     "No, sweet girl, you are not.”  He pauses. "But know that I sincerely love all your questions and I love your passion and faithfulness in the study of it."  
     He takes the corner of His robe sleeve and dries my tears. “Now let me ask you something else?  Was there any joy in this challenging season?"

     I look down at the floor ashamed and humbled.  “So very much."  I say quietly. "More than I could imagine."

     He reaches down and lifts my chin again.  “And where did you find that joy?"

     I take a deep breath.  "Every day when I saw you in the sky and the mountains. In every moment that you gave me revelation. In all the beautiful pictures I took. In every word I wrote about you. In everything I painted."

     "Ahhh...that's a lot of moments of joy since that day two years ago that we talked in your car, huh?”  He smiles knowing that I am beginning to see.  

     I sniffle again.  “Yes. So very very many.”

     “So I have just one more question for you today then. What was it that you tracked through my word, stopped to photograph and paint? That thing that brought you joy? 
     “Your Glory.”  I tell him. 

     There is a long pause in our conversation as we sit, His words settling over my spirit.    

   "This talk has been good, hasn't it?  I asked him, I’m not too rebellious am I?"

     He stands up.  "Now what kind of a question is that? Didn't I just take you back through the desert with my Israelite children in your Bible study."

      I laugh and get to my feet. "Yes, you did.”  I tell him.  "You’ve seen rebellion from your children before.” 

     We stand facing one another.  “So now what?”  I ask him.

     “You tell me.”  He says.

     “I will wait and see you. I will take pictures and I will paint.”

     He stands. I know my time with Him is almost over.  "And what else will you do?"

     I pause and look at him, and suddenly I know. "And I will write about it?:

     "Yes!" His smile says it all. "You my child will write about it." A smile fills my face. 

     "The Glory Road." I say. 

     "The Glory Road Indeed."

     There's some quiet time between us, Then he says, "You want to ask me something. Go ahead." 

     My eyes fill with tears. "Will Paul get to go to Israel. It is such a desire of his heart." A tear rolls from my eyes.  
     "Oh...Yes, Paul. I love him so very much. Some of my deepest tears were cried for him. It might take time, but do you trust me?

     "Yes." I reply. "I trust you."

     He smiles, turns his back, and begins to walk away. After a few steps, I hear him shout. "I can count on you to take some pictures when you get there, Yes? And perhaps paint a few things?"        

     With tears I shout back.  "I can do that!" I tell him, "I can." 

     "And?'"

     "I'll write about!" I shout back, "I'm on The Glory Road, remember?"

     He lifts up his hand as a Goodbye. "You are indeed."

Wow Lord...

     There's something so beautiful about Fall. It makes my spirit want to dance. What happens in the world when the air turns crisp and the temperatures changes is like magic. I start looking at the Calendar and planning hikes and outings to our favorite places as soon as the changes begin. 

     But this year, we got an early snow. "No!" I thought. What's going to happen to our Fall? It's too early. It dampened spirits. Especially mine. I just knew that the leaves would drop off the trees and Fall would be over before it had even begun, because Winter had come fast and hard and I wasn't ready...
       But then the snow stopped and this happened. The colors haven't been this vibrant in years.
     My spirit is dancing...

   

 I see you Lord! Thank you for this gift. It overwhelms me...

Redemption...

     Beauty from ashes.
     Only a Father who loves beyond measure can perform a miracle such as this, but my husbands life is the proof of God's redemption promise. 

       My Paul was one of three brothers. He lost them both, as well as his parents, in a series of tragic deaths. Paul and I met  and married young, and I was already a part of his life when his brothers died. One right before our wedding, and the other not long after. The start of our life together was hard but by God's grace and love we moved forward and began our future. 

      Many years later, when our oldest daughter told us the baby in her womb would be another boy, my husband wept. I cried a little too because I had imagined having a little sister to go with the 2 grandson's we already had, but our hearts were both filled with immense joy. 

     And as we settled into bed that night, Paul squeezed my hand and his eyes filled with tears again. "Do you see what God has done?" It was a moment before he could speak again. "Jude and Reed and now another brother. There will be three again. Just like Charles, and me and David. God is redeeming everything."
     I weep as I write this knowing it is true. We have a Father in Heaven, a God, who takes terrible tragic things and turns them beautiful when we love him. 
    Wow. Redemption indeed.