A whole new kind of love...

     There is nothing that compares to the love parents have for their children, but when my grandsons were born, I experienced a whole new kind of love. And I had a lot more time on my hands. I described it to friends as an explosion inside my heart that pumped a love through me I'd never felt before.

     Paul and I were blessed to spend more time with our grandsons than most grandparents get to do. Our daughter and son-in-law lived close, and we had recently purchased a beautiful home in the country. It was a perfect place to rock babies on my porch, sing songs about swinging, dig up dinosaur eggs, have living room diving Olympics. Our little boys got to fill their tummies with fruit from the garden and trees. 

     One year, Paul made shields for the boys and I painted the spirit animal of their choice on the front. They became little warriors. And we had lots of sleepovers. And lots of baths. Little boys get very dirty.

     One year, I made, "Mamo money," and began placing it in cards for my daughter and her family. Mothers day, birthdays, Easter, Christmas. The recipient could cash in these $100 bills when they wanted some time with us. Ice cream dates, play dates, sleepovers, etc. Sometimes one of the boys would need a break from their brothers, and the oldest one asked me one day how much Mamo money it would cost for a 2 night sleep over by himself. I still smile at that memory. It became fun when the boys Mom and Dad wondered how much more Mamo money they might need for an Anniversary get-a way. I made sure they always had enough. And I have about 1,000 of this valuable currency left, so each of the boys will get some to remember. And if I'm lucky enough to experience another generation of little ones, I'll make some more.

     Each of these 3 darling boys wore the same cowboy chaps and stood by the same window in different seasons. And each of them got wrapped in the same lion towel at about the same age. They walked with me dressed as Ninja's, and hiked in a line behind their Papa. And then there were the Rhino rides. Traveling on back country roads with our best little buddies in the sunshine and fresh air, mountain vistas on every side, was simply the best.  

     These three little boys who live in my heart are all young men now. They are strong mountain bike riders and Nordic skiers. Amazing, smart, charming and handsome. One does the craziest coolest yoyo tricks you've ever seen, another one has the most intelligent conversations of anyone I know, and one of them is full of charm and has started playing the guitar. And their smiles...

Man, their smiles.

    Their parents are the most self-less, generous, and best kind of amazing people, and I will forever be thankful that we got to share in their precious lives from the moment they were born and watch them grow. I love you boys so much!

     And lastly, I can't stop here and finish this without remembering the precious years with our own three children. They were the most amazing, most adorable and most darling. They are who taught me what love was all about. We didn't have smart phones back then. Our pictures were developed from rolls of film, and you never really knew what you were going to get. I often wish I could lay my Mama moments alongside these Mamo ones, but I can't. So you'll just have to trust me when I say that these three... Man oh man! They stole my heart.

 

A forever remembered, "Homemade Christmas."

     

     It's the last thing I do before going to bed and the first thing I check on when my feet hit the floor. My projects. My Christmas. It came out of a need to save money, so I'd been treasure hunting since September. I decided to make all my Christmas gifts this year, so I've been collecting things that have a past. I am going to make them new and they will become the next chapter of stories for my family.

      Today, as I began to sand through wood trying to erase scars and scratches I suddenly picture the hands and feet of Jesus. His scars changed everything, so I stop sanding. The nicks and notches in the old wood have suddenly become beautiful.

     I can't explain exactly how I feel doing this. but it's a joy I've never felt before. I  have come out of a really hard season, but I feel God's presence all over me. As I worked and planned in the quiet of my greenhouse, the space became a place for memories to surface. I began to remember the places in my life where I'd planted memorial stones. God began to remind me of the praise in the mountain tops. And He stayed right beside me as we went back together and skirted the darker valleys, and I knew it was He that got me through them. 

     God reminded me that my story was written by Him and that he wanted me to leave behind a part of Him in it, and so...  I sand and stain and glaze and paint and wait and check on...

     Weeks go by and I sit here still, in this place of remembering. A place where God's truth, power, and promise rush around and through me so fast that I spin. Mostly with joy and love...and yet...most of my Christmas still sits in piles unfinished. 

    This room...a mess. But beautiful chaos I think. In the corners lay lovely things that wait. On a table, ruined by glue and paint, sits three cut out's of little boys hands and a box. I remember the day I sat the boys down on the back porch and painted the bottoms of their feet green. They giggled. Said it tickled.  Then I stood them on a poster board, and their footprints became ornaments for our tree last year. Just a few weeks ago, we did their hands because they need to be on the tree too.  The box is for Stella Grace. I glazed it shiny then painted it with green ivy. Inside it holds a letter just to her.

     And then Fall came...

     And with God's very breath over our country mountain home, fresh inspiration came over me in the season I love the most. So I started to collect the pieces of our home that I can give away to remember. Our leaves. 

      I preserve, and paint. I make things new, and I  remember.  I now have faith for my pile of unfinished...  Because there will be birthdays....weddings...babies... graduations. 

     And so...on Christmas I will give away forever remembered moments of a season in my life. A season in my story written by God where a greatly loved daughter had a heart full of praise.

     And so...I sand, and paint, and wait, and trust because our story...God's and mine...is not finished yet.

A grafted Peach tree

      One year for our anniversary our three children bought us a precious gift. It was a grafted peach tree with three different kinds of peaches. Three different varieties, just like my children. I was so excited the first year it budded and bloomed. I loved that tree so much. 

     But we had to leave it in the ground when we left California, but before we did, I had one last precious moment with that tree. I stood in front of it and said goodbye. It was summer, and all the branches had baby peaches on them. I told the tree that it was beautiful. I told the tree I loved it.

    From the moment we put it in the ground, it became so much more than just a sapling. It was our family taking root. Our years of life there still continue through that tree, and I often wonder how big it's  become.

     I pictures it's branches laden with three kinds of fruit. Our strong-willed, first born, Mama teacher peaches, growing soft, beautiful, and bold upon her branches. I think the fruit of her peaches might have a bit of sassy tang. And her fruit is most definitely the queen of the tree. They are the ones in charge. 

     Next to them, I imagine our son's. His peaches, ever so charming and mischievous. I see them dangling upside down to tease the picker. The fruit of his peaches has a sweetness that lingers. And the juice that dribbles down your chin makes you laugh.  

     And on the last set of branches sit our fiery haired baby's peaches. And they, are one with the tree. In total communion with the roots and the trunk, shining in the sun as her fruit refracts the light differently. Her peaches are stunningly unique. They taste like nothing else. 

     And then,  I imagine the pickers. When they come to harvest this beautiful fruit, they pause. There is a tangible hesitation as they consider what they see. It's as if magic stands between their hands and the peaches they want to pick and they know it. 

     And then, pulled by the strength and sureness of the first set of beautiful fruit, they touch one and truly know what it is they are holding. 

     Then, I see them turn as the charm of the next branch entices them with a force they cant deny. They want whatever that is.  

     Finally, the sun hits the third set of peaches and the light is so bright and the fruit so pretty, they are mesmerized for a moment. 

    And so...  

     They take one of each because they know that having all three different peaches gives them the absolute best that peaches have to give to anyone. 

     A warmth spreads through me as I picture this. And I chuckle imagining what each of my children's peaches will taste like to the picker. 

     I wish I could watch this, because I know I would smile. 

Boxes of treasure...

 

     One year when our Grandsons were little, instead of giving them Easter baskets, we made them treasure boxes. I found three raw wood boxes while I was thrift store shopping one day and knew they would come in handy for something. Three boys, three boxes, right?

     Then, when Easter was on the horizon, I came up with a plan. I painted each box with a resurrection scene and found Scriptures that spoke about treasure. I painted one on the front of each boys box, and placed a couple more on index cards inside.  And then, the hunt for treasure box content began.     

     Boys love stuff. My son Michael used to stuff his pockets full of things. Rocks, feathers, marbles, money. He always wanted shorts with lots of pockets so he could fill them. I always emptied them before washing.

     So Paul found stuff. He had a box of really old coins and divided them up in baggies. He had watches that he'd bought in China. Old tie clips, bolos from the 90's and belt buckles as big as my hands. And all of these things were placed inside the boxes.  You name it, anything their Papa found in his closet and gave the boys was like gold. I still remember the squeals of delight and excited smiles when they opened them and saw what lay inside.   

     But these boxes became so much more than I can even find words for. And for me that's saying a lot. The boys loved them so much.

      After that, we barely got a hug or a hello when they arrived for playdates. It was always, "Can we have our treasure boxes, Mamo?" 

     Over the years, Paul and I would find things on trips that would fit inside them, and each time we presented them with something new, it was like we had hung the moon. Little glass vials filled with colored ocean sand, little wooden turtles, cheesy painted surfboards on a string. Wooden mountain coins from our local Jazz Jubilee. 

     And so, when the boys came over the treasure boxes came out. They'd sit on the living room floor and dump out the contents. They would talk about their stuff, sometimes trying to trade, and then rearrange everything before putting it all back in. Over time though, as the boys got older, squabbles began as all the stuff on the floor got mixed together. "That's mine!", one would say. "No it isn't. It's mine!"  "Give it back!" "Mamo! He took my..."  whatever it was that he had been accused of taking. So I would have to intervene. These boxes then became lessons in sharing and consequence when they had to be put away. Sometimes there were tears. But like stepping over stones, the boys were learning. Bumps happen along the road of brotherhood and life, and they were learning how to maneuver through them. 

     Over the last few years as I have thought about those boxes, I remember the love the boys had for all the bits and bobs inside. And when I do, my hearts swells with joy from the memories.

     Last week, when I was editing this story for the book, I thought again about the boxes, trying to picture what might still be in them. I was pretty sure we had given them back to the boys before our move across the country, but I asked Paul if he remembered. 

     "I'm pretty sure there upstairs in one of the guestroom closets." He told me. Really? I thought. How sweet.

     So a few days later, I opened the boxes and spread the contents across my bed. Flooded with memories I picked things up as sweet tears filled my eyes. One of the boys still had the baby dinosaur that came from the eggs I buried in our yard. One evening, after digging them up, we excavated three baby dinosaurs around our kitchen table. The next time the boys came over, we made nests for them from twigs and feathers we found on a walk. One of the boys boxes still had the nest inside his box. And there was money. Eight dollars in cash, and 100 dollars of Mamo money. But the sweetest thing, were the glass beads. I had no idea the boys had saved so many of them. 

     We had a creek that ran through our yard, so one day I decided to spread shiny glass beads in the creek for the boys to hunt. They went crazy filling their pockets with the shiny things. And when the sun hit them just right in the water they sparkled like crazy. 

     And so, it became a thing. Anytime we had a party or a celebration at our house, and we had quite a few, I'd fill the creek with shiny treasures and pass out little drawstring pouches for the children to collect them in. I hadn't thought about this for years, but to see so many of these little beads inside the boys boxes almost made me cry. 

     We get to see these three grown up little boys soon, and I can't wait to see their faces when the boxes of treasure get back into their hands. I expect tears to form in their eyes as memories appear. I expect deep long hugs. And I know it will end with stories and laughter. 

      Life and Love, Papa's old junk, three little boys, and three boxes of treasure. Doesn't get much better than that. 

A childhood

 I have lots of memories of life with my siblings. There were four of us, so we always had a lot going on. Ron and I are the oldest. We are Irish twins. This means that we were both born inside the same Calendar year. I was born on Dec.4th, 1957, and He turned 1 on Dec. 23rd just a few weeks after I was born. That being said, the 2 of us were close growing up. We were our own tribe. Our sisters, Lori and Kay, were 3 and 5 years younger than us so they usually played together . We grew up before technology was a thing. Our bright colored phones hung on the walls or sat on tables. They had rotary dials and a hand set. You spoke in one end and listened in the other. The cords were curly and long and stretched across rooms. I remember watching Mom walk around the Kitchen with the hand set tucked between her head and shoulder having conversations while she cooked. I know I'm getting off track with my memories, but I wanted to set the scene of our childhood. Our first TV was black and white and had about 3 channels. A big V shaped antenna, a thing called, Rabbit Ears, sat on top of it and when the picture went fuzzy, or began to roll, the Rabbit Ears would get adjusted back and forth hoping to get the picture back. Anyway...

Our afternoons and evenings were spent outside until it got so cold that we complained, then Dad put a heater in the garage so that we could play in there. After dinner Dad always played with us. We'd shoot baskets in our driveway and play around the world. We'd ride bikes, roller-skate, play Badminton, baseball, Croquet, and putt putt golf. Dad bought a ping pong table which he put in the garage when the weather moved us inside, and taught us all to play. As we grew, the competitions became fierce and fun and then one day Dad came home with a bumper pool table in the back of our station wagon and he taught us all to play that.

Summers were long for my Mom with all of us under foot every day, so Dad always spent the evenings outside with us to give Mom a break. She had piles of Magazines and loved the quiet time to sit and read them. We were usually outside after dinner until dark. During the Summer days, Ron and I would often hunt for box turtles, and Horny toads in a field by our house. We'd both run off with boxes in hand after telling Mom what we were doing and we'd always come back with something. One Summer we collected 4 box turtles and had turtle races. We used Mom's nail polish and painted our initials on the turtles backs, then we'd line them up in the grass and call them to us. Lori and Kay's turtles never won because Ron and I practiced beforehand and picked the speediest guys. Ron almost always won the races.

But I on the other hand, I...was the toad catcher. The best one on the block. We all loved to have toad races too, but it's hard to catch a toad, they jump high and they're fast, and because the first thing they do when captured is pee, it was not for everyone. But I found a way to quietly sneak up on the croakers and I figured out a way to catch them without getting peed on. I'd pinch them on the back right between their front legs, and then hold them out and away while they peed. Our Oklahoma toads were abundant and loud, and on many of these Summer nights a kid down the block would come running to find me. "Pam, come quick, we've cornered a toad!"

We also had locusts. One summer the swarm was exceptionally large. Everyone was complaining about the noise all Summer. But at the end of the season they molt and leave a hard shell eco-skeleton behind. Ron and I found these shells stuck on the trunks of trees, and after we realized that they fit perfectly on the tips of our fingers, we of course decided to scare our sisters with them. We chased them around the yard as they screamed. We were relentless until Dad made us stop. We collected a bunch of them that summer. I couldn't stop inspecting them. I thought they were amazing.

We also caught fireflies in the Miracle Whip jars that we collected all year for just that purpose. They were lined up on a garage shelf, and when the fireflies came out, Dad would poke holes in the lids and we'd catch as many as we could. We put sticks and green leaves twigs in the jars for them to sit on, and they became our bedside night lights. I loved them so much.

Once, I caught one in my hand, and pulled its light from it's body. The light stayed on and it was sticky, so I put it on my finger like a diamond. I felt sad afterward, knowing that I probably killed, but the glowing light on my wedding finger fascinated me all the same.

And then there were the inside games. Cards, Dominoes, Monopoly, Clue, Dad always played with us. Mom usually sat close by enjoying watching us while she flipped through her magazines.

All being said and done, we played together a lot as a family and I am blessed by a happy childhood. But the world was a different place when I was growing up, and I often grieve for the loss of that simpler childhood. The parents and kids today have a whole new set of problems, temptations and issues that the world of my childhood did not. I pray for my daughter and son in law who are still in the thick of raising boys in this new world. They are, however, exceptional parents and I'm truly proud of how they are navigating these rough waters.

My Grandsons have heard me tell many of my childhood stories, and will know more as they read the pages in this book they gave to write. I think they will understand me better afterward and know why I am the way I am. I know too, that they will share my stories with their children and I believe my stories will even reach the generation of my family after that.

Such is the power of story, the gift of remembering, and the love of life and family.

The first time I saw my Father cry

 It was late on a Sat. afternoon, about 1966 or so, and we'd all been outside playing for hours when Mom came outside to find Dad. I told her I thought that he was in the backyard. Apparently he had a phone call.

Shortly afterward, Dad came out through the front door with Mom. I think I was roller skating but I remember seeing them talking on the porch. Then Dad took off walking down the street. "Where are you going, Dad?" I asked him. He waved me off. Said he'd be back in a few minutes.

I watched Dad knock on a door a few houses down and then go inside. I had seen the family but I didn't really know them. I don't think they had lived there very long. I had met the Father in our yard a few times when he and Dad were talking. He was a tall strong retired Navy man. I knew they had a little boy, but he was too young to hang out with Ron and me. I don't remember Ron being around that day when Dad walked to their house, maybe he'd been at baseball or football or something. I don't remember.

It was awhile before I saw Dad walking back toward the house and I knew something was wrong. I stopped and watched him as he approached me. "What's wrong Dad?" I asked him.

"There was a terrible accident this morning," he told me. "Don Beyers drowned."

Don Beyers was my friend Teresa's father. They lived just a few houses down on the other side of the street. "How?" I asked. "What happened?"

Dad and I sat down and he told me the story. The Navy Dad, I think his name was Jimmy, had taken Don Beyers and his son fishing that morning. I don't remember what kind of a boat he had, but while they were on the lake, the boat capsized, and the men were not wearing life jackets. They were a long way from shore. Close to a mile I think. Jimmy grabbed his son and saw Don panicking in the water, so he went to him and tried to get him to relax. Don said that he wasn't a good swimmer. Jimmy knew he couldn't get the boat flipped back over by himself, so the only choice was to swim to shore. I don't remember if Jimmy's son was wearing a life jacket, but he started for shore with them both. It was too much for Jimmy. The shore was too far, so he left Don by the capsized boat. Told him to hang on and he'd be back. When Jimmy got back to the boat, Don had let go. He didn't see him anywhere.

Dad's eyes filled with tears as he recounted to me how Jimmy dove and dove looking for Don's body. Already exhausted from swimming to shore and back, Jimmy knew his son was waiting for him on the shore scared and alone. He had no choice but too swim back to shore while he still could.

I think I was crying now too.

Dad told me that his Navy training is what saved Jimmy and his son. He was an incredible swimmer. Most people would have never made it back to shore.

Dad said that Jimmy sobbed while he told him what happened. Overwhelmed with grief by Don's death. Dad's tears spilled from his eyes.

I suddenly thought about Teresa and Wanda Beyers as a whole new wave of grief swept over my little girl spirit. Teresa's Dad was dead. I looked down the street where she lived. Her driveway and the street in front were full of cars. There were people in the yard.

Mom told me later that we needed to go see them. In a day or two. We'd go to their house and tell them how sorry we were.

My stomach hurt so bad that night. For days, really.

When we went to the Byers house, Mom carried a casserole, I carried dessert. Then Mom sat on the couch holding Wanda's hands in hers. They both had quiet tears.

Teresa and I went to her room and we sat on the floor with a pile of Barbie dolls. We dressed them, undressed them, the dressed them again. We didn't really talk.

I said goodbye to Teresa when Mom came to her bedroom door. I don't think I ever saw her after that. They moved away soon after. Mom said they needed to be closer to family. That helped me more than anything else. I didn't have to think about them if they weren't there and my stomachache went away. And they were with their family. And I knew that was good.

And my Dad...I knew that day that my Dad cried. And I had cried with him.

The Music

 My life has been full of music. In my childhood the voices came out of stereo speakers as the albums spun around on a turntable. I had to be so careful placing down as the needle as the record began to turn so as not to scratch it. Our turntable sat inside a lovely piece of furniture that framed the wall. Our records lined the shelves. Streisand, Peter, Paul and Mary, The Sound of Music, Glen Campbell, Andy Williams, and The 5th Dimension, to name a few.

And when a record played, the lid, just above the turntable lifted and leaned against a stick arm, like how the hood of a car stays open. These records, this music, was magic to me in my childhood home.

In my pre-teen years, I listened to 45 records on my own box record player. I got it for Christmas when I was about ten. After I started babysitting, around age 12, I started buying 45's from the record store. These were like mini albums with a single song on each side. I still remember my excitement buying, "Daydream Believer." It was a Monkey's record sung by Davy Jones. The flip side was a song by Mickey Dolenz, called, "Going down." I remember buying, "The last train to Clarksville," 45 record too. These little 45 records had a large hole in the center. Much bigger than an album. In order to play them on a regular stereo, you had to snap a plastic insert inside the hole. (See picture.)

When I was a teenager, 8 track tapes came out. Along with 8 track players. Like a VHS tape, these 8 tracks would slide into the player and pop out with an eject button.. Mine was in a low shelf over my headboard. Sometimes my player would eat the tapes, just like VHS players did. Those were sad days indeed. During my teenage years, I went to bed every night listening to Cat's Stevens, "Tea for the Tillerman," James Taylor's, "Sweet Baby James," Graham Nash's, "A song for Beginners," Carol King's, "Tapestry," Neil Young's, "Harvest," Crosby, Stills and Nash, "4-way Street." Across the hall, my brother Ron still played Albums. He bought a new stereo himself, with money he earned working, and we were not allowed to touch his Stereo or his albums, ever. But while I was in my room playing my music, he was in his room playing his. "Born to be wild," a rock song by Steppenwolf, wafted my way regularly, and then, one day a new sound came from his room and I found myself hearing the songs in my head all the time. I loved this music of my brothers, so one day when he was out, I opened his closed door and went inside his room. Two records were sitting out by the stereo. One was called, "Green River," the other, "Cosmo's Factory." I was well aware of Ron's, hands off my stereo and albums rule, but it was more for Lori and Kaylynn in my mind. The little sisters. But I knew how to handle albums and place the needle just so. I'd been doing it for years with our family stereo. And so, I did. I told myself, he'd never know. So for almost an hour I played those 2 records while I stared at the album covers of the band who made that music. They called themselves, "Creedence Clearwater Revival," and I was in love with their country rock sound.

I was pulled away from the music, as I saw Ron pull into the driveway. With my heart about to jump from my chest, I took the record off the stereo and slid it back into the sleeve as fast as I could, then slipped out of Ron's room into mine which was right across the hall. I climbed on my bed and turned on my own music. My heart was still pounding in my chest as I heard Ron come down the hall and open his door. Then I heard it close and took a deep breath.

Who's been in my room? Ron was shouting as he threw open my bedroom door. "Were you playing my albums, Pam?"! I could hear how mad he was. "What the hell? You left my Stereo on!" For a minute I thought he might hit me. "I'm sorry." I told him. "I was listening to Creedence when I saw you pull in. I was really careful," I told him, "Nothing got scratched."

"I don't care!" He screamed. "I told you not to touch my stuff. I was very clear. Don't ever go in my room again! Ever!"

Ron did not talk to me for what seemed like weeks after that. But eventually he let me come in his room and listen to CCR with him. He's the one who told me about the Fogerty brothers and how the band came together. Ron and I still talk about their story sometimes when we are together. Their career was short lived because the band, young and eager to be rock stars, were taken advantage of by their manager who made more money on their song writing and album sales than they did. Their contract would have continued to pay their manager millions of dollars for the next 20 years. So instead of riding down the rock star path, they retired.

And ten years later their comeback concert was watched by millions of people who never forgot them. You put a spell on me, CCR, and Oh... Suzie Q.

It was during these years that Dad bought me a Fender 12 string guitar. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and learning how to play became my passion. I bought a chord book and learned the basics. Then I bought music books and began to play songs. I met Paul during this time and in his broken life music was salve to his soul, so my music became his, and his music became mine. Many of our dates for the next three years were concerts. While I was still in highschool, Mom allowed him to take me to Dallas for a ----------------concert. He was at the house when I got home from school that day which was weird. The concert was a surprise to me. Apparently he had worked it out with Mom and Dad beforehand. The one condition, was that he get me home in time for school the next day. So I changed my clothes, climbed into his car, and off we went.

Music is a huge part of our love story to this day and it continued into the lives of our children. We played music in our house, on car trips and it was joy. One year for our anniversary, our grown kids got together and made a playlist for us of all the music they remembered from their childhood. They called it, "Growing up Payne." I still play it often when we are together.

In my life music truly was magic, and I can't imagine a life with out it.

Regret...Who owns it? You get to choose.

   The thoughts come after. After the action...or the words...or the lie. My inside-the-head justification conversations.
     

     "Yeah, well...the truth would have hurt them much worse. Should I have told them that I was out of grace and the idea of a whole evening with someone as challenging as they are is...well...just not how I choose to spend my time tonight. I've had a long hard day and I don't want to be with you."
     "I know I am not honoring him but I really don't care. After yesterday, if he wants that done he can do it himself.  It's a ridiculous chore anyway and I have important things to do."
     "Sometimes people just need to hear the truth and need to hear it with a loud voice.  I'm so over their hypocrisy. It makes me sick. It was time. It was soo time. Someone needed to call them out and today, I decided the time had come and it would be me."
    

     The next voice I hear cradles and cuts simultaneously. 

    "So you lied and let them down?  So what?  You're right, the truth would have been much worse. Remember what happened last week? Why put yourself through that again? You've done more than your share of that relationship." I feel a pat on the back. "I think you should do whatever you want tonight. Pamper yourself. You do so much for other people. You deserve it."

     "Good choice about not doin' that chore, sister!" I get a high five. That'll show him." A nudge to my shoulder. "You go girl.  He should appreciate how great you are. How good he has it. You're a saint." 

     "You were so right-on tonight when you called them out! They deserved everything you said to them. Bravo! Someone had to set them straight. How dare they pretend to be one thing in church and something very different in real life?" I hear a chuckle. "The truth will set them free, right?" another nudge.

  

     The last voice breaths a salve of "Truth" and it stings. 

     "The evening you said 'No' to tonight, I ordained. You have missed my good purpose and plan. You say you are out of grace. I say, even as you deserve nothing, I sent my son to die for you out of the greatest love and His grace never ends." This settled over me. "And do I need to remind you how I grieve over your lie? Imagine instead, setting down your pride long enough to be blessed in a valuable friendship that I orchestrated for just those hours. Do you remember how challenging you can be?"

     I did remember. 

     "You know what I am going to say about this. I know you do. Obey him. I have set order in marriage for a reason. Do what he asks out of obedience. Honor him and watch him rise up in the desire to lead you well. You are not a saint, and I called you to be his Helpmate."

     "Know that you're righteousness is ugly in my sight. You are not the judge. Have you ever been a hypocrite? Do you think being right gives you the right to something?  No. You are a sinner. Stand on the line. Will you throw the first stone? Will you?"  

     There is a knock at the door. I open it, ready for anything besides conviction. 

     I find "Shame" on the threshold and he enters my house. He comes in power of the second voice and fills up the room. I cower under his heavy oppression and close my eyes. 

     When I open them, God's light floods and Shame flees.

     The only voice left is Truth. Life. It is the Breath of Creation and the greatest of Love. "You are my Beloved and I am your Redeemer. I transform hearts and breath new life. Get up and walk. Go...hold your head high. The joy of the Lord is your strength. You are chosen, called, adopted,  and perfectly made.   Go...and sin no more."   

     

         

Mom, me, a new Mac Book, and old email, and Praise!

     I have been full of joy lately seeing God alive and at work in my Mother's life.  Her life is the stuff in books. The movies we watch about families. It the hard and sad, yet also the beautiful and redemptive. It is a picture of God's protection over her and His plans for her life. She is finally writing it down for me. She is telling me her story. 
     We've talked three times in the last hour and I have her permission to share her words from an email. 
     But to clarify, an email I sent to her in Nov. 2006 simply appeared in her new Mac Book. It was in a file called "Pages" where she is transferring her story. 
     Her Mac Book is new, a gift from my sister, and although Mom is probably the most techno-savvy great-grandmother around, the transition getting her story from PC to Mac has had it's challenges. I hope you are encouraged by what happened next...

Pamela Payne

Saturday near Round Valley via mobile 

• Wow Mom! I so love this. You are a natural writer. Truth is, I'm a little jealous. I worked long and hard to learn a little of what comes so easily to some. ❤. Thank you for doing this for me.
• 
  

• Dear Pam,
•      Just read your recent On The Glory Road post about the hymn books you found.  Beautiful, simply from God that He would show this to you now.  I enjoyed it so much.  I have been struggling with my story and spent all day yesterday and today working on it.  Thank goodness for the pages you kept sent me back, for I had no recollection of writing them.  I finally discovered  how to merge it into the original document.  
•      A very interesting thing happened  while I was in a twit trying to figure out the MacBook way,  when suddenly, an old email from you popped up in my "Pages" which is a MacBook Doc.  
•      I opened it, and it was dated 2006.  There were many Bible references in the email. I was stunned. Where in the world did that come from? Did you send it to me?  And if you did how did it end up in Pages?   When I came back to it later it was gone.  Was this a message from the Lord?  I have been struggling with some issues lately and when that appeared I felt peaceful, and then it disappeared.  I love you,  Mother 

     After I got this email, I called her and we talked and I wept. After two more phone conversations within that hour, she located the original 2006 email, and forwarded it back to me. 

     Mom,
     So much has happened since I Ieft. Such good news about Bill. What a blessing for you to be able to have that new hope as a birthday gift and to spend that special time with him.  God' loves you so much, Mom, and wants to give you all the desires of your heart. He wants you to walk in the joy and peace that comes with being in his presence. I will be praying for you as you begin this new journey of faith, and I am proud of your decision to take this step.  I  know that God is going to meet you there. He will bless you in your obedience, and give you all that you need. All you have to do is give him your heart and humbly ask. He created you perfectly and has great plans for you. He has given you awesome gifts, Mom, and so much life experience and wisdom that you can share with others. Just continue to listen to what God lays on your heart and He will show you what is next. I am so proud of you.  After we hung up the phone today I prayed for you and Jim and all that is going on with Lori and the kids. And appropriately, because this is what God does, the lesson in my Bible study today was a teaching about the power of praying for people using Scripture. I have done this before, and have seen God work in amazing ways. I want to leave these with you. 

  
   3 John 2 and Isaiah 41:10   I pray that Mom and Jim will enjoy good health and that all will go well with them.  Do not let Mom and Jim have fear for you are with them. Let them not be dismayed for you are their God. According to your word, Give then strength and help and hold them up in your righteous hand.

     Ephesians 1:17,18, and 19 and Phillipians 4:6-7  According to your word Lord, I ask that you give my mother the spirit of wisdom and revelation so that she may know you better and that her heart be enlightened to your calling and your glorious inheritance as your believer.  Let her not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, and with Thanksgiving, always remember to present her requests to you. And let your peace, which transcends all understanding guard her heart and mind in Christ Jesus.


     After reading my old email I sent her this one.

Mom...Wow!

     So funny....that I don't remember writing this.  I think that God want us both to know that sometimes,  when the Holy Spirit is at work, our flesh simply disappears in His presence.  But I went into my email file labeled "Mom" to find it.  There are 138 emails between us that I have saved. They start in April 2006.  This one was not there. How precious it is for me to have it back.  I am weeping. 

     God must have wanted to remind us both what He is doing. In us, with us, and through us. 
     He wants us to remember that He is the same God that parted the Red Sea and placed every star in the sky. To put a piece of paper on the floor by my bed and bless me, or place an old email into your Mac to bless you,  is nothing for our God.  
     Funny how these things still astound us though, huh? 

     I think He knew that you needed a little reminder that He is trustworthy. 
     I just love what God did today.  It is such a beautiful example of God's presence and promises.  I hope it encourages you and builds your faith. It certainly does mine. Thank you for sharing this! 

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...

Two Thousand and Eleven...

        This season of my life really began in Oct. of 2010, so I must count that as the beginning. After a series of events, God spoke to me about something he wanted me to do. It was two things really, and both took me by surprise. I was alone in the car as I pulled off the highway and parked underneath a rainbow. Through my tears I knew what God asked would require some real faith on my part, but I had never heard so clearly or felt God's presence more powerfully so I believed he would equip me for all that was ahead.
     A few months later, on Christmas Eve of 2010, our precious friends lost their baby son Samuel after just 19 days of life. His father Dan, (a young Pastor) blogged about the experience every day and his faith and praise in the midst of it changed my heart forever. I simply can not think about the last year of my life without remembering Dan, Kelly, and Samuel.
     As the new year of 2011 began I was knee deep in the project God had given me, and joined forces with the ladies of the LPM blog family to memorize Scripture for the first time in my life.
     And then, my church shattered into pieces. Our small mountain community church had been our family for 14 years and as things fell apart around me, my heart began to break. Paul and I were being torn in two, and for months we prayed like never before and did not leave the house, or answer the phone except to go to work and talk to our children.
     The year proved to be more difficult as Spring came. While our family was at a Kairos conference at the Gateway church in Dallas, our son-in-law's griffon, Gus, drowned in our swimming pool. A young couple and their small girls were dog-sitting for all of us and one of the children threw a tennis ball into the, "not yet opened" pool. Gus went after it, and no one knew he was there. Paul takes the ladder out when the pool is winterized, and when a storm came the tarp separated from the sides and Gus's life was over.
     The tragedy hit everyone like sledge hammer, and just a few months later, our precious Onyx's got her cancer back and Paul and I and our children had to say goodbye to our lab/golden girl who had been part of our family for 13 years.
     A few months after that, my husbands two best hunting buddies, five-year old Tug and Chase, (English lab brothers) disappeared and simply never came back. My husband still stand at the window with a broken heart and weeps for them.
     As the winter wore on, I stood by as menopause grabbed hold and took over my body. I wasn't sleeping and a weariness came over me like I had never known. In the midst of this, Paul and I found out that our youngest daughter had something wrong inside her body.
     Emotionally, spiritually, and physically, I had been scrubbed raw and was barely treading water.
     Chandler had surgery.
     We found out afterword, as 16,000 in medical bills piled up, that this particular surgery never should have never been done. She was then, after several MRI's diagnosed with a rare condition they call, "venous angioma."  It is so rare that the only Doctor who treats it and only it, resided in Denver.
     Paul then began the months-long battle with the hospital and our daughters California insurance to make right everything that was wrong. He fights for her with integrity and is winning battles but the war is not over yet. Chandler had her first procedure in Denver just a few weeks ago, but Paul is still battling. We are planning for the next surgery in early Feb.  
     While we sat in the Denver hospital waiting for Chandlers pre-op appointment, (we had yet to meet the doctor in person because we traveled from California) I was rushed to the ER with a heart rate of 240.
     The Swedish Medical center is a teaching hospital, and apparently I was the patient of the hour. My room filled with med students around the ages of my son. They watched and asked questions as a doctor whispered that the lotion on my skin was causing a problem with the EKG. He was going to have to open my gown rub my entire bare chest with alcohol, and then re-attached the EKG pads. This had been done privately the first time, before the students arrived. But now, with all of them watching, he did it again. I was totally exposed and completely vulnerable as I closed my eyes and asked Jesus to hold my hand.
     They couldn't slow my heart rate down, and it had been beating at 240 for almost forty-five minutes. They told me they were going to have to stop and then re-start my heart with an intravenous medication called Adenosine
     I was scared and alone, but yet I was neither. I can't explain it any other way.
     My Mom had flown out to be with Chandler and I in Denver at the last minute, so unexpected, but God knew she needed to be there. So Mom was present to take my place upstairs with Chandler to meet Dr. Yakes for the first time, while I was downstairs in the ER.
     I had a "supra ventricular tachycardia," episode. I have a bad section of tissue in the electronic valve of my heart.  When the impulses that my brain sends to my heart telling it how fast to beat, it hit the section of bad tissue and went haywire.  and causes a rapid heart rate. I see another doctor at the end of the month, and will then be scheduled for a "cartiac ablation."
        But here is the good news...
        When I take all the trials of the last 12 months and lay them next to what Jesus took to the cross for me, what He suffered for Chandler, and what He did out of love in order to redeem Paul's life, they simply fade away. And although the spiritual principalities that war against us want desperately to use the trials we suffer to take us away from God's purpose and plans, I thank my Father in heaven that he is so much greater and more powerful than any of the enemy's schemes.
     His throne sits high above it all and the mercy and grace that flow from the cross is abundant.
     Through Paul's trials, I have seen him become a man of God who breaks into prayer like never before. I have watched the Lord grow him as a father and a husband into a place where quiet tears of great joy fall from my eyes.
     Chandler trials have turned her heart to Jesus. I see him growing her faith, building her trust as she relies on Him.
     In my journey before and during this last year of my life, I know what God did through an act of surrender and obedience. I know He is trustworthy and deserves my praise.
    And so I thank you, Lord, for being patient in love. I have peace and joy in the midst of chaos because your words are true. It was your provision that I found myself in a hospital when my heart went crazy. I was not on the 3-hour plane flight of the day before or the 4-hour freeway drive in the downpour the day before that.  You saved me.
I know too, that it was you moving in the heart of my mother to come and meet us in Denver, and it was you, at work in the heart of my sister who dropped everything to get on a plane in a Texas thunderstorm that night to be beside me and I know it is only because Jesus loved us first that any of us can love at all.
     I realize as I write this that I am still grieving what happened in our church, but I know that God can restore and redeem all that is bruised and broken.
     I still struggle with the death of Samuel and Dan's new health issues, (he has already survived three liver transplants and he won't get another one. He could be sick again.) But I also know that Jesus is alive in Dan. So when his trials go far beyond any human understanding I will ever have, he is still trustworthy.
      And I know too, as I watch Garrett and Paul go out the door with their shotguns, absent of their best best buddies, that God will restore their broken hearts.
    I have come to see how precious our broken-ness and vulnerability are to God. I see them now as virtues in the process of submission. Sometimes God has to break down our flesh in areas of self-reliance so that we learn to rely on him in all things.
     Lastly, I have come to a new level of understanding of the gospel message of grace.  I see clearly how God not only knew what I would need to get through this season, but He poured it out for me. It is not a coincidence that in the midst of this season I have also spent hours a day meditating over Scriptures and writing about God's "glory." because he knew I would need it deep in me.
       I want to walk with my head held high and a song of praise on my lips because the joy of the Lord is my strength. And so...I ask for the grace to receive all my trials because you chose me for this Glory Road. And may my footsteps on this road you gave me make you smile.  

A lost purse comes home...

     We pulled into the gas station about an hour after we left Sonora and I realized my purse was not in the car.
      I could feel the panic begin to climb and I could picture my purse hanging on the chair in Starbucks. I couldn't pull up the phone number fast enough. A young girl answered.
     "I left my purse in your store an hour or so ago I told her." As the words rushed out I am sure I sounded crazy. "I left it on my chair. It's a big bag. White with black straps. It has bright colored birds on it. Do you see it?" My heart was racing.
     "No Maam." The girl answered. "I don't see it."
     I heard her talking to someone else over the phone. "Could someone have turned it in?" I asked. And I heard her answering someones else's coffee question. "Hello!" My voice was rising. "Can you check if someone turned it in?"
     "No one turned it in Ma'am." She finally answered.
     "Are you sure? Did you speak with everyone?"
     My mind was now racing to catch up to the speed of my heart as the mental list I began to make of things in my purse got longer.
     The girl comes back to the phone. "I spoke to everyone," The girl said sweetly. "Your purse isn't here, Ma'am, and no one turned it in. I'm really sorry."
     I began to cry and the same instant I wondered if I could I have set it on the hood of the car? I'd done that before. Maybe it fell off and was lying in the parking lot. "Could you check the parking lot for me please, please?" I begged her, and I told her where we parked.
     She comes back. "It's not there." She says. "I'm really sorry."
     I gave her my name and phone number then put my head in my hands. I had to think.
     When Paul and I travel by car, I constantly shuffle things from suitcase to computer bag to purse depending on what our day looks like.  I tried to picture the contents of my purse that morning.  ATM card, Amex, 120 dollars folded in the zipper pocket, Maui Jim's, eyedrops, sunscreen, wireless headphones, medication, Berts Bees, sunscreen, Were both my eyeglasses in there? My chargers?  
     "I have to call the bank,"  I told Paul, so he pulled away from the pump and parked in the shade.
     "There was a charge about 30 minutes ago at a Mini-mart." The Union Bank representative said after we established that the last time I had used it was at Starbucks. "I will cancel the card for you now, Mrs. Payne, and I will flag this charge. But you'll need to call the bank again on Monday."
     After I called American Express, I began to cry again. I wanted my things. I really really wanted them. How was I going to ride my bike without my sunglasses? How would I get through work this week without my organic sunscreen and lip stuff. Those things have to be ordered online. It would take days.  My eyes began to hurt just knowing that I didn't have my eye drops and sunglasses.  
   "Well... Lord..." Paul began to pray. "Let the things in Pam's purse be a blessing to whoever took it. Use this for your good purpose." Then he reached over and squeezed my hand.
     I couldn't join in the prayer. I didn't squeeze his hand back. I wasn't mad. I was the one who had left my purse on the seat.  But I really wanted my things. I wanted them to bless me, not someone else.  "My medication was in there, too." I told Paul.
  
     We were headed in the direction of home, but our bikes were in the back of the truck and we had planned to spend the day riding them around the Yosemite Valley floor. We traveled in silence for the next several minutes.  "Do you just want to go home?" Paul asked me.
     "No." Was all I could say.
     But the loss of my purse consumed me. I couldn't get past it. Could not let it go. And somewhere in the middle of all came the realization that God was all over it. It wasn't long before I began to see how tight I was holding onto certain things. How having or not having them had suddenly become a deciding factor in not just my comfort, but also my joy.  I thought about Anne VosKamp's cry from her book, One thousand gifts, of  "Euchristeo." Praise God in all things. Does "Praise" count if thoughts get stuck in your throat before they find their way into words?  Does it count if  Euchristeo comes from sheer obedience even when a heart isn't pure?
     As I rode my bike through one of the most beautiful places in the world, I took pictures like I always do because this act is simply a part of me now. I see God everywhere. But the wonder and joy in it was gone.
     Over the next few hours, God laid questions on my heart and deep hidden things began to surface as God's light swept out cobwebs from the darkest corners of its chambers.  "Do you believe the things you say about me?" He asked.
    "Oh Lord..." I began to cry again. "Don't I?"
    "Do you believe I am sufficient for all that you need?"
     His words went deep and they hurt because I suddenly wondered if I really did. "Help me Lord. I do believe you. I do trust you. Help me get past myself."
     Tears rolled down my cheeks off and on for another hour or so as we rode our bikes past waterfalls and wildflowers and trees and mountains and beautiful light. The truth of God's words pierced my heart, and now, instead of grieving my things, my heart just broke from the things God showed me that it had held inside.
     The ride home was quiet. "When we get home, order some new sunglasses and whatever else you need," Paul told me. "You're outside all day. There was nothing in your purse that can't be replaced."
     He was right of course, and I did order sunglasses and a wireless ear piece that night, but I didn't feel like I deserved any of it.  "I'm so sorry, Lord. I had no idea that stuff was in me."
    God knew though, and He wanted me to see it. I know I needed to see it. Even in this season of walking intimately with Jesus, the Lord required a new examination of my heart. In that place, I knew it was God's desired plan that my purse remain in Starbucks.
   
     The force of all this had finally run the gamut in my spirit and my flesh and I went to bed that night with peace. God was great and He loved me. I knew both those things without a doubt.  
   
     On Sunday, I shared this little chapter of my God written story with a few friends and had a quiet afternoon at home. That evening, I watered my garden, saw God's glory, and gave him praise.
   
     Mid-morning Monday, my cell phone rang. "Honey." It was Paul. "I just got a call from the manager of the Starbucks in Sonora. They have your purse."
   
     On Wed. a brown box was placed on my porch by a man wearing a brown uniform driving a brown truck. I opened the box. Inside was my purse. I wept as I realized the only thing missing were the five 20 dollar bills that I'd tucked inside the zipper pocket. Even the used ATM card had been put back in.
     The man in brown may have delivered this package to my door, but I know my purse arrived home by the power of a God great enough to change the heart of a purse snatcher into a purse returner. I also believe that God had His way with the money they took out of it. "For His good purpose," just like Paul had prayed.
     I wiped a tear away as the Holy Spirit laid a few more words upon my heart.  "This is how much you are loved."
     I can't fathom this kind of love any more than I can fathom why Jesus would put himself on a cross and die for me. But both of these unfathomable things are true.
    As for me? I am a daughter with a swept out heart chamber soon to be filled up with more spiders and cobwebs. But I...Oh...I am very greatly loved.