Death brings new life

     I can't ever remember not being in love with Spring.

    I grew up Catholic. Both my parents families were devout, so in our home, Easter was the biggest day of the year. Just preparing for it was quite a thing. Fabric and patterns were bought, dresses

made, and then we'd  shop for little purses and hats, and sometimes gloves. 

    But for me, and I loved all those things for sure, don't get me wrong, but the highlight ,was this. After Jesus died, he rose from the dead. And then, in my yard, at my house, the daffodils began to pop from the ground. Butterflies arrived, buds sprouted on the trees and the grass turned green. There was new life everywhere. And I knew in my little girl heart that it was all because of Jesus. He died so we could have new life, and He showed me what that looked like year after year. 

     In preparation for these amazing things, we would sit around the dinner table as a family, the six of us, and talk about Lent. I was the oldest of 3 girls. Lori was born 3 years after me, and Kay was born 2 years after that. My brother, the only boy, was 11 months older than me. We were Irish twins. He was born Dec. 23rd, and before his 1st birthday, I was born on Dec.4th. So he and I...we were a tribe. I took his lead as we hunted for tortoise's in the field, caught tarantulas, and chased our little sisters with dried locust shells on the tips of our fingers. Anyway... let's get back to lent. 

     The first year that I really felt what it meant to make a sacrifice, I was 12. I babysat quite a bit on the weekend for families on our street. I always liked kids, and my babysitting money was always spent on Tigerbeat Magazines, or records by the Monkeys.  Daydream Believer, Last Train to Clarkville, etc. I received my very own 45 record player that Christmas. It was in a square box, and I could take it anywhere. But that year for Lent, my parents really encouraged me to think seriously about sacrifice. Not as a little girl, but as an almost adolescent girl.

      And so...

     Could I really go 40 days without buying a new magazine, or listening to my records. I truly wasn't sure, but I know I wanted to try. 

     As Easter drew closer, Mother would begin the dress fittings. She would slip the pinned fabric patterns over our heads carefully and make small adjustments. I can still picture her behind the sewing machine feeding the fabric right up to the foot of the needle where she would remove the pin at just the right moment and place it between her lips. I can still see her tight-lipped smile and her mouthful of pins as she noticed me watching.

     The week before was marked by Palm Sunday. I can remember quiet moments as a little girl brushing the soft fronds of the palm against my face as I tried to picture Jesus riding the donkey into the town as people threw them at his feet. On Ash Wednesday of that week, we would get our ashes and Mother would put the finishing touches of lace and rickrack on her three daughters dresses. On Good Friday, we watched the Passion as the “Stations of the Cross,” were acted out before us in an extra long Mass.

     My spirit sensed the seriousness of all of this. Beyond the pretty dresses, Easter baskets, and egg hunts, something much deeper, much more powerful was alive and at work in and around me and I knew it. I can remember waiting for the daffodils and tulips to pop out from the dirt, and running outside in the weeks before Easter eager to report to anyone who would listen that they finally popped through the ground. My heart would flutter at the sound of the first chirping birds, and the sight of the first Monarch butterfly.

     One Easter, when I was about eight, I had a Sunday school assignment. I sat at the kitchen table for a long time struggling. I just couldn’t get my idea onto the fabric. After awhile, my Mother came and sat beside me. My assignment was to portray what Easter meant to me on the piece of white linen. I told Mom what I was thinking and feeling, but didn’t know how to convey it on the material.

I remember Mom’s smile, her suggestion, and knowing happily, that it was perfect. It was exactly what I’d wanted to say. And when it was finished, I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. Mom helped me paint in the Monarch’s wings, and she helped me shape the tulips and daffodils just right. When dad got home from work, he attached a wooden stick under the top corner of the fabric and tied a string onto the rod so I could hang it on the wall. “Alleluia, Alleluia.” It said, “He has Risen.”

    What I knew even then, is that it is not a coincidence that the Resurrection of our Savior, and Spring’s new life, happen simultaneously. It is a deliberate sign from our Father in heaven about who Jesus was, and what He did for us. Christ’s resurrection immediately follows the Passover and the Feast of First Fruits. As Jesus took all our sins to the cross that day to save us, his gift to us was our new life. Our eternal life. And it is that gift of His Grace that we celebrate in the glory of every new spring bud and butterfly.

     So I want to leave you with this...

     Many years later, I planted 2 blackberry bushes in our Round Valley home for our first grandson, Jude. They were established plants when I planted them, and he had his first taste of Blackberries and was in love. Not just the taste, but picking them off the bush and popping them into his mouth all by himself. I was so excited for this next years harvest, but over the winter it appeared the blackberry bushes had died. I was more than sad. I looked at them often, but there seemed to be nothing alive on the bushes. 

     I cried, but I had come to terms with the fact it just got too cold, and they they died. Then Paul and I prepared for our first real day of garden clean up in preparation for Spring. I had more tears that day too, but this time it came from the joy in finding new growth on both the bushes. As I stood there, so in love with Spring and praising God that Jude’s little bushes survived their first winter, I then thought how ridicules I must look crying about the fact that my bushes were alive. 

     It was then that God laid words upon my heart. He reminded me that I have understood the significance of Spring and been in love with the Glory of His creation all of my life. “And that, my precious daughter,” He said to me, “Is why I gave you this garden.”

     And so... be encouraged to look around and see the little things. The significance of Jesus death and new life is everywhere. See it and be Blessed. 

     You are greatly loved! Happy Easter.

The greatest stories ever told.

 I love a good story. Really love them. If you give me one, I will usually jump right in to the pages and often linger there between the lines.  And, it's often in these places, that the story takes me down a side road.

    Now please come back in time with me and picture Noah building the Ark.  The scholars say that it took approximately 75 years to built the boat and that it was around 450 feet long. It is however, the years of life not described in the scriptures, where I sit between the lines. I know that Noah was called by  God to do this huge and incredible task, but the people around him were not. His wife was not. His sons and their wives were not, and yet for 75 years Noah continued to do the job God had assigned him.  What did they think about that?

     And so...

     What I can't help but think about and imagine are the whispered, and maybe not so whispered, words of the people who watched Noah do this. Did they think he was crazy? Was he talked about? I think they probably did, and that he was.  "The crazy old man has been doing that for 40 years," someone might tell a newcomer when they asked about the man and the boat.

     And then that day arrived. The day the animals began to show up on the horizon. l thought about this for a very long time. Can you imagine it? Scripture says they arrived two by two and scholars say this probably happened over the course of 7 days. I picture the looks on peoples faces and the gasps they made as the creatures headed together toward the Noah's boat. Giraffe's and elephants, lions and tigers and bears, "Oh my." The town gossipers must have been sleep deprived and exhausted. 

     And then there's Jonah. He spent 3 days in the belly of a whale. He did this alone. No one was watching, but boy do I want to have a talk with Jonah about that one day.

     And then there was a King who heated a furnace 7 times hotter than usual to burn 3 Jewish men who refused to bow to his image. Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego were tied together and thrown into the flames. I'm sure many people were watching this horrendous thing unfold.  Inside the furnace, the men prayed and praised and the King saw 4 men walking around inside the flames. The solders who placed them in the fire were burned to death, so the King ordered the men to come out, and not a single hair on their heads were singed. 

     And then there's Daniel. He survived being thrown into a pit of hungry lions because an Angel came and closed their mouths. Can you imagine that moment? A stadium full of spectators waiting for Daniel to be ripped apart and devoured. I try to imagine the looks on their faces, their whispers, their unbelief.

     And then there is that Holy Night in Bethlehem where the greatest story of all begins.  I have thought about that night so much since taking part in the "Bethlehem Walk." What an incredible experience that was for me. And inside this greatest of story, I find myself settling in where the Magi finally get to meet the Savior of the world. 

     Scholars say that when the Magi arrived, they found the young child in a home and that Jesus was probably around 2 years old.  I wonder what they found Jesus doing? Was he toddling around outside playing with a stick? Was he watching his Father Joseph make a table? Was he playing with his brother James?  Maybe he was sitting in Mary's lap.  And when the Magi handed the precious gifts to the child did Jesus understand what they meant? Did he understand who the men were? Who he was? A two-year old little boy who was also God. Perhaps he did.

     And when Jesus was 4 and 5, did he climb trees and throw rocks and play sword games with sticks like other boys his age? Did Mary and Joseph worry about him like other parents do? He didn't run away to the synagogue until he was 12. Did he look and act different to the world before then? I have to believe that he did. How could he not?  And yet, wasn't he also just a little boy?

     I believe one day I'll get answers to the questions I ponder. The things that lie between the lines of the, "Greatest stories ever told." Until then, I'll continue my journey of imagining, and questioning and being in love with the stories of God. In all His power, in all His glory, He gave us the greatest gift of all. The baby born in a stable during a cold and possibly rainy night in Bethlehem that saved the world.

     Merry Christmas

I am the girl...

     I was the girl who abandoned her fishing pole if a dragonfly landed nearby, and was always shocked that no one else was beside me as I followed it down the dock and stopped each time it landed too early all 45 t 55666666rit's stunning neon beauty. 

     And I was the neighborhood girlì whoP3pi caught the toa⁰0ds. I figured out exactly how to pick thpem up so they didn't pee on you.

     I was the girl who loved the sound of crickets so much that it bpecame my ringtone. L cv6vvuji utters þþ4555k

     When I was litiiìpto0i3oʻlile, I was the girl who sat on the floor by the scrmleen door at night while June bugs bzzed outs4ide in the light. They were noisy, and often crashed into the screen. I remember the warm summer breeze coming through from outside, and their arrival on the porch always made summer absolute for me. We had a thing, me and the June bugs, it felt a little like we were old friends who hadn't seen each other in awhile. 

     And now, I am the woman, no longer a girl, who is well aware that when I sit down in front of Orangutan cages at the zoo, and start talking to them, that other people do not do this. But the conversation I had with a little Bonobo in San Diego zoo was nothing short of a marvel. Here's what happened. 

     I stood outside the Bonobo cage peeling an orange for Chandler who was in the stroller beside me, when suddenly a little guy appeared right up against the other side of the plexiglass. The little monkey was watching me. The partition went up about 7 feet, and then opened up to a barb wire enclosure. Inside, Bonobos played on ropes, jumped on and off a shipwreck, and chased each other around like children. But this little guy wanted something else. 

     He banged on his chest and pointed.  "Look at him, Chandler, " I said, "He pointing to the orange! He wants your fruit." 

     I called out to the rest of the family to come back and see this because they had already moved on. Now, the Bonobo was showing me exactly what he wanted me to do. He pointed to the orange, then up to the opening just above the glass. He then made a throwing motion with his arm and banged his hands against his chest again. "Come see this you guys!" I hollered again. "You wont believe this."

     By the time Michael returned, the monkey had made it very clear. Throw me the orange. Just toss it over the glass into our cage. 

     "Can you believe he's so smart?" I said to Michael, "Watch him." The bonobo showed us again what he wanted me to do. 

     "Mom, the sign right there says clearly not to feed the monkeys," Michael said. "Don't do it." 

     "But he's so smart and so darling. He just wants an orange." 

     Michael pulled me away that day, and I did not throw him the orange, but boy did I want to. And I couldn't help but smile wondering how many times that smart little guy got his way. 

      And I am the now the woman who is well aware that no one else parks beside the road when I pull over to talk to the baby cows by the fence on my way home. But the furry winter calves eventually come to me. They know my voice and my car. I believe they somehow know that their darlingness fills me with joy because my creator is also their creator.  

     I am also now the woman who waits at the railing calling to the sleeping bear. "Hey Bear. Wake up. Come see me." And I'm the woman still there, 7 minutes later, when he wakes up and does. 

     I know that I'm different than other people when it comes to creation. But I also know that God made me exactly this way for His purpose and my joy.

      I have always been awestruck by not only the majestic, but also by marching ants and lady bugs, and praying mantis, and I believe God put something in me that allows my spirit the freedom to marvel at things other people never even notice. 

     And lastly...

     I was the girl who sat on the floor right in front of the TV every time, "The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau," came on. The Whales. For me it was all about the whales. I could never get enough of them. So I want to close this story by sharing this...

     I am the woman who God placed on a boat off the coast of, Monterey Ca. I am the woman who got a seat right next to the water with the help of her husband, and I am the woman so greatly loved by the Creator of the Universe, that He sent me a stunning Humpback. She was covered with barnacles, and when her darling baby surfaced beside her, I thought I might die. 

     They swam right beside me, alongside of the boat, for quite awhile and I wept. They were stunning. And before they dove and swam away, that Mama and this Mama had a moment. Her gorgeous, bowling ball sized, dark grey eye, came out of the water and looked into mine. in that moment we were there, together with our creator and it was magic. 

     So if you ever see me at a bear cage, or parked by the side of the road, you might want to join me for a moment of fabulous... because...

     I am that woman

     And thank you again Lord, because...

     I too, will always be that girl. 

     

     

     

  

About the Author

     Pamela Payne lives in Marietta Ga., with her husband Paul. They will celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary in June of 2027. They enjoy exploring Georgia and Florida in a new season of life. They have 3 children and 3, strong and handsome, teenage grandsons. 

     Pam loves to garden and paint and take photos when they're not exploring, and she also substitute teaches in the Cobb County school district.

The Secret

      I loved my Uncle Bill. He was my Mom's baby brother and a very young uncle. Mom was 19 when she and Dad married, and she was pregnant with Ron at the time. Bill was in Kindergarten. This made Bill closer to our age than Moms. 

   Every December and sometimes in the Summer, we would go visit Grandma and Bill in Enid, Oklahoma. As Ron and I got older, we thought Bill was the coolest thing ever. Well, I did anyway, but Ron always wanted Bill all to himself. When Bill became a teenager, Ron would disappear into Bills room with him for what seemed like hours listening to music and talking. I was so jealous while I sat with Grandma and learned to needlepoint. I love the memory I have now of that special time with Grandma Ruth, but in the moment all I wanted was to be in Bills room with the talk and the music.

     Once, during a Summer visit, Bill and Ron disappeared like always, but then shortly, came back out to the living room. Bill had just gotten his drivers license and he asked Mom and Grandma if he could take Ron on a drive. A drive with Uncle Bill! My heart raced. "Can I go too, Bill? Please?" But Ron wasn't having any of it. "No!" He said quickly. "Bill asked me to go."

     "Please?" I was begging, but didn't care. 

     "No!" Ron said again. 

     But Bill had a soft spot for me in his heart and I knew it.  "It's okay Ron," Bill said, "Pam can come too."

     Ron was really mad. I could see it all over his face as he stomped off back to Bills room. Bill followed him, but a few minutes later they both came back out and Grandma gave Bill some money to get us a treat at the gas station and we left.

     Ron was still stewing when he climbed in the front seat next to Bill, "You ruined everything." he said snarling. I didn't understand what he meant, but I didn't really care either. I was just glad to be with them. 

     Bill pulled into the gas station and the three of us went in for ice cream. As we were leaving, Bill stopped Ron and when I got to the car I saw them talking by the entrance door. I couldn't hear them, but I could tell it was a serious conversation.  A few minutes later, the boys climbed back into the front seat and Bill turned around to speak to me. "Pam, do you think you could keep a secret if I asked you too?"

     "Yes." I said immediately, "I can keep a secret."

     Ron was staring at me now too. 

     "You can't tell Aunt Mary, Uncle Elmer or Mom?  Bill said. "You can't tell anyone." 

     "Okay." I said, "I understand." I did start to feel a little nervous though. What was this secret? 

     A few minutes later, Bill pulled over and parked by a field. "I have some left over fireworks from 4th of July. Ron and I are going to shoot some off. You can tell anyone about it because we aren't' supposed to fire them after July 4th."

     Fireworks? Okay, I thought. I loved Pop Bottle Rockets and sparklers. This will be fun.  "Cool," I said, feeling relieved as I hopped out of the car. "I love fireworks." 

     But the sack that Bill took from the trunk did not have any Pop Bottle Rockets in it. The fireworks he pulled out were the kind that hung high on the wall at the back of the open trailers during pre 4th shopping. They were not for kids. Dad would never buy any of those. You had to use a flame to ignite them, and Bill used an old Bucket to set them on. I watched Bill light the first one. It shot high into the sky whistling and popped with an explosion. Oh Wow, I thought.

     "You can do the next one Ron," Bill said handing him the lighter. "Stay as far from it as you can when you light it," he told him, "then move away fast."  

     I could tell Ron was excited but also a little bit scared. These fireworks were nothing to mess around with. The second one whistled and popped just like the first one, and Ron now had a story to tell his friends at school.

    Now it was Bill's turn again. But this time, sparks started spraying from it right after it was lit, and it went up, but not very far, and then fell back to the ground on fire. Bill ran toward it, hoping to stomp the fire out, but it was spreading fast in the hot dry field.

     Bill came back running. Get in the car, he yelled, we have to call the fire department. This was around 1967 and Bill drove straight to a phone booth. He was sweating bad when he came back to the car.

     "They're coming. " he said, "But when they asked me for my name I hung up. Oh God." 

     Bill started the car. "Look," he said and pointed as we drove away. "There's the smoke." 

     We didn't go right home, and we heard the siren. 

     I started to cry. "Stop crying!" Ron said, "Mom will know that something is wrong."

     "I'm sorry, Pam." Bill said, "It'll be okay. "The firemen will put it out. I didn't think anything would happen."  

     I tried hard to pull it together, but I could tell that Bill was still pretty rattled. 

     "Do you think anyone saw us?" He asked.

     "I don't know," Ron replied. "I don't think so."

     The fire was put out quickly that hot summer day, but how the three of us arrived back at the house looking like everything was fine I'll never know. 

     Neither Mom nor Grandma suspected anything out of the ordinary as we settled back into the normalcy of a day at Grandma's house.

     I did eventually tell my Mom what happened that day, but it was many years later. I had told my Uncle Bill that I could keep a secret. I had promised, and I wanted him to trust me. It was a much bigger promise than the one it started out to be, but all was well in the end.

      I never did tell Grandma.

A baby boy, a pink onesie, and a miracle.

          A family trip to Ecuador changed everything. And now nothing feels the same as it did before.
          A couple from our home church in California quit their jobs, sold their home, and moved with their two children to Ecuador to start an orphanage and save babies. We joined the church after they were already gone, but we heard all about them and their home for children in Ecuador,  called "Fathers heart."  Their very first baby died in Melinda's arms, but when we arrived at the church,  we were told the orphanage was now flourishing, and a new home was being built on the property for special needs children. 
      A couple years later,  after God did many things, too many to share for the sake of this story, Paul took our family of five on a mission trip with our church to Father's Heart orphanage in Quito Ecuador.
     During our 10 day trip, my oldest daughter worked with a team of young adults, while the men and boys made concrete and helped with construction of a therapy pool for their handicapped children. That left my youngest daughter and I to work in the Orphanage with the babies. Their precious care givers loved it when extra hearts and hands showed up to help them. Their jobs were long, and hard, and most of these women had families and little ones at home to care for as well.  

      And so...we  loved on the babies. We fed them, changed them, rocked them, and took them in front packs whenever we went into town to shop. The baby I bonded with was named James. He was four months old and had trouble keeping formula down. He had to be fed slow or he would throw it all up. He was finally growing though, finally thriving, and now he waited for his forever family. He was beautiful. His smile made me melt, and within a few days, I loved him. 

     One day, my daughter and two of her friends from our church asked if we could all take our babies to an outing at the mall. Surprisingly, the people in charge said, "Sure. When do you want to go?" So the next day, that's exactly what we did. 

     The Mom of one of the other girls from our church helped load the four of us into a van with 2 strollers and 2 front packs and off we went. 

     After arriving at the mall, we settled the babies into the carriers and strollers, and waved goodbye. "I'll pick you back up in about an hour or so," Heidi told us, "There's a place where you can sit not to far from these doors. I'll look for you there." So with smiles and diaper bags and babies, the girls and I headed inside. We walked around and window shopped and the girls bought treats. Then two of the girls babies needed changing, and another one needed to be fed. Then one began to cry. It was about this time that the 11 and 12 year old Mommies realized this thing they were doing was harder than it looked. When all the babies finally            settled down again, the girls asked if they could pop into a store we saw and try on some clothes. "Please?" They begged with folded hands and the sweetest of smiles. "We'll hurry. We promise." 

     "You can't leave me here with four babies." I told them. "I'll take Marinella, Mom," my daughter told me, patting her baby girl through the pack on her chest. " And Heidi will be here soon. We'll hurry, Okay." Then they blew kisses and waved as they hurried off. 

     Things were fine for awhile, then two of the three babies in my care began crying. One wailed so loud, that I had to take her from the stroller and hold her. I bounced her snuggled up beside James in my front pack, while I pushed the stroller back and forth with my foot hoping to sooth the baby inside that. 

     When Heidi arrived in the mall and saw me with all the babies she picked up her pace, and I couldn't help but laugh by the time she reached me. She took the crying babe from my arms. "The girls just went to try on some clothes,"  I told her. "They changed them and fed one. The babies were happy as clams when they left."

     Heidi was laughing now too. "Of course they were." 

     When the girls returned with packages, my daughters baby was fussy in her front pack, but all the others had settled down. I told them about the state Heidi had found me. "I probably looked like a cartoon character," I said, and the girls apologized through their giggles.  But the girls learned a lot that day about taking a baby to the mall. It was quite an adventure. 

     The next few days, we stayed on site. I had James with me all the time, and I knew Paul could tell that something was happening in my heart. "Will you come with me when I put James down for the night?" I asked him. "I want to talk." So as I tucked the sleeping boy into his crib, Paul asked me what was up. "I'm in love with this baby." I said as tears fell onto my cheeks. "I think I want to take him home." Paul stared at me. "You mean adopt him?"

     "I don't know." I said honestly, "But I think I want to." 

     Paul squeezed my hand and a long silence followed. It was a big ask, I knew. And we were busy people and raising kids was hard, what was I thinking. And yet, I couldn't stand the thought of leaving this baby behind. 

     We spent the next few days praying about it and then Paul said he was willing to ask some questions concerning the possibility, so that's what we did. Melinda said she'd look into it, and so we waited.   

    

     A few days later, we all piled into Vans. The day had come to go to the dump and feed the people who lived there.  The babies did not go with us that day.  I knew that we were doing this. People from our church had done it before, and we had been talking about it since before we even left the states. What I did not know, however, was what I would see, what I would feel, and what God would do.  

     Everybody had been assigned jobs before hand. We had several drawstring bags of soccer balls for the kids to give away and play with. The children who did not want to play soccer, were given large bags of animals cookies to pass out. Another group, mostly adults and young adults, were equipped with jugs of water, shampoo and toothpaste to wash hair, and brush teeth. 

     I had not been assigned a job that day. I said I didn't want one, and wasn't really sure I would even go. I was a bit overwhelmed with feelings and possibilities and really just wanted to stay at the orphanage with James. But my husband and kids wanted me to join them, so I went.  The people at the dump knew we were coming. We had been told that when they saw the vans pull in, the people would appear and line up with cups or jugs or whatever they had to put soup in, and then we would serve them. Before we left, the biggest pot of homemade chicken soup I'd ever seen was loaded in to the back of one of the Vans, alongside a very large box of bakery buns, and we were off.

     My oldest daughter was part of the crew that would feed them, so she rode in the back holding onto the hot soup pot. 

     When we arrived, everyone climbed out of the vans and carried off what they needed for their duties, so I followed them. But, but when I stood on the ground of that place, what unfolded in front of me, was something I was not prepared for. 

     I not sure you could, actually, ever be prepared for it, as woman and men and children climbed out of cardboard boxes, broken lean-tos, and stood watching us. I couldn't move.

     I thought my heart, already swollen tight with love for a baby I'd met just days before, might break in two at the sight.  

     There was no running water at the dump so these people couldn't bath. There clothes were filthy. Their hair matted. Their teeth rotting. Their hands and fingernails... 

    I didn't feel present watching the movement around me. I saw our kids kicking soccer balls with the dump children.  I watched, disconnected, as my friends mingled with people in the line to get soup and bread. I saw children passing out animal cookies. But there were so many people here, they just kept coming. I didn't see how we could possibly feed them all.  

     Everything in my life had changed so quickly, and now this... what was I supposed to do with this?  

     Oh Lord," I cried to myself, "This is too much for me. I can't handle it." 

     About then, a friend saw me standing there, and took the time to come over and give me a hug. "I can't do this." I told her. "This is horrible. No one should have to live like this."  

     "I know, " she said sweetly. "But they're getting hot soup and bread. Some are getting there hair washed. Their children are laughing and playing with ours." She paused. 

     "There are parents that need help carrying soup back to their children." She paused again. "You can help do that?"

       I knew she was right. I could help do that. So I took a few deeps breaths and walked toward the line of people. I said hello. I pasted on a smile. 

     "Ask that lady if you can hold her baby."  I knew the words I heard were not audible. I realized soon enough, that God that put those words on my heart, because then, I saw her.  A mother in line had three children. There were two, each wrapped around one leg, and in her arms, she held a baby in a pink onesie. 

     She was doing her best to move forward while juggling the baby and a dirty chopped off milk carton  to hold the soup in.  I walked toward her. I don't speak Spanish, but I knew she understood me when I stretched out my arms and said, "Can I hold your baby for you?"

      As I took the baby and held her to my chest, there was a odd sound. There was something inside the onesie. Something crunchy.  The baby was content and happy as I unzipped her onesie and looked inside. Animal cookies. The baby was stuffed with animal cookies. A smile came over my face. And then I found myself laughing with joy as something broke off of me.  I walked around and showed her to people as the Mother moved through the line. "This baby is stuffed with animal cookies," I said, smiling  through tears.  

     

     God gave me something I needed in that moment and he knew exactly what it was. He knew that the darling baby stuffed with cookies would bring me joy. I pictured the Mom unzipping it as the kids brought the cookies around because she had no where else to put them.  

     I waited until my daughter and her team had filled the woman's dirty container with soup, and watched them give her little ones bread to carry back. Then I joined her and followed her back to their home. Their cardboard box at the dump. I handed her back her baby. I knew she was grateful. I could see it in her eyes. And her children were already eating the bread.  

     I went back to the line after that and helped a few more families carry things, butt as I did, I heard talk in the Van about the food. 

     "It's going so fast." 

     "So many people still in line."  

     "Still more coming." 

     It wasn't until many hours later that we all talked about the miracle. Every person serving food in the Van shared their perspective of what happened that day when we gathered together later. Each one of them believed they were going to run out before everyone got fed. But they just kept serving. They started breaking the bread in half. But the soup pot always had one more ladle of soup in it. And the box of bread had five pieces left, then four. Then they gave some away, but there were still four pieces in the box. 

     We also found out  that not only was everyone fed, but some people had come back for seconds.  

     It was like the miracle of the fish and loaves with Jesus on the mountainside, but instead it was a miracle of soup and bread at the dump in Ecuador. 

     We found out the next day that we couldn't adopt James because of our age. Ecuador wont let people over 40 adopt. I guess Melinda wasn't sure about the age cut-off when we discussed adopting James, but a part of me was already prepared to hear the answer. As much as I loved that baby, and wanted to take him home, he wasn't supposed to be ours. But the love God put in my heart for that baby changed something in me. And I knew that it was something good. Something I could take home.  

     I cried myself to sleep that night as Paul comforted me. 

     I had to leave James behind, but he had been greatly loved in my arms. And all those people at the dump were still going to live in cardboard boxes and be dirty and hungry. Oh Lord, I thought, there's still so much that I don't understand. 

     The day before we left, Paul took me shopping so I could buy something special for James. I bought him a sheepskin blanket for his crib. And I wrote him a letter. 

     "I love you, baby James," It said. "I wanted to take you home with us but we couldn't adopt you because of our age. You are beautiful and I will pray that your forever family finds their way to you soon. We bought you this blanket. I hope it keeps you warm and covers you with our love." 

     Paul and I taped the letter right on the wall right by his crib, kissed him one last time, covered him with the sheepskin, and said goodbye.  

    

     Years later, I got a letter from Melinda, the woman who started the orphanage. 

     In the letter was a picture of James. He was about 3, I think. He was sitting on a tricycle.

     She wanted me to know that he had found his forever family. 

     She wanted me to know that the sheepskin blanket I bought him was in his arms as his forever Mother took him into hers. 

     She wanted me to know that the letter I wrote him was also placed into her hands. 

     

     My tears that day were tears of joy. I had thought about that sweet baby boy so many times, and the gift I got that day from Melinda healed something inside me.   

     My youngest daughter went back with our friends the next year and got to be with the babies again. 

     I can't think too much about the people who live at the dump because it hurts. But I can pray for them. And I am filled with love and awe remembering the miracle God preformed that day we fed them, and the way the baby stuffed with cookies brought me joy  in the midst of great sadness.

     I know that God sees the people in the dump in Ecuador every moment of their day. 

     I know that He loves them.

     I know that James  found his forever family and I picture him snuggled underneath the sheepskin blanket we bought him, and I pray that he feels warm and greatly loved.

     For now... that is enough.        

           

     

 

     

     

The vision of the curly headed boy in the grass.

     My daughter and son-in-law moved back to Mammoth from San Diego after Garrett had taken a job as an engineer for Mono Co. I was so excited about having them close. I was extra excited because I knew they were ready to start a family and I couldn't wait to become a grandmother and have a baby in my arms again. 

     Shortly after this, a good friend of our family got pregnant. And not long after that, I had a vivid dream. Actually, it was a vision. It was simple and beautiful picture, yet very clear.  

     A little boy with dark curls sat down in green grass. His back was bare, and the sun highlighted him just so. That was it. That was the whole thing. But I knew that God had shown it to me.  

     Abby and Matt, (our friends who were pregnant), went to church with all of us. They both had very curly hair. Abby's was blonde and Matt's was dark. I don't think they knew the sex of their baby, so I told Abby, "I think you're having a boy.  I had a vision of a dark curly headed boy sitting in the grass, and I don't know anyone else who is pregnant."

     Nissi was born shortly after. A beautiful and perfect little girl with straight blonde hair. It had not been Nissi in my vision. 

     When ReAnnon got pregnant, my heart swelled. I couldn't wait to hold their baby in my arms. I remembered the vision God had given me. They both have dark hair. ReAnnon's is thick and straight, but Garrett's is very curly.  It's their baby. I thought with joy. It has to be. 

     Jude Paul Higerd was born about 6 months later. He was big and blonde. His hair was straight. He was not the boy in my vision either. But not of it mattered because I was so full of joy. My heart burst with a new kind of love, and life went on. As it did, the vision of the boy with the curls in the grass drifted away.    

     After Jude was born, ReAnnon and Garrett has two miscarriages. When she got pregnant for the third time, ReAnnon's doctor told her to prepare for the worst. She spoke at a woman's conference at our church during this time about their struggles, and I remember weeping over her declaration of Faith. She stated that she and Garrett would be thankful for the baby in her womb for every day God let them have it. There were tears. 

     Our church was also open during this time for evening prayer. So Paul and I went one night. I remember laying prostrate on the floor and begging God to let them have this baby. "Please, Lord." I cried. 

     I had forgotten all about the vision during this season of sorrow until God showed it to me again that night. As I prayed, the vision returned. He showed it to me again that night as I lay on the floor at church. There he was. I saw him. The little boy with the curly hair sitting in green grass. I had a renewed faith as I left there that night, but I held tight to my vision. I kept it inside my heart alone and thought, What if I was wrong. What if it wasn't from God? What if it was just a silly dream?

     But in my spirit, I cried.  "Yes, Lord. Yes!"

    

    Reed Phillip Higerd was born about 7 months later. He had dark hair. The first time I saw him his tiny curls were stuck to his head. Our family was so full of joy. I was crying when I saw him. "He has curls," I said, "He has tiny curls."

     It's funny how the things of God, so powerful and full of truth at the time, can fade away with the process of day to day life. If we don't plant those memorial stones, if we don't go back and rest on them, if we don't remember and tell their stories, they can simply disappear.  

     I knew after Reed was born that he was the child in my vision and my praise to God for that truth was full and deep. But it wasn't until I saw it, the exact picture, the image in my vision, that I realized how big and real God truly is. 

      

     Reed was about two I think, and Jude was four. ReAnnon was pregnant with Gideon. It was summer. It was hot. We were playing outside. It was late in the afternoon. 

     I think the boys were spending the night and I remember being tired. They were running around in the back yard, and I was thinking about dinner. 

    And then, suddenly, Reed sat down in the grass. His bare back was facing me. His dark curls shining as the sun hit him just so. In that moment, I fell to my knees. I fell to me knees and I cried. 

     Right in front of me was the promise in a vision God had given almost five years before. And in that moment I so full of love and gratitude and knowing. God had showed me something long before it's time. But in God's perfect time, it was everything.  

     I learned some things through this season of my life. One of them was this. 

     I don't ever want to miss out, or discount, or forget something God has said to me or showed me. His timing may be different than ours, but His reasons and His love and His care are perfect. 

     

     ReAnnon's and Garrett's story goes far beyond this one. There was much more heartache. More babies in Heaven. Gideon, their third son, was my husband Paul's redemption story and I know that God has been inside all their heartbreak and tears, and I believe their story will be shared by them one day.

     I cant know, but I can imagine, as ReAnnon's mother, the loss and heartache she and Garrett suffered when I look at the necklace she wears. It is filled with the birthstones of all the babies they lost. The ones they'll meet and hold in Heaven. 

     Until then, they are living an incredibly full and busy life parenting the three most amazing young men in the world with wisdom, love, and Grace. Their boys are strong, smart, funny, talented, athletic and amazing. Paul and I get to see them soon. 

     Until then, I will hold tight to who God is, what He does, and how He loves. Because ReAnnon and Garrett are planting their own memorial stones. They are walking through their own redemption stories.         And I...

      I will get to hold all their babies  in Heaven too. 

        

         

The last 15 Pictures.

 

Acknowledgements page

      I began to put the words of these stories onto pages almost 20 years ago. 

     There were seasons when I was so full of God's presence on the mountaintops of life, that I overflowed. Lots of stories were written in those seasons. But there were also times when life got really hard and I had nothing. I was dry and empty, so I did not write. I had nothing to give. 

     Many of these stories, however, came from the things God showed me, and what He did in me, when I was in the mire and darkness of those hard seasons.  

     I have been an avid reader of stories my whole life, and as a young woman, I began to love writing my own. This book however, was never part of my plan until God made it my plan. What I wanted to write was a fabulous novel, and I worked long and hard to hone that skill.

     All this being said, these stories and photographs are what came from my 20 year journey walking with God.  They are a love story. A beautiful love story between me and the creator of the world. My Father, my Savior, my Jesus. 

     I want to thank everybody who supported me in this process. There are so very many of you. Thank you all for your encouragement. Thank you for liking my pictures. Thank you for reading the stories I sent you, and for encouraging me to write more. It was all those things that gave me the courage to continue with this vulnerable project. 

     Thank you, Paul,  for walking through this beautiful, challenging, and redemptive, journey by my side. You were always my biggest encourager. 

     Thank you, ReAnnon, Michael, and Chandler for making me a mother and showing me what true love is. I love you all so very much. 

     Thank you, Mom and Dad, for my precious childhood. It formed me and made me who I am.

     Thank you to my brother and sisters, who knew me when my love of God's creation began, and who love and live life with me still. Ron, Lori, and Kay,  I love you all. 

     And to my precious nieces and nephews. We have lived so much life together. The laughter, the vacations, the memories. I have watched you grow and become caring, loving adults. What a gift that is. And your precious children. Wow.

     And thank you to Savannah and my team at Oscar Ghostwriting for your help in getting my life into this beautiful book.

     Jude, one day we will have to count how many pictures I have of you in files. I think I could win the prize for the most "first grandchild" photographs. Maybe we can get into, "The Guinness book of world Records."  You were my world,  and the second boy to steal my heart. Keep it safe inside you and remember that love. And your Yoyo and Kendama skills?! Come on!

     And Reed, you were, and are still, the Charming one.  You were the one who walked with me. You were the one who stopped with me beside flowers, and bugs, and baby cows and thought they were as fabulous as I did. And I'll never forget the time when you told me I was beautiful. I think you were almost four. And you always picked flowers for your Mom. 

     And last but not least, Gideon.  I just wanted to hold you all the time. You were the baby, and I didn't want you to grow out of my lap. I'll never forget ReAnnon putting you in my arms after I got home from the hospital after my accident. The comfort you gave me, the sweet baby snuggle as you settled into me. You held me tight, and it was like a balm to my spirit. And now, you are wise beyond your years. You're vocabulary from the time you could talk astounded me. I learn something every time we have a conversation.  The amount of information you have in your head blows my mind.  

     And so...

     The older I get the more I realize how lucky I am to have a family who loves each other because I know this is not always the case. But I believe that God chose when we would be born, he chose our people, our family, and our path. He placed each of us on our own unique path, in His time, for His purpose under Heaven. 

     So when we say, "No." When we we chose to take our own road, when we decide to do it our own way, God just waits. He waits. He calls us back. He woos us. He loves us.    

     So Thank you for that, Lord. Thank you for that. You are the reason this book exists. May you receive all the glory captured in these photos, and feel my praise from the stories on these pages. And most of all, may you feel the love I have for you and know I feel yours. 

Pam    

     

call me Mamo...

  

       This story is about how I became Mamo. It's about my first grandson. About the precious one who named me. My best little buddy.  

    This little guy was my world. When he was around, he was everything. He was a

pensive child. Quiet. Always listening.  I read to him a lot and sang to him a lot, and I believed that I had his attention, but he was pretty quiet.  

     We had a little kitchen stool and I knew that he wanted to climb it, but I also knew clearly, even though he couldn't tell me, he didn't want me to watch him figure it out. 

     So I put the stool in the living room and walked away.  In the kitchen, I could see him practicing from the opening over the sink. I watched him go up,  stumble. and try it again. He did this over and over until he finally had it down. I saw that he had conquered it. My heart swelled with happiness, and I knew that he'd want to show me. I walked toward him. "Can you climb that ladder all by yourself?" I asked him. And he showed me that he could.  

     I gave him the biggest hug. He was so proud and so was I. And I was certain that he said, "Gamma" in the video I took of him doing it again. I was so excited that he'd said my name, that I showed it to my daughter when she came to pick him up. 

    Not long after that, I was talking to my daughter on the phone. "Jude keeps saying something," she told me. "I don't know what it means. He says it over and over every day."  And she repeated the word. "Have you heard him say it?" She asked me?

     "No." I told her, "I have not."

     But the next time they came over this darling boy ran into the house. And as I knelt and held my arms open to him, he ran into them. "Mamo!" He said as I scooped him up.  

     "Oh my gosh!" my daughter said, "It's you. He's been asking about you."

     The love I felt in that moment was coming from something very new to me. This little darling boy decided who I was in his life and named me. There was never any transition of his name for me after that. I wondered where it came from, and thought about it a lot. Then I figured it out and I just knew. Sometimes you just know that you know. His name for me was a combination of two of his favorite people. His Mama, and Elmo. I laughed out loud when I figured it out. I knew right away that he saw me as the perfect mix of both. 

     Part Mama, part Elmo, and deeply in love with him.  

     Many grandma's choose their name before their grandbabies are even born. They then coach them on it as soon as their grandbabies begin to form words. I know and love a KiKi, and a Glamma, and a Nana, and I get the idea. Truly I do, but I, I never even thought about it. 

     My truth was this... 

     I knew that one day Jude would call me something. He'd find his name for me and say it.  And that's exactly what he did.  In love and spontaneity, this darling boy filled my heart with a name that came from two of the things he loved the most. What could possibly be more precious than that? 

     And so...just call me Mamo!

A vase of flowers on a kitchen table in a house with no roof.

      I grew up in Oklahoma. We were right in the middle of tornado country and Spring always announced itself with great and stormy skies.. 

     The horizon would grow dark as blue-black clouds rolled and tumbled and filled the sky.  I was well aware of their power and growing strength as my heart beat faster.

      Anticipation, fear, and awe took turns inside my spirit playing follow the leader. 

    We were taught what to do. Mom would meet us at the door if the storms found us outside, and then we sat in the den on the floor, watched Gary England, (our meteorologist) on TV, and waited for Dad to come home. 

     As a little girl, I remember Gary England so well. He always told us what we needed to know about the impending storm and he did it calmly. I was comforted by the sound of his voice. I trusted him.
    If Mr. England changed the event,  from "thunderstorm watch" to "tornado warning" before Dad got home, Mom would get nervous and scared. I could see her wearing it. Being the oldest of three girls, and not quite a year younger than my brother, I watched my parents and listened to their conversations a lot. And when Mom got scared about the impending tornado, so did I.  

    But the moment Dad came through the door my fear flew away.  I just felt safe when he was home. He never showed any signs of worry, he just changed out of his suit, and then we'd all go to the garage together. Dad would then snap on the radio, open the garage doors, and line up the lawn chairs side by side.  

    As long as the storm lasted, the five of us would sit like that. Dad and the kids. Mom never joined us. But we would watch the clouds roll and shift. And I'd scoot to the very edge of my chair and gasp as flashes of lightning shot across the sky, then hold my ears as gigantic booms of thunder vibrated my bones. 
    At times the sky grew so dark that I held my breath and just when I thought I couldn't stand it anymore, the sky would  break open and pour down buckets full of rain. 
    The hail made my sisters scream but my brother ran into it like a superhero proud to show us the red whelps he brought back inside with him.    
    I was transfixed watching our green grass turn into a glassy white blanket.  

     Dad put us inside the bathtub only once that I remember, and when I saw the look between my Mom and Dad, I knew the tornado was coming. Dad left us in the bathroom for a minute and came back with a mattress from one of the beds. He told Mom to get in the tub with the four of us, and then he leaned the mattress over our heads. 
     The tornados sirens were howling outside as we sat there and then, , we could barely hear Mother singing. When everything quieted, in that stillness, I thought it was over. It wasn't. 
     The howling wind came back. It sounded like a train was coming. And then... it stopped.  Dad put the mattress down, and told Mom to keep us there until he came back. 
     When all was clear we got up and out of the bathtub. Shortly after, Dad said, "I 'm going to drive around and see what the tornado did. Anyone want to come with me?"
      I did. And that evening it was just Dad and me. 
     I don't know how far we drove, it wasn't too far when Dad pulled over and parked the car. We both got out. We walked a little until we saw a family wandering outside on a lawn down a street. There house had no roof.  "Look," Dad said as he pointed it out to me. "It's over there."
     The families roof was balancing on top of a house down the street. 
     These people, in shock and disbelief, were  letting people go inside their house. I didn't know exactly what they were talking about, but Dad said, "Let's go in."

     Inside the house, their TV was still on but it didn't have a picture.  I heard Dad talking to people about couch cushions and books on a shelf.  
     I wandered into the kitchen. 
    On the kitchen table, was a vase of red flowers. I stared at it while the people around me talked.  
    That vase of flowers just sat upright on the peoples kitchen table. Right there in the pretty vase.    
     When I looked up from their kitchen, I saw the sky.
     On the drive home, Dad told me that tornadoes had strange power.  He told me when he was a boy he saw a rake pushed through a telephone pole once after a storm and that a neighbor's cow had been found walking in a field over a mile away from their farm.  

     Something changed in me that day.  I did not understand the things I saw and heard. How could a roof be torn off a house and placed on a house down the street? And how could a vase of  flowers still be sitting on a table after the roof got ripped off?  

     Even then, I knew God had all the answers. He knew all the things that I did not. But after that day, I saw a bit more of God's power and glory in the lightning. I smelled more of it in the rain. And I heard more of it in the thunder.  
    I know too, that it is present now even amidst the destruction of the current seasons storms. So I pray for the people who lives are forever being changed by them. But, as I remember the red flowers on the table in a kitchen with no roof,  I know that God sees everyone who is suffering. I know that He loves them. I know that he can redeem their lives and make them new.  

    So may they see your goodness, Lord, and may feel your great love. 
   

     

Tomato worms

      One summer Dad planted tomato's in our backyard. It was the first time we'd ever grown food, and I loved watching the tomato's form and grow on the vines. I checked on them regularly, and reported back to everyone about how they were doing.   

     One day I told Dad that it looked like leaves were missing from several plants and that I found chew bites on one.  That weekend, I was rolling skating in the drive way and Dad came through the garage and called my name. "Come with me, Pam," he said, "I want you to see something." I followed Dad to the backyard and then to the tomato garden. "Come look at this," Dad said, as he squat down and pointed. I squat beside him and looked. "Oh my Gosh!" I said excited. I was looking at the biggest, fattest, greenest worm I'd ever seen. And it had a long curved stinger on it's butt. "We've got tomato worms," Dad said. "That's what's eating the plants."
      "They're so big," I told him, "and that stinger!" We have to remove them from the plants, he told me. "I'll be right back." Dad returned a few minutes later with a miracle whip jar, and proceeded to show me how to remove the worms from the stalks. He explained that if you found one tomato worm, you definitely had more than one. Then I watched him slide the stick under its front feet which were sticky. Then, once the worm attached itself, Dad just pulled it from the plant. As he did,  the worm immediately bent it's stinger forward over it's back. "Do you see that?" Dad said. "You have to be careful so it doesn't sting you."   
     It was Summer, so Dad asked if I was game for finding and jarring more worms while he was at work. Our first one now sat in the bottom of the jar which Dad handed me. "If you find more, put them in here. You'll know where to look for them by finding the eaten or missing leaves. You're in charge."             Dad left me by the garden and I sat there staring into the jar  I was mesmerized by this crazy big worm. I broke of a piece of a tomato plant with a leaf attached and put it in the jar with the worm then took the lid off so it wouldn't die. I wanted to watch it climb with those sticky feet and eat with that mouth. I was fascinated.   
      I can't tell you how many hours I sat with the tomatoes that Summer, but it was a lot. Within a week or so I had 4 worms inside that jar, and sometimes I missed the call to dinner. "Pam's in the garden again." My sisters would yell, "she's always looking for those nasty worms." 

     By the end of the summer, the tomato worms were gone and the fruit on the vine flourished.  I think I captured a total of 8 that season. I don't remember ever planting tomatoes or finding worms again after that summer, but I'll never for get it. .

     I hadn't thought about that garden and those worms in a very long time, but this year my husband and I planted our first bed of tomatoes in our Round Valley home.  I planted them and smelled them. I watered them and staked them,  And as I did, I couldn't stop thinking about that summer I spent as a girl gathering those fascinating worms in my Miracle Whip jar. I realized then, that I badly them wanted them to return to my life.  So I checked regularly for missing leaves and chew marks on the plants, but never found any. I remember being sad that they didn't come that summer to visit me.  It was strange how I missed them. Funny how a worm with a giant stinger can bring a young girl fascination and joy. 

Maybe I find one again one day. I'd like to think I will.

Mother sewed

       I have some very clear memories of my Mother. They are moments in time. I see them in my mind like photographs. I was the oldest of three girls and paid close attention to everything my Mom did. And when I think about those moments in time of Mom, in my pictures, she is mostly sewing.  

     She sewed all of our clothes until I was in middle school. Church dresses. Summer shifts. Costumes. She made all her own clothes too. Beautiful things modeled after the style of Jackie Kennedy. Colorful bell bottom pantsuits. Tailored dresses. She even made my brother Ron a suit. Mom also loved Music. I have clear memories of changing the albums on the stereo turntable for her, while she sat on the floor with straight pins between her lips pinning patterns on the living room floor.  Then I would watch her, and sing, and dance around. 

     I loved going to the fabric store with her to pick out my patterns. I can still remember the excitement. The tingling in my tummy when we sat at the tables in the fabric stores and looked through the pattern books. McCalls, Butterick, and Simplicity.   

     Mom always wore a pin cushion around her wrist and pins were either being pulled out of it and being put in something else, or being pulled out from her lips and put back into the pin cushion. I remembered being lulled to sleep by the sound of her foot tapping the sewing machine pedal and the lull of the fabric being sewn that followed. I remember waking up to the joy of an almost finished dress. 

      We tried everything on before the finishing touches were applied. Things like buttons, rickrack, and pleats. And then there were the hems. We had a full length mirror in the living room which was Mom's sewing room for most of the year. I remember standing in front of it as I watched Mom pin my hems. I I always wanted them a little bit shorter. And I remember when my hair got longer, she made me matching headbands.

     I also have vivid moment in time, snapshots, of Mom sitting at the table with me when I brought home papers to learn cursive. She would do the first few letters and then I would them copy them to the bottom of the page.  Her handwriting was beautiful. it still is. I remember once finding some letters from my Grandma Ruthie. Mom's mom. I had never,  until then, realized how much Grandmas handwriting looked like Moms. How much like mine. It was a moment. Grandma taught Mom, and Mom taught me. I remember laying out a letter from my Grandmother and from my Mom and comparing them to my own handwriting. It was emotional and beautiful. A stunning moment.  

      People don't sew their own clothes anymore like Mom did ours, at least no know I've ever known. And children don't learn cursive any more either. And no one writes letters. I think that's sad. 

     But I will always have the precious memories of those things. I can still hold tight to them as they are part of my childhood and my story. They formed me. And I will always be thankful for that.

Blisters or not...

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

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

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

You are...

You are the purple rage in storm clouds

You are the gentle snow and blinding sun

You are the one who makes beauty from ashes

You are the sender of the Helper

You are the colors in the sunrise

You are the maker of the stars

You are the one who refines us through fire

You are everything that is good and right and true

You are billions of sand grains

You are the gentle breaking waves on the beach and the giant Tsunamis 

You are Light in the blackest of dark

You are the holder of all our tears

You are the designer of every flower

You are the giver of soul cleansing laugh

You are in the death and new life of everything

You are the miracle of our babies

You are the giver of all great joy

You are the absolute truth and greatest of mystery

You are the strengthener of warriors  

You are the writer of our testimonies

You are the very beginning and the very end

You are the greatest of storytellers 

You are the God of creation and the Holy Spirit

You are also Jesus, the Savior of the world

You are unfathomable grace

You are the delicate lovely of ladybugs

You are the maker of mountains

You are the example of perfect humility

You are the one who requires obedience

You are the one who forgives our sins

You are the cleansing beautiful smell of rain

You are the refresher of the soul

You are the tiny white flowers that turn into strawberries

You are the one with answers to everything known and unknown

You are the bursting of new love for grandsons

You are the best giver of all precious gifts

You are the one I see in everything

You are the one I know

You are the one I love

I am yours!

A slot canyon hike...It was God's idea.

     More excited than I thought I could get about a five-day trip to Palm desert, I stayed up late and packed the night before.  Car loaded, ice chest ready to fill, I put groceries and my Vita-Mix by the front door and went to bed.

     Up early excited about the day ahead, we made it as far as Lone Pine.

     Something was wrong.

     Paul reached over and squeezed my hand as he turned the choking truck around, but my tears came anyway. We were now heading in the wrong direction.

     This precious time away with Paul had been postponed once before, and now, all I could focus on were the beach cruisers in the back that we would be taking out. They would be unloaded when we got home. I could hear the click of their metal kickstands on the cold garage floor.

     Crying over beach cruisers may seem over-dramatic to you, but I’m confessing that one of my greatest joys in my “desert time”with Paul is our early morning 4 mile ride to Starbucks for coffee.     

     Before we turned the car around I'd been texting some friends that we love dearly. Dan and Kelly have survived unimaginable things.  I’m talking three liver transplants and the death of their precious son Samuel who lived only nineteen days.

     My subsequent text to them was about turning the car around, abandoning bicycles, and the fact that I was crying about it.  Am I really telling Dan that I am crying over having to change cars and NOT being able to take our bikes to the desert? Seriously?  Yes.  That was the answer.  I was. 

     I took a breath and laid the phone in my lap feeling ridiculous.  I need to get over it. Paul could feel my disappointment and squeezed my hand again.  “I may have a bike rack,"  he said, “I’m not sure it’ll fit on your car, but it’ is made for a car without a trailer hitch. I’ll look for it when we get home.”

     Three and an half hours later, my Chrysler,  filled to overflowing, had beach cruisers on a bike rack as we entered Lone Pine for the second time that day.

     We were quiet as we settled in for the ride ahead. In my spirit, I told the Lord I was sorry about my behavior and my attitude. I thanked him for his “always perfect” provision,  even when I didn’t deserve it. 

     And in my quiet conversation with God, he laid a specific idea on my heart.  “I think you should check out hiking."

     Hiking?  Paul and I had never hiked in Palm Springs. We lived in the Eastern Sierras after all. Are there even hiking trails there? I wondered. 

     I did, however, get a rush of excitement knowing it was God's idea and not mine. I did not want to miss out on something He had planned for us.  Googling hikes was easy.  Reading the choices to Paul as we drove became fun.    

      There were two that we thought sounded promising and felt we could do based on our limited experience and lack of proper foot wear, (our hiking shoes were at home),  so I made some phone calls, asked some questions,  and we made plans.

     The first hike was beautiful. It was a big surprise.   

    The second one however, was simply a gift from God.  It was described as an easy six miles over flat rocks full of color.  It said,  “It will make you think your walking on the moon,” and  I...I was all over that.   

   We parked the car a little confused. We expected to see a map board, or a trail head. Something. But there was nothing. We must be in the wrong place, we thought. There were 2 men in the parking area near us, and a couple of cars, so Paul walked over. I saw one of them hand Paul a small piece of paper and heard him say something about a ladder hike. 
     Then Paul walked up and took my hand. "Those guys showed me a map they took off some hikers blog. They said we should do the ladder hike that goes down into the slot canyon."  
     "What's a ladder hike?" I asked him.
     He shrugged, "I'm not really sure. He just said to look for the arrow made out of rocks and then make sure you follow it.” 
     We walked on sand in a huge open canyon for about three quarters of a mile before Paul spotted it.  It pointed up to the steep face of a rock. “You up for this?"  Paul asked climbing a bit to check it out. 

     “There’s no trail,” I said, “Do you thinks that's the right way?”

    “I do.” He answered and I was already climbing up behind him. 

    At the top there was an obvious place to slide down, so we sat and glided ourselves down into the narrow canyon below.

     “Wow,” I stood not really believing what was in front of me, “This is amazing.”

     It got more amazing and we soon realized what the man meant by "ladder hike."  We both pictured some kind of rock formation that resembled a ladder, but now, we found ourselves at the end of a canyon with a long painter’s ladder simply leaned against the canyon wall.  At the top of the ladder was a hole.  

    We climbed up and down three sets of such ladders over the next few hours as our journey through the slot canyon continued. I can’t even begin to describe the light and the timing of the light. Even an hour earlier or later would have changed everything.     

    I’m pretty adventurous by nature, but Paul told me he was surprised by my total lack of fear and inhibition doing this, (kind of crazy, but very cool), thing. 
     Here's the truth.  I knew before I slid down into "whatever was below" that God had chosen it for us and that made all the difference.  
     It had never been our idea to hike. We were going to lie by the pool, read, ride beach cruisers, and walk through town holding hands and eating dinner.  
     I knew that what God had for me in this canyon was worth whatever it took to get there. I knew too, as soon as my feet hit the canyon floor, that it would be something I couldn't even imagine.  

     He is a picture I took of Paul.  "Narrow is the way." and "I am the light of the world." He would tell you that God spoke to him in this place.  
      Over and over and over again God gives me more.  I am awed by his glory and humbled by the grace of his love.

     In my future there will be many more pity parties because simply put, I wanna make everything all about me.  If I don’t cry over beach cruisers, I’ll cry about something or someone else than bursts my bubble.  I also know that God’s plans and decisions for my life are better and greater than anything I could come up with or plan on my own,  and I don't want to miss them.  Even the revelations and reminders about my own selfish, hard, and unforgiving heart,  are worth the good long look He makes me take because He uses them to shape me and mold me.  

     And then...he whispers his great idea and gives an unexpected and amazingly beautiful gift out of his perfect love.  

     This is our God.   

PS. The early rides to Starbucks were better than ever.