Sometimes you really do have to fake it to make it….

Authors note: It’s been a season of “searching” for me. In doing so- I ran across this previous journal entry- God used it to shed a spotlight on a few things for me- and I felt led to share it with you:

 

I asked my 21 yr old daughter Mallie, to accompany me to an African American “Hair Expo” that Ms. Margene(the director of Hope House) invited me to attend.

A portion of the proceeds were to go to Hope House….

Of course, Mallie had been making wise cracks all day- that the stylists are going to want to use me(and my hair) as their demo model….

Anyway- the driving directions I was given were as follows:

Just go on down 20^th street, and you’’ll see it on the left…It’s called “TAMED”.

…So we are well down 20^th street, long passed the populated medical center comlpex area, and are now on 20^th street NORTH, which as you know, is a bit different from 20^th Street South- especially at 7:00 on Sunday night.

On top of that- where we have to park is “less than desirable”… and by this time Mallie and I are having that  visual, raised eyebrow, silent conversation with our eyes- that only a Mother and daughter can have…clearly communicating the same sentiment…”Dad would NOT be happy with this….”

Blessedly(provisionally) Ms Margene, along with her family members, pull up as we are parking- so I am at least briefly comforted in that whole “safety in numbers” thing.

Her family turns out to be as lovely as she is, and we have great fun visiting as we walk.

THEN.

We get to the “salon” (remember now- this event is benefitting a drug re-hab facilty). We walk through the door- and I am immediately and acutely- aware of two things…(hard not to be, they were..pretty glaring in their dominance)…

1. Some very large…ahem…questionable? (translation: nude) Pieces of art work…..and

2. A fully functional, up and running…equipped with a flat screen t.v…… BAR.

So with some of the girls from HH on their way- Ms. Margene deftly develops a plan to deal w/ the situation.

The girls can have soft drinks, juice, etc from the bar- but can only order them if accompanied by one of us…problem solved.

I have now noticed something else…the more people that get there…the whiter I feel.

Not because I care, one iota- but because of the looks that Mallie and I are getting.

After an abnormally long time of “mingling”…and me trying to figure out just exactly where this hair show is going to take place…we are hearded, (all 100+ of us) to the back of the room, and up 3 - very old, very narrow, very LONG, flights of stairs…I’m guessing this is not something the fire marshall would sign off on.

I am also regretting that I didn’t inform ANYONE of our whereabouts.

Now at the top of the “stairway to heaven”, we enter into a big rectangular darkened room, with peeling paint, exposed pipes…and… 2 long rows of chairs – parted by a “red sea” of carpet.

……Did I mention that I know I am no Moses, and that there is also some really funkylicious, rap music, blasting through my eardrums at this point, too????

I quickly remind my self of three things:

1. None of this suprises God.

2. He can protect us wherever we are.

3. And if this is not RADICAL(what our pastor has been challenging us to be)…I don’t know what the heck is.

Mallie (who is very attractive and 6 ft tall) and being eyed by every male in the place from 16 to 60- leans down and whispers in my ear “…you REALLY owe me for this one…”

To make matters even worse- there are no chairs left.

Left me give you a visual here….Me and my pale face, framed by my blonde frizzy hair, standing alongside my 6ft  tall daughter in a dark room, full of our SEATED dark skinned brothers and sisters.

Just imagine two sparklers in the middle of a  blackberry patch- and you’ve got the picture

Do not ask me why- but…God is displaying His humor to me simultaneously…as I now have that old Baptist hymn-

“ IIIII haave deciiided to folooow Jeesus…III haave deeciided to folooow Jeeesus…no turning baack…no turning baack”….playing in my head along with the rap music which is bouncing off the walls :0

Yes, really.

To the credit of my sweet HH girls- several of them have offered me their chairs… in seeing this as a small way to serve them- I politely refuse, in a motherly way.

Apparently an older brother observed the situation- took pity on us- and presented us with some chairs he had managed to pilfer.

Thank you, Father.

Well- I sure wasn’t expecting what happened next.

This young,  very nice looking young man- sporting dreads in a ponytail- and a smile that would melt a glacier- says…..”Anybody here go to church today?”

The response was a symphony of hearty “Amen!”s. “You know it Brother”, and “I sure did!”s

Finally.

I am feeling a little comfortable 

Then my brother with the microphone asks us to bow in prayer…and what flowed out of his mouth was like the river Jordan teaming with mixture of milk and honey.

He asked our Father to remind us that we are only “Christians for a minute” before we become disciples for a lifetime….He asked Him to not let us be content with confessing who we are- but hungry for showing who we serve….and further pleaded that God not give us rest until we MADE DISCIPLES OF ALL NATIONS.

Now….I know why I am here.

Well, almost.

My dear brother then reminded all of us to visit the bar…and show the bartenders some “love”.

O.K. God…I heard you…they aren’t perfect… and neither am I. In fact- I’d love to be downing something from the bar right now…but I’m guessing that a Califonia Cabernet may not be in the selection.

And alas- the moment has arrived- time for the show to begin!

Three stylists have done some amazing things with the hair of 15 models (…seriously- it was stunningly fashion forward, and really pretty!)

The two “takeaways” I got from the runway experience were as follows:

 * If you focused on the models’ hair and pretty faces- it left you less time to ponder the absence of most of their clothing….and

* I really should embrace the ample nature of my backside with more confidence!

God impressed on me early on to be supportive and positive- so I was sure to clap heartily for the efforts of all the young women…

Having no idea the price I would pay for it.

So, with the last model down the runway, and with the finale complete (I think) our young emcee with the great lookings dreads, takes the mike once again and says…..”Hey what’s wrong with y’all tonight- the only one here acting like they having any fun is our white sister here” (and he points at me)…now, he continues-“ I want y’all to crank it up- cause we got some prizes and we are gonna have a red carpet dance contest to see who our winners are!’

O.K….I don’t mind being a good example of enthusiasm and energy

The music has now been turned up to a level I didn’t even know existed…but I’m clapping right along and my HH girls are getting quite a kick out of that…my poor daughter- well I can’t quite tell how she feels about it!

Then..oh dear…

THEN, my brother with the mike and the dreads, grabs me by the hand- and has apparently picked ME for the dance contest….

Nothing like watching someone make a fool out of themselves to get unified participation from the crowd.

…..I feel a weight descending on me… like how I react now will immediately define me in front of  all my dark skinned brothers and sisters at this event- and will either help or hurt- how my HH girls see me from now on….

Humor- that’s a universal language, so I gently pull the mike to my mouth and remind the crowd that, “White men can’t jump- and white girls can’t dance”

Well- they LOVED that- but it did nothing to help my cause- as they are indeed collectively “cranked up!’….united in getting me to dance.

So.

I did.

I notice two things as I am getting into the spirit of this (as best I can- and God has equipped me to)

1. A professional photographer is flashing away at this spectacle I am creating with the ridiculous movements of my 50 year old body.

2. My dear daughter in fluctuating between hysterical laughter and complete mortification.

I suddenly have a vision of the refined women from my small group…. simultaneously spewing coffee… all over themselves as they open their morning papers to the Social Events section- and see the photo of me- their church sister…. gyrating at a club called “TAMED” .

In north Birmingham.

On Sunday night.

Well, I craft an ending to my performance- and the deed is done- to my relief- and to the total delight of the entire crowd.

Especially my HH girls.

By now – who I am, and why I’m there- has circulated through out the room.

The handsome emcee takes the mike and says. “We have decided that not only a portion of tonight’s proceeds will go to Hope House- but ALL of it will.

Cheers all around.

And…. I have approximately 100 new friends 

I approach my daughter with reservation- to make sure she’s still speaking to me- and asked her how I did….

She hugs me hard- looks me directly in the eye, and with a beaming smile on her face – says, “Mom- you were awful!”

“That bad- huh?”, I ask.

“Yep- ….I never saw that coming…but you were an awesome sport…and I’m so proud of you.”

Oh- and I also won the prize- awarded by applause !

A bag full of hair products- which I gave to my HH girls.

Mallie and myself, along with Ms Margene, her Mom and sister, make our way to our cars.

Laughing… full of the night- and the crazy, crazy, abstract way God works.

Mallie and I are alone in the car at last…and she looks at me and says, “I am very sure this is one night I’ll never forget.”

We’re both grinning ear to ear, so I decide to ask her what I’ve wanted to since I danced my last step.

“Can we keep what happened tonight just between us?”

She starts belly laughing again….and says “Only if you will pay for my therapy- I think I’m scarred!”

I went to bed around midnight last night.

I was at UAB by noon- a scant 12 hours later- visiting one of my HH girls, who had her newborn daughter sleeping beside her.

But not for long.

That little angel will leave the hospital with DHR- not her Mama.

I’d make a fool of myself…. dancing on 20^th street- every Sunday- if God would change that.

As much as I’ve witnessed it- I will never get used to it.

For now- I am blessed with the unique and complete love from our Father… who has shown me patiently- and repeatedly- that He will never call me to do what He will not equip me to do. I am blessed with the love of my HH girls. I am blessed with a bonding memory between my precious daughter and myself.

And, I  remain certain that He has even greater things in store.

For all of us.

If not in this life- surely in the next.

 

Excuse Me Please, I Beg to Differ…

Men And Women Are Not The Same.

…at least not in my generation, and where I come from, and I am so very thankful for that.

I saw the reality of that truth fleshed out this week, in a way I prayed I would never have to.

One of my friends lost her grown son on New Years’ day.

He was a close and treasured childhood friend of both my sons.

She is a treasured friend of mine, too.

We are different in many ways,  but completely alike in one. The most important one. We are cemented spirits because we are both Mothers who would go to the ends of the earth for our sons.

We belong to that sacred sorority of women. The one that transcends time, and nationality, and social status,  and color. The one thing it can not transcend, however, is gender.

To be a Mom, you have to be a woman.

Even those who question God- or disregard Him altogether on this- can not argue with the reality of the biology.

You must be a woman to birth a child.

Even if you didn’t give physical birth to that child, both my belief- and my experience- dictate, that a woman loves a child in a way that a man is just not wired to, and a man grounds a child in a way that doesn’t come naturally for a woman.  I’m sure I’ll get fiery and controversial comments on this philosophy- but frankly, I’m not in a mood to care.

A Mother will do things for her child that no one else would even consider.

She will pace the floor through the watches of the night holding her colicky infant close – doing everything in her power to ease his discomfort.

Dad is not so well equipped for this.

She will change his diapers- even the ones that the septic tank man would run from.

Dad doesn’t have the stomach for this.

She will sing all the silly songs that make her little toddling boy laugh… over, and over, and over again.

Dad is not so inclined to this type of entertainment.

She will methodically research every option , attempting to find the very best kindergarten for her little angel. She does this with a focused tenaciousness that would impress a Fortune Five Hundred executive.

Dad lacks the patience for this.

She will dress up as Cat Woman for her little boy’s 6^th Birthday, because he asked her to, and it is a Batman party- after all.

Dad will comply, but considers it excessive.

She will cut the crust off his PBJ and then use a cookie cutter to make his sandwich look like a football, so that he will know how much he is loved when he opens his lunch box.

Dad thinks this to be a bit indulgent, and a waste of good bread.

She will drive to Wal mart- at 11:00 p.m., to purchase poster board for the school project he just remembered- the one that was assigned over 2 weeks ago. Then she will sit up with him, until he finishes.

Dad has already gone to bed,  otherwise, he’d never allow any of it.

She will write him notes of inspiration and encouragement before every junior high and high school football game.

Dad cautions against making him “soft”.

She will make sure that his prom date has the perfect corsage.

Dad asks just what in the heck a “corsage” is, and  then questions how in the world one flower can cost so much.

She will give her son his first dose of Ny-quil at 2:00 a.m. when he is 17.

Not because he has a cold, but because a girl has broken his heart, and he can’t sleep.

She will rub his back until he closes his eyes- but then she won’t be able to close hers.

Dad says this is part of life.

She will make eggs and  pancakes for her boy/man at midnight, because his stomach can’t keep up with his growing body.

Dad says he should eat a bowl of cereal.

She will make sure that he has everything he needs to leave for college, from plenty of underwear to plenty of Advil.

Dad says it’s time for him to take care of himself.

She will feel lost when he leaves, and she won’t sleep when she doesn’t hear from him.

Dad says it’s time to let go.

She will do all these things for her son, and a thousand other things, selfless acts of love and service…many that no one will ever know about, or notice.

She will continue to be his biggest encourager,  his  greatest resource , and most of all- his most faithful fan.

She can, and will- do almost anything for her son, no matter how old he gets.

The one thing she can not do, the one thing she never planned on doing, the one thing she is not wired to do.…is to prepare to bury him.

Dad will do this.

Now he will hold her through the painful watches of the night, comforting her in her pain.

Now he will care for her in her helpless state.

Now he will do what ever he can to make food appetizing to her, and to make her feel loved.

Now he will bring a cold cloth for her swollen face, and give her Ny-quil to help her sleep, and rub her back.

Now he will exhaust ever resource trying to comfort and encourage her.

Now he will make sure she has everything she needs, from clean underwear to Advil.

…Now he will take care of every dreadful detail in preparation for their son’s final departure.

She is not so well equipped to do this.

I’ve witnessed all this- this week.

I know I’m from the deep south, and things are different here. I also know I’m from a generation that- for the most part-  believes  that God’s design is the best design.

I believe that women are the heart of a family,… and men are the backbone of it.

Clearly,  both  Men and Women are equally valuable, but not at all interchangeable..

Our sons learn compassion from their Moms and they learn strength from their Dads.

And even in her darkest hour- my friend would tell you how grateful she is for that.

And I’m convinced the world would be a far better place- if more of us believed that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Andre’ The Giant Hearted (Part II)

So my new friend -the gentle giant, and I make our way from the parking deck, across the overpass, and into Children’s Hospital.

He stumbled once, and I politely chose to ignore it.

The second time it happened, I decided we best not neglect the “pink elephant”.

“Andre’ what’s wrong with your leg?”, I asked.

“It’s not my leg, Mrs. McCain- it’s my foot.” He answered….he continued to explain, “It was a because my kidneys shut down, and I wasn’t able to move very much for six weeks, so I lost a lot of muscle. I did re -hab in the hospital and it helped some, but I’m not over it yet.”

I’m confused. “So, Andre’, you’re not doing any rehab now?”

“No ma’am “, he replied.

By this time, we’ve reached the doctor’s office, so I had to temporarily put this subject (and my frustration) on the back burner.

I am immediately struck- and saddened- by the multitude of very sick children filling every corner. 

Andre’ and I are distracted from the sober scene before us, as we focus on filling out the massive amount of paper work required. Once completed, we sit down -and for the first time since we met, are cloaked in a very awkward silence.

I think it is mostly due to the difficulty of trying not to absorb the pain from these precious, pitiful, kids. Andre’ is looking at the floor, and still not saying a word. I pick my phone, and begin to text hubby to let him know we’ve made it to Childrens’ safely, are in the waiting room, etc.

No matter how many brightly colored murals somebody painted on the wall, there’s no denying that this is just not a happy place.

I finally glance over at Andre’ and ask “…Are you OK?”

He smiles a bit and says, “Yes ma’am…I’ve just been looking at your feet. I’ve never seen such pefect little pink toes.”

I have on hot pink sandals and freshly polished piggies, also in a pink,  a shade called “Ballet Slipper”- to be exact… so there is lots of pink going on below my ankles.

The quiet laugh is a good tension breaker, and we both take a deep breath and  finally force ourselves to face the agony.

Which is when we realize that almost every eye in the place is on us.

No wonder.

First of all- Andre’ is the only patient over 13 years old. Not to mention the fact that he is twice as tall, and weighs roughly 4 times as much as any of them.

Add to that the fact, that together, we make for one curious pair. 

From a genetic perspective, I’m obviously not Andre’s Mom, and from an age perspective, I’m certainly not his girlfriend. 

I’m just about to ask him what he thinks everybody is thinking about us, when this adorable young man approaches us. I’m guessing he’s about 10 or 11 years old.

As they say, “He had me at hello.”…

First of all he’s wearing a cowboy hat…and wranglers..and boots, and I’ve never met a cowboy that I didn’t like.

He also begins his question in the most polite way, “Excuse me please sir, but do you play football for Auburn?”

I’ve seen my son in Auburn football apparel for so long- that it didn’t even occur to me that Andre’ had on team shorts, and a team t-shirt.

Andre’s face lights up, “Yeah, I do..I did… well, I’m here,  because I’m hoping that I still do.”

Then our pint size cowpoke, who also happens to be heartbreakingly pale, asks, “Could I please have your autograph?”

Andre’s entire countenance changes…”Sure,” he responds with his smile which is not only warm, but now relaxed as well. Both me, and the young fellow’s Dad are scrambling for a pen. His Dad produces one.  

I attempt to fade into the background… and begin to study what is unfolding in front of me.

The small, frail cowboy, and the massive, scared football player, are encouraging each other. There is light and happy banter being exchanged between the muscular man with the dreadlocks, and the thin boy…with no hair under his hat. Not only that- but there is light in their faces, too.

Within minutes, Andre’ is flooded by most of the remainder of children in the waiting room…all clamoring for his autograph.

It’s a moment I’ll never forget.

Because for a moment,  it allowed all them to forget why they were there.

With the last scrap of paper signed, and the last question asked and answered, Andre’ and I settle in and wait for his name to be called. It’a about 10:00 a.m. We are being “worked in”, as a favor to my friend, and have been told to be prepared to wait. Which is fine, we are both beyond  thankful to be able to be seen by this doctor, who is unarguably the very best in his field.

I send another text to my husband, and glance over at Andre’.

There are two huge crocodile tears running down his cheeks.

He quickly wipes them away.

“Honey, what wrong?”, I ask, in the way any Mother would.

Andre’ tilts his head and only partially looks at me, “I can’t believe I’m sitting here worried about whether I will ever play football…just look at these kids, Mrs. McCain, they’re worried about whether they’ll ever have another birthday. I feel so selfish.”

I watch this tender and tough, boy-man, put’s his head in his hands, and fall silent once again.

He has now solidified his standing as the son of my heart.  I have learned from my own strong sons, that what they need most at a time like this- is for you to simply remain beside them. Words just mess things up- and confuse them more. Men like this already have what they need to sort through these tough places. God’s made sure of it. They just need the women in their lives to stand by them- confidently- while they do.

So I gently placed my hand on his back, and prepare to wait it out with him.

No matter how long it takes.

After a while- I have no idea how long it was, he raises his head, and I remove my hand. A transformation  has taken place in this silence between us. For lack of a better phrase, is is rather like a comforting communion of sorts…It’s not something you can explain, it’s just something you understand.

We sit there like that. Quiet.

It’s approaching 12;30, and the waiting room has emptied out, patient paired with parent, one at a time. I’m guessing, we are going to be the last appointment before lunch- which means we’re probably next.

The stillness of the waiting room is then broken by a mother wheeling her child to the registration desk.

Andre’ and I both follow the two, as the Mom parks her little afflicted angel’s chair, equipped with an attached IV pole- and approaches the desk.

I can hardly bear to look.

This child would shatter the soul of the most stoic among us.

I can’t even tell if this little love is a boy or a girl. They have almost no hair, an alarmingly thin body, and a very bloated face.

To add to this courageous child’s misery, there is a plastic bucket in his/her lap, and he/she is throwing up.

Before I even know what is happening, Andre’ is out of his seat, and making his way toward this dear, frail one.

He walks directly to his/her chair, and hold’s this baby’s head while he/she throws up in the bucket.

I’m now a melted mess…I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed such complete compassion, and total abandonment of protocol. I’m swallowing vey hard, and blinking repeatedly, in a valiant attempt not to come completely unglued.

The Mom then sees Andre’ and obviously feels threatened, quickly grabs her child’s wheelchair, and rapidly wheels it though the office door.

Andre’ doesn’t appear offended in the least.

Andre’ comes back to sit by me. I can’t resist putting my arm around him, and with voice trembling- I tell him how just exactly how valuable he is.

He speaks very slowly and carefully, as he looks directly into my eyes. There is a sadness there that is stabbing. It is both deep and desperate.

“I remember when I was taken to the hospital. I was in the emregency room, and I was throwing up, too. I was scared, and nowbody was there with me. I know what that feels like, I just couldn’t sit here and watch… and not at least try to help him.”

It turns out that our wheelchair warrior, was in fact, a little boy.

I have no idea if that little boy will ever recover.

I have no idea if Andre’ will ever play football again.

But, of this I am sure, Andre’ Wadley is one incredible individual…and his life will be of infinite use to our Father, and an amazing credit to His kingdom.

Whether he ever laces up his cleats again or not.

…conclusion to follow.

Andre’ The Giant Hearted

*Author’s note: This is a journal entry from 2 1/2 years ago. It chronicles the genesis of a special and unlikely friendship. This is part I. There will be two more parts to follow- the final one will be an entry from just last week. This is being published with Andre’s permission.

 

Here I am again – on one of those Holy Spirit missions that was in the works before I knew what hit me.

Why the heck God chooses me- is something I’ll never figure out.

It’s not like I’m the most qualified, or the most righteous, or the most-anything.

So, after 4 years of more valleys than peaks- it appears that our ever perseverant and persistent son, has earned a starting position on his college football team. The team he has loved since he was a little boy, by the way. His football team and our alma mater, has a new coaching staff.  Things are looking up considerably…as they say. So hubby and I have made the 2 hour drive to watch him during spring practice.

It went great, and we are all experiencing something that has been pretty hard to come by on the football field for the past four years…happiness.

I greet our team chaplain with a hug, as hubby and I are leaving the practice field. I’ve gotten to know him VERY well this past 4 years,(too well- given the circumstances) and have absolutely grown to love he and his wonderful wife during this agonizing process. He’s never failed to be faithful to our son- or to me.

I ask him – like I always do, “Anything I can do for you?”

I’m fully expecting to hear what has come to be his sweet but standard answer, “Just keep praying for us”. He never asks for anything in return. It’s just how God made him…and part of what makes him so special.

I almost got that answer – actually I DID get that answer – then as he turned to walk away –he stopped, looked back over his shoulder, and asked –“ Do you know Andre’ Wadley?”

(THIS dear friends, is what is known as the prompting of His Holy Spirit…many hear it, few obey it)

“Well, no…” I answer . “His name sounds vaguely familiar, does he need something?”

Our chaplain, my brother, and my friend, who is an unshakable and stalwart soldier for the Kingdom if ever I’ve seen one- walks towards me.

His face is forever graced with an expression I can’t seem to put my finger on. The best way to convey it would be to say that it is an ethereal merger of wisdom and humility. It’s a look I wish I had.

He also has a voice that sounds like what I would suppose the angel Gabrielle would have. It too, is uniquely unusual in it’s dichotomy.

You know that feeling you get when the trumpets sound on Easter morning, and the music of “Jesus Christ Has Risen Today” resonates through the sanctuary? How it’s both inspirational and comforting at the same time? That’s what this brother’s voice does to me, every time I hear it.

He crosses his arms and looks into my eyes.

“Andre is the young man who almost died on the practice field this summer, he doesn’t actually have sickle cell anemia, but it’s a dangerous condition related to that”

….NOW I remember why his name sounds familiar.  Our son called and told us about it while we were out of town on vacation. He further explained that the problem was genetic, and that Andre’ was going to be OK.

That was the last I heard.

That was 9 months ago.

Our chaplain continues, “He is an incredible young man, he’s a believer, and he has wonderful grades; but, Andre’ is just broken over not being able to play football ever again. Maybe you could send a card to encourage him?”

So, one of God’s own is asking me to do something very small….

“Of course, I’ll be glad to.”

There was no way I could know where this simple exchange was about to take me…

So here I am, 2 months and a gazillion emails and phone calls later –  after calling in every favor I can think of  from my medical friends– I’m  driving to Auburn to pick up a young man that I feel like I’ve known for years….and I don’t even have a CLUE what he looks like.

I pull in to Sewell Hall, the athletic dorm, and this place still gives me the creeps. It’s where our son’s carnage first began, too – they should rename it the “black hole for souls”, or the “dorm of deception and destruction”.  Better yet–  it would suit me just fine if they’d tear the blasted thing down….and just call it a Bad Memory.

…emerging from the second story is a very big, very black, very handsome young man with shoulder length dreadlocks. He also happens to have a breathtaking smile, one that could light up the whole state of Texas.

The Mama in me is instantly smitten. He makes his way to the car and I notice that he is dragging one of his legs a bit.

He gets in, we look at each other for a second and both laugh at how crazy this is. He gives me hug, and with that single cementing jesture- our friendship- and our journey begins.

We talk the entire way to Birmingham.

Well… mostly, I talk the entire way to Birmingham.

Andre’ is a gentle giant in every sense.

He is soft spoken and reflective, as he shares the story of how he “fell through the cracks due to the coaching change”.

He’s gracious, too. There is not even a hint of anger or animosity in his voice….only notes of sadness for what could have been. This utterly amazing young man- has never pictured his future without football.

He is hoping- we are both hoping- that this specialist in Birmingham will look at his condition, and offer us a different diagnosis.

Andre’ has yet to actually be seen by a specialist. He almost died, and nobody got him to a specialist.

I know- this made me mad, too. Actually, furious would be a more accurate word.

Let me interject here- I could care less if Andre’ ever plays football again.

It’s only important to me, because it’s important to Andre’.

I am very certain that Andre’ is so very much more than just a football player.

I knew this by the time we got to Alex City.

My dearest friend is very well connected in the medical community, and has arranged to have Andre’ seen by a physician at Children’s Hospital. This doctor is both an expert and leading researcher, in the field of blood diseases.

I had previously encouraged Andre to go to the head coach of the new staff and ask for permission to do this. At this time, Andre’ didn’t even have a car- so he had to have transportation, and I wanted all of this to be  completely above board- for Andre’s sake.

The new coach was not even aware of the specifics of what happened to Andre’, as his life threatening incident occurred under the previous coaches’ tenure. The new coach gladly gave Andre’ the nod to get the opinion of one who was qualified to do so…with one caveat.

No compromises. If this doctor thought there was any chance that football was dangerous for Andre’ – then the chapter was closed-permanently.

End of story.

I couldn’t have agreed more.

I just knew that Andre’ was in desperate need of one of two things.

Hope, or closure.

Living in the purgatory of in-between is no good for any of us.

Andre had already been granted permission for a medical redshirt. Which means that the University still honors his scholarship from an academic standpoint, but Andre’ is not allowed to participate in any team activities.

The incident occurred just weeks after he arrived on campus as a freshman. Andre’ collapsed on a hot and humid Alabama day in early July during conditioning drills. He was hospitalized for 6 weeks, and then given the medical redshirt option.

So the poor guy is living in the athletic dorm, but he’s not an athlete, and he doesn’t even have a room mate.

By the time he was released from the hospital, the students and players had essentially established their friend groups. Andre’ doesn’t have the personality of one who would naturally “insert himself” either, as I indicated.

So for lack of a better phrase, my Andre’ is a man without a country…or in this case, a football team.

We wheel into the parking deck at Children’s hospital, and silence descends on us for the first time in 2 hours.

We both know the verdict of his future lies in front of us.

And neither one of us wants to talk about it.

Not even me.

…to be continued.

 

The First Thanksgiving

 not the pilgrims- mine.

I’ve had Thanksgiving at my Nana’s house.

I’ve had Thanksgiving at my Greystone House.

I’ve even had Thanksgiving at a major college football coaches’ house.

This year I had Thanksgiving at Hope House.

I’m pretty sure it was my first real Thanksgiving.

There were no linen table cloths, no silver, no candles, no fresh flowers, and nobody there with my last name.

There were concrete block walls, lunchroom tables, plastic plates, paper leaves and…… the body of Christ.

I used to look at my dark skinned sisters and feel bad for them that they weren’t white,….I now find myself looking at my white sisters and feeling bad for them that they aren’t dark…

Me included.

Their faith radiates with this codependent confidence and joy…it is so simple- yet it is so complex…

Mostly- it’s complete.

No matter where they are,  or what they have, or what happens to them….they just trust Jesus to take care of them.

Isn’t that the point?

Of the cross???

Well, since we are talking about Thanksgiving here- I’ll address the food first.

Oh. MY. Goodness…..

Trying to explain how unbelievably delicious the food was with out tasting it- will be an exercise in futility to be sure…but I shall try.

Just imagine what Paula Deen and Aunt Jemima would come up with if you locked them in the kitchen together…. and you’ll be close.

Thick country ham, turkey, dressing & gravy, huge, honkin’- mouth watering, maple syrup covered- candied yams, turnip greens (surely these will be in heaven), macaroni & cheese(the real stuff-crusty cheese top), potato salad, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie, pecan pie….and yes- the nectar of the south- sweet tea.

…and above all…. the glory of our Lord, shining on every single face, seated in every folding chair.

I look around, and wish so badly I could just freeze this moment, so I could etch every detail-  and every face- in the scrapbook of my mind.

This is just not the same place I walked into 8 months ago.

My sister who wasn’t allowed to leave the hospital with her baby boy, has been granted a visit with him today… and he is sleeping blissfully on her cushioned bossom.

Her toothless smile takes my breath away.

I ask God to remind me of this snapshot- every time I am tempted to be frustrated with the junk in life that really doesn’t even matter.

This Mama loves Jeremiah 29:11

“For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord. Plans to prosper you, and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

* side note- this sister of mine-also gets discarded sweaters from the donation bags- unravels them, and then re-knits them into clothes to give to her son.

Now, Janice stands up and reads a poem she wrote, about her journey through sin, pain, worthlessness…and finally, forgiveness….. and redemption.

She quotes with conviction, Jesus’ admonition, “Do not judge, or you to will be judged.” (Matt 7:1)

When Janice first joined us for our Bible study- this was the only verse she knew.

Then 3 more sisters, all at very different ages- and stages in their recovery-  get up to perform this unique,  utterly captivating, dance of submission and praise- to music that I can’t quite describe (o.k- I do know I’m over 50), but it was actually sort of 1/3 gospel, 1/3 tribal… and 1/3 rap, and it just flat blessed the socks off me!

I couldn’t stop swayin’… or clappin’ (It’s best not to try and picture this…)

…then Maddie rises and reads a soul purging account of all she’s thankful for, and there is not a dry eye in the place.

Maddie’s’ addiction resulted in a tragic consequence for her son, and I didn’t see her smile once the first 2 months she was here.

Maddie now faithfully attends church every Sunday, and never fails to proudly present her completed worship guide to me every week… she does so with a contented smile on her beautiful face.

She’s never missed a Bible study.

Pearl then takes her place at the podium and reads St Paul’s words of encouragement to the Philippians(4:10-13) with such emotion and authority, that if someone had passed the plate- I would have emptied my wallet and dropped my wedding ring in on top of that.

Oh, my lovely Pearl… and that is  just what she is…on the exterior, she bears many characteristics of that oyster shell, a little hard, a little worn, and very, very tough.

But that sand- The sin that God allowed to touch her…well, He has used that to form one priceless jewel for His kingdom….of greater worth than I’ve ever seen…

Pearl prays on her knees – face down, every morning.

And when one of her sisters at Hope House needs something- Pearl will gently “lean” on whoever she deems able- to provide for that need.

Her personal contribution always goes in first.

Let me just say- I ‘d certainly never refuse Pearl!

Let me also say- that I love Pearl- with a fierce love….and if I could pick one person to go with me, into a dangerous foreign mission field, or anywhere else for that matter…. Pearl is my choice- hands down…body and spirit.

And now for the grand finale- which even the pumpkin pie paled in comparison to….

Ms. Jimmie…… daughter of our Father, sister of my heart, mentor of my soul, mother to over 30 different foster children, feeder of the homeless along with Ms Sadie on the weekends….begins to belt out the Alabaster Box , acapella.

God absolutely blessed my sister, with one amazing set of pipes- I am covered in chills, my eyes are small waterfalls…and my hands reach for heaven, as I am sure it is so close- I must be able to touch it….

I am full.

I am spent.

I am thankful.

….so unspeakably thankful that my Father gave me the ability to obey Him, and the courage to trust Him, on that fateful Good Friday.,…when He would not allow me to walk away from Hope House.

I am twice blessed, blessed with a biological family that there simply are not enough words for (I know-no wise cracks)

And blessed with a new family that is deep and true.

I have a new Mother(who thinks I’m perfect- like all mother’s do)

I have 2 new sisters (who love me enough to give me the shirts of their backs, and enough to tell me the truth- even when it hurts)

….and countless new daughters- and children- that I carry home with me…every time I leave…. they dwell in my thoughts,  they dictate my budget, and they dominate my prayers.

They have all loved me patiently, consistently, and unconditionally.

They are the body of Christ.

….and I couldn’t love them more- if my very own blood flowed through their veins.

Happy Thanksgiving, indeed.

This year I know what that means.

Philemon 1:4-7

I always thank my God as I remember you in my prayers, because I hear about your love for all His holy people and your faith in the Lord Jesus.

I pray that your partnership with us in the faith may be effective in deepening your understanding of every good thing we share for the sake of Christ.

Your love has given me great joy and encouragement, because you dear brother, have refreshed the hearts of the Lord’s people.

*Author’s note- this was a retrieved entry from my journal, November, 2010

Me & My Big Mouth

I felt it was important to post this- further evidence that I remain a mess- and will forever more be in need of our Savior!

Cynthia wrote:

I’m sorry for your experience this past Saturday. I can say without exception that WE have also shared the same experience on many a campus throughout the south.  (And WE even choose not to attend games in some places because of the jeers/comments/experiences that we have had.)  It is unfortunate.  But there are many good/polite/nice/brotherly comments made at many a campus as well. Most of those 90,000 people are good.

My reply:

I absolutely agree. Thank you so much for pointing that out- There are indeed fans like that at many schools. I too, have had similar experiences elsewhere. We are rarely aware of these types of fans at our own schools- because- they’re on our side and therefore don’t reveal their antagonist nature among their own. I’m including my alma mater in this statement, as well. 

This particular Saturday was obviously a little unique- not because of a lone irate fan- but because I had so many “personal” feelings invloved. It’s worth noting that many of my dearest friends have affliliations of some sort with our rival school. None of them would ever behave in the manner the man behind me did. Oddy (or Godly) enough my precious niece is a student there right now. One of the more redeemable things about the loss- was my sincere happiness for her.

I should have had the wisdom- and the forethought- to lead off with the caveat that ANY of us can have a “jerk” experience on a given Saturday, and my school is no exception. My post was simply about my individual experience and struggles during a difficult time… While the man in the upper deck didn’t behave as he should- as a Christian- I didn’t either.

I’m relatively new to the blogosphere world…and am quickly developing a 3 step philosophy:

1.Write with wine 2. Edit with coffee 3. Post with caution!
To you, or anyone else that might have felt personally included in my references- I am so sincerely sorry, I’m equally sure it was my fault. Like I’ve said so many times before- I’m still a sinner, and my unfiltered transparency in airing my flaws is bound to get me in trouble.
Keeping me objective is not only valuable- it’s important and necessary.
Thank you, for taking the time to do just that. I truly appreciate it.

.

Loosing Seasons, Life Lessons, & the Jerk in the Upper Deck

So, as I reviewed my last couple of posts- I realized that I was in one of those coveted places of communion with Him at the time. They never last long enough because I’m just too selfish and too stupid to let them.

For some reason I’ve yet to figure out, when my life is running like I know it’s supposed to, I tend to grab the reigns out of His hands and decide to drive my own wagon for a while-until of course, I run it off a cliff, again. Then… with head hanging and a heavy heart- I give them back to Him.

He’s been beyond patient with me about this, and I’m working on it- I really am.

But I’m not there yet.

So, for those of you who may have temporarily assigned me a paper halo- I’m about to give you reason to re-claim it.

By now, it’s clear that I’ve had a belly full of college football, but; I’m still bound to it in a weird sort of ”polygamist” way.  If this reference conjures up an image of a Sister Wives episode for anybody, I’m sorry.

Several people whom I love, are not only associated with this sport, but their livelihoods and their futures are tied to it, too….and I mean good people. Decent people. God’s people.

A few of them are very dear and close friends of mine. Brothers and sisters who I’ve weathered some pretty rough life storms with. Storms that had zero to do with football.

God has granted them little favor on the field this year, while simultaneously showing a great fondness for them from a Kingdom perspective.  Actually, He’s been doing that since the very day I first met them. Which is why I turn very “human” when I hear people assault their character. I know- that makes no sense at all, does it? Godly blessings on those you love should result in Godly behavior on their behalf.  Not so in my case.

It’s  been a sad season, and it’s Thanksgiving week. Which means it’s also rivalry week in my state. This is equivalent to a yearly civil war for the residents of Alabama. I’m not being dramatic. If you don’t care, ALOT, about who wins this football game- then, like my grandma used to say- ”You’re not from around here.” If you happen to have a family who has fans who hail from both schools, you have either long since opted out of your integrated Thanksgiving celebration, or you have collectively decided to place a strict ban on the topic altogether. Side note here to outsiders…most intergrated families occur, regrettably, through marriage. Otherwise, you are generally just born to one side or the other. Over time, you can be forgiven for marrying outside your tribe, at least for 51 out of the 52 weeks of the year. Turning you back on your own by converting to the other side however, is usually an unpardonable offense. Lordy mercy..now this sounds like an episode of Breaking Amish! Can you tell, I haven’t been sleeping well lately, and watching too many midnight re runs???

So, here we are. The other team is having a banner season, and our team has had our rear ends handed to us all year. To make matters worse-we’re playing at their place. On top of that- hubby is concerned about taking the new Ford pickup with an Auburn sticker on it into such a hostile environment-so he’s booked us on an alumni bus. Which creates a dilemma for Yours Truly. I dearly love the faithful few folks who take the bus into enemy territory every other year, but I loathe the bathroom options. To quote hubby, “I don’t bus well.”

I’m going though. I’m going.

I can promise you this- my friends that I’m going to support- would get on a bus for me, problematic though the bathroom situation might be.

We set our alarm for dark thirty, and make our way to the bus departure location.

I survive the trek, the boxed lunch, and  the bathroom…well enough. 

Game time approaches and it’s time to disembark from public transportation.

Finally.

Hubby and I then proceed to head to the stadium. It’s like parting the red sea just to get there. We are routed through tons of crimson clad fans, gleefully shouting their jeering comments at us in the process. When we do get there, we have a Mount Everest type ascent ahead of us, which ultimately reveals that have the most hellacious seats- ever.

End zone, upper deck, cloud level. It’s 49 degrees and the wind is blowing.

OK, I get it- we’re the visitors- they can sit us wherever they want.

I should have felt the sinning coming on…because I’m also wondering why we don’t put them in these kinds of seats when they visit us.

Additionally, I make a mental note to mention the idea of changing their accommodations, to something more comparable, to one of the members of The Board of Trustees.

Who also happens to be a lifelong friend, and is riding on Cinderella’s carriage with us- by the way.

I’m not at all thinking the kind of thoughts a nice Christian woman should- that’s the bad news.

The good news is- that I’m bundled up like the Michelan Man, and the steep cardio climb in all my winter finery has caused me to sweat- and my thighs to burn- which results in me crossing my work out off the list for today

Hubby and I settle in to our seats. We’re soon joined by our son, who wore our schools’ colors…no EARNED our colors, as an offensive tackle for 5 years. He has on his letter jacket, and I think how proud I am of him. He is the portrait of perseverance and faithfulness- if ever I’ve seen one. I am reminded once again of why I’m sitting here battling altitude sickness. This is important to him, too.

Here is where the jerk in the upper deck comes in. I should probably use another adjective- but I’m committed to being real here. Besides, the phrase “undesirable individual” is far too kind for this guy.

He’s  sitting directly behind me, and he’s trash talking our team, the staff, and anybody that’s ever even worn anything orange and blue. He’s spewing venom about my friends by attacking their morality…and I mean this fellow has a gutter mouth. He’s also purposely throwing his peanut shells into my back.

I make a conscious decision to ignore all this.

Because I’m a Christian.

Unfortunately, I’m about to forget that.

The game starts, and  just a few plays in, one of our players is injured.

Mr. Potty Mouth….cheers. Yes, cheers, belting out at the top of his lungs,”Take that, boy !!!”

The fact that he is frequently and derogatorily, referring to our players using the term “boy”, is really beginning to chap my already freezing on the metal bleachers, behind.

Now, I KNOW what I should do, is pray for him…I know this.

But I don’t.

A few plays later, the referee makes a controversial call. My son stands up and yells (along with others wearing our colors) “Oh, come on, you gotta be kidding me?!?!?”  He didn’t demean any player, or coach, or question anybody’s mother’s lineage, etc…

Then the jerk behind me, clearly aware of my son’s letter jacket, stands up and says, “Listen here BOY, you better just sit yo’ a$$ down, cause it’s gonna be a long day for you”.

This is a grown man.

OK, so  maybe he’s not a man- but  he’s grown anyway- probably 40 years old.

My son turns, and says, “Sir, I didn’t say a word to you.”

Mr. Congeniality then puffs his chest out, and retorts, “…and you better not either, ’cause this old man is looking for a reason to put you in your place.’

By now everybody within hearing distance is honed in on the situation.

The jerk continues, “Just lay one finger on me, and I’ll make you sorry.”

So…now- I’ve not only determined he’s jerk- but he’s an idiot, too.

He can’t be but 5″10″, and  maybe 160 lbs…soaking wet.

Our son is an ex lineman, 6’6” 240, and works out twice a day.

Here’s where I lose my identity, as a Christ follower, completely.

Out the window.

Not because of what I’m doing, but because of what I’m thinking.

I’m absolutely dying for my son to unleash on this jerk…to clean his clock….I’m hoping for it. I want to release (vicariously, of course) every frustration I’ve had for the last 4 months. Spiritually. Politically. Athletically. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have do it for me than my strong son, who has shared these sentiments, many in a much more personal way than me. I’m thinking how much good it’d do both of us.

I’m sitting there positively fuming…and brainstroming…”Mister, you have no idea what a bad mistake you just made. We raised our son to never start a fight…but we also raised him to finish one….you’re about to be shut up for good…further more, I intend to enjoy every second of it”.

No, I did not have the opportunity to say this, thank heaven.

Enter the voice of reason. Hubby.

“Sir, I’m going to ask you to calm down.”

He does so from a standing position, which reveals yet another very fit, 6’6” frame.

I am guessing the tandem threat and stature of my two guys is enough to have him re-think his position…becasue he does in fact, calm down, sit down, and shut up.

To which I am inwardly responding, “Darnit!”

I told you you’d take the halo back.

The silence that follows gives God an opportunity to process the whole situation for me.

“Don’t you think that you were meant for so much more than this? Look around you…at all the passion, all the energy, all the money…that goes into all of this. To what end?”

“What if only half these people cared as much for the girls at Hope House, or the orphans of Ethiopia, as they do for the fleeting results of a scoreboard?”….

I never ceased to be amazed at his timing.

What I have been writing about occurred yesterday. 

Today is Sunday, November 25, 2012, it is 1:30 p.m.  and I am writing this in front of my fireplace, beside my sweet husband.

He just informed me that our football staff has been fired. Just now. This very minute…

I’m reflecting back on what I just wrote about success – football success, and Kingdom success..

I’m thinking about what this sport has done to so many…. to jerk in the upper deck, the people I love, and to me.

I’m thinking about my friends on the staff  that I’ve been terribly worried about and what He’s used them to accomplish off the field….how they’ve worked in orphanages, how they cleaned up after the devastating tornadoes(in the rival teams’ very city- no less), how they have served the kids with cancer, how they orchestrated relief efforts for Haiti after the earthquake, how they’ve fostered children, how they’ve adopted children…I could go on, and on.

Undoubtedly, God knows that my friends, His children on the staff, are meant for so much more, too.

I should have seen the handwriting on the wall. It sure would have saved me a lot of grief.

Maybe He”ll use them to do His “so much more” through football somewhere else- maybe not.

Of this I can be sure, however; a National Championship in a secular sport was in no way their finest hour, as many have suggested.

I also know how very much I’ll miss them, I’m equally sure of that.

But only for a while…we’ll all be together again one day-

…and there won’t be a goal post in sight.

I’ll be forever thankful for how God allowed me to watch Him use my friends on this staff in other people’s lives, in my son’s life, and in my life… thankful for how they inspired us, for how they loved us, and for what they taught us.

In that vein- I can even be thankful for football, too.

But as of today, I’m throwing away my shaker, and I’m giving Him back the reigns.

It is finished.

I’m free.

And to that- all God’s children shout…

“Halleluah!”

Oh… and He’s also given me the freedom to pray for the jerk man in the upper deck. Sort of severance pay- I’d guess

Jesus, Friend of Sinners

“Jesus, friend of sinners, break our hearts for what breaks yours…”               Casting Crowns

I still can’t believe what happened today….it was the culmination of one of the most unforgettable weeks in my life.

I am really too tired to talk- or type.

…but I do feel that I’m being called to testify to His faithfulness- even in my fatigue- so here goes:

Our Father is surely orchestrating His will,  in an such an unprecedented display of His power…I can barely keep up.

Such supernatural, explosive evidence of just exactly who He is and what He is capable of….that it propels me – way past my limits one minute- and paralyzes me the next.

I think the closest scientific, secular word  for what He is doing around me, and TO me, would be metamorphosis.

I’m searching for God’s word on what He’s doing.

Can’t find it.

Just indefinable, indescribable.

Until recently, I had precious little knowledge of how He desperately wants to use us to accomplish Kingdom purposes.

Big ones.

Yes, that’s exactly what He wants to do, through ALL of us…and for ALL of us.

He’s showing me just what that looks like- in two ways.

Intangible, and Tangible.

Intangibles- hearts transformed, rules changed, programs shifted.

Tangibles- Money. Playgrounds. Land. Buildings.

I knew- and still know-  next to nothing about these things, but He throws me in there too,

Last week the bottom line in my checkbook was looking pretty pitiful.

To make matters worse-I needed to order additional Bibles, and the girls needed more hygiene items.

I’m sitting on my porch in the calm of a perfect Fall morning, looking at leaves that appear to have been created with a flaming paintbrush…and having no idea what do about it.

So I asked Him….

“Father, I either need you to find me the money for these things, or send somebody else to take care of them, or at least give me peace – that you don’t want me to do this.”

I did my morning chores, went to the store, then I went to the mailbox.

There was an envelope from my endodontist in there.

I had a root canal 2 years ago.

That’s right 2 years ago- 2 1/2 to be exact.

Apparently, there had been some kind of audit taking place at his office.

The letter indicated that I had overpaid for my services, and included a check for $230.

I just stood there in my driveway, Stunned.

I was able to order the Bibles, buy the hygiene items, and even had a little money left over to purchase a birthday gift for one of the little angels at Hope House, whose Mama wasn’t able to.

I’m embarrased to say- that I didn’t even share this with anybody at the time- becasue I didn’t think they’d believe me.

So, less than a week has passed- but due to some family expenses, my money is low again.

Two of the girls at Hope House have delivered babies- only hours apart – and both are in need of necessities.

It’s about 6:30 at night- and I’m driving to meet a friend for dinner. This is, in and of itself, unusual. I’m only going to dinner because Hubby is out of town -which happens roughly once every two years.

So, I’m motoring along- in a ridiculous rain storm, eyes focused and both hands gripping the wheel- and I essentially asked Him  to help me the same way I did earlier in the week.

Thirty minutes later, I’m sitting across the booth from my friend, and we’re having one of those Motherly discussions about the challenges of shaping college aged daughters :0, and not having mentioned one word about Hope House. She is looking for a pen in her purse to give me her daughter’s e mail address, when she pauses. She then proceeds to pull out a $100 bill, and hands it to me.

She just shook her head and raised her eyebrows.

“It’s the strangest thing- I saw this- and knew I was suppossed to give it to you for your mininstry”

No, I hadn’t told her I needed it- I didn’t have to. He did.

This is- without a doubt- one of the most exhilarating and beautiful things about our growing relationship. I’m experiencing daily, the failproof truth, that He will ALWAYS equip me for what He is calling me to do.

ALWAYS.

…and often in jaw dropping, hand over mouth, I never saw this coming, ways.

The joy that this dependency has given me is unrivaled to any emotion I’ve ever known. 

Yet, in the middle of all this joy…is suffering.

Real. Suffering.

This is surely the great dicatomy in the life of a believer. I know it is in mine.

With eyes wide and heart quaking, I am reduced to total dependence here.

I just can’t do this.

No way, and I know it.

I mean- I REALLY know it.

Not in my own power.

I am being called to do things I am not trained for, and I don’t just mean “called” – I mean SHOVED.

So profound have His revelations and provisions been…almost miraculous(and yes- I know that is a strong word)in my simple inadequacy, that I would not be at all surprised if He returned tomorrow.

In fact- that sure would help.

Today- just today…

I kissed the forehead of a fellow sister, and Mother, as she nursed her newborn baby- fighting back the tears.

She won’t leave the hospital with him.

Too much of her past for the government to get over.

I told her the story of Hannah and Samuel.

We’ve been talking a lot about Eternity.

I left her with a disposable camera, a picture frame, a package of reeses’ cups, and some new slippers.

Pretty sure I left a her with a sizeable portion of my heart too….the bleeding part.

God is sovereign, and I know it.

I don’t understand it, but I know it.

Then I went to the next hospital, to celebrate the new life of a 5 lb. baby girl with another of one my sisters.

She has only had one other visitor…a high school friend who works at the hospital.

She may or may not get to keep her little angel.

She needed a new bra- and some chapstick.

I brought her a disposable camera and picture frame, too.

She watched her mother kill her Father when she was eight years old.

She went to Foster care.

She became an alcoholic at 18.

We’ve been talking a lot about redemption, and forgiveness.

She loves Joseph’s story, and how God not only remained with him- but used him- beginning with the moment his own flesh and blood plotted his demise.

She heard this story for the very first time- 3 days ago.

She’s 26.

I keep asking myself the same question…

Where have we been???

Where have I been???

Next I went to Hope House to lead our study in God’s word…I can’t even begin to chronicle what went on during our time today- and what goes on every Wednesday- in those 60 minutes.

Our time ran over a few minutes- and they chose to miss their “smoke break” to pray.

Smoke breaks are the most coveted among priviledges.

Few can understand what this tells me about their hunger for our Father…..or how this increased the ever growing weight of keeping myself off the throne- and Him on it.

I am about to leave, and see Phonecia in the hall- who was just informed today- that she does not have breast cancer.

Thank you, Father.

She wants to know if I have decided if I can keep her baby until her treatment is complete.

She grew up in the foster system- and would do absolutely anything to keep her baby out of it.

I tell her I am praying very hard about it.

I am.

Now, I am leaving- and  I notice Ms. Wanda out of the corner of my eye. You remember-  she is the one who once had zero tolerance for the very air I  breathed… you may also recall, she is the one who was very hardened by the previous Christians (Pharisees-like me) she’d been exposed to.

I have my hand on the door-and hear her call my name. She jogs up, hugs me hard- and tells me she has never experienced a day like the day before.

“A day of Miracles” she called it….

The 1 hour conversation that followed is a phenomenal manifestation of the very character of our creator, and an additional chapter in itself- which I know must be shared too….

But my head is pounding, I am exhausted- and I am afraid I won’t do Him justice in this state

I’ll write about that later.

The last thing she said to me- was-” I love you Laurie- and I thank God for sending you here.”

ME.

If she only knew.

As my pastor says- God has the ability to speak through a donkey.

It’s true.

Joshua 1:9

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.”

Loaves & Fishes…(Part II) timing is everything~

I’m ready to head out before 7:30 the next morning and as I’m about to leave-  decide bring an extra set of toiletry items, which I keep on hand.

Obviously- I didn’t decide this at all- He did.

God encouraged me to provide this basic need for the incoming girls – as many arrive without even a toothbrush….and being physically “clean” is just a good place to start.

I drive as fast as the speed limit will allow (o.k. 10 miles over- I’m learning to be a servant, but I’m still quite the sinner)… Completely unaware that I am  in fact- speeding to a Divine appointment.

I hit the buzzer, walk quickly through the door –  and am about to make a sharp left to drop the bags of supplies off at Iona’s room, and be on my way.

Ms Sadie – the nurse whom I have grown to love, love, stops me and says, “Ms Laurie, we have a new client I want you to meet, her name is Tory.”

“Well, hey Tory, nice to meet you”, I say – “It looks like God wanted you to have this today” – I smile, hug her tiny and fragile looking frame of a body, and hand her the toiletry items.

She takes them, thanks me, and has a very hard time looking me in the eye. She just stands there- feet stuck to the floor-glancing sideways at me.

I can sense she wants to ask me something , so I try prompting her a bit, “Honey, do you need anything else?”

Now….she lifts her face and turns it toward me. I see the most pleading, liquid, and gorgeous green eyes…tentatively looking into mine.

She also has her hand over her mouth. These poor girls – and many of them are just children, have ruined teeth from their drug abuse. Most of them are painfully and pitifully aware of it, and terribly embarrassed by it.

“Somebody told me you would pray for me, would you please ma’am?  I’m so worried about my baby.”

(I couldn’t even tell she was pregnant, and  we all know the consequences of drug use in early pregnancy)

Now my heart is collapsing…Tory looks to be about the same age as my own daughter.

I wonder where Tory’s Mom is.

I wonder if she cares about Tory.

“Of course… I’d love to pray for you sweetheart – what are you supposed to be doing ?”

“Nothing – waiting to meet my counselor – and she doesn’t get here till 9″.

“Would you like for me to pray with you right now?”, I ask .

“Yes, ma’am, please”…and her small voice trembles as she speaks.

Now, I know the only room that does not have anybody in it is the group meeting room – which is – you guessed it- room 1.

The one that we put the Easter baskets in.

The one that I practically ran out of- never to return, four months ago.

We sit down, I put my arm around her shoulders, and we pray – and I do mean WE, His Spirit, Tory, and Me.

I truly wish I could recall all of our prayer, but I can’t….maybe because it wasn’t mine at all…scripture is flowing, His spirit is filling…anyway, she’s sniffling, and I’m sniffling and oh….the power of God’s peace- why don’t we seek it, and trust Him for it- more????

Tory hugs me and says, “Thank you, so much Ms Laurie”, and I lovingly remind her not to thank me- to thank our Father… that He loves her more than she can imagine - and I just got to be His “delivery girl” today.

I then remember that I have an extra “Tell Me About My Sister” sheet, which is just a means of getting basic information from the girls who choose to share it with me.

It helps me know how to pray for them, and determine if they have any immediate physical needs.

It also includes questions about the names and ages of their children, birthdays. etc…

Yes- this was God’s idea, too.

I give Tory one, tell her she doesn’t have to fill it out – but if she would like to, to just give it to Ms Sadie when she’s finished – and I’ll get it next week.

She thanks me again – goes toward her room, and I begin to say my goodbyes to a few of the girls and Ms. Sadie….who by the way- feeds the homeless under a bridge every Sunday!

Ms. Sadie and I visit for a minute and she then gives me that enveloping southern Grandma hug that I get every time I see her. Ms Sadie’s hugs are like a breath from heaven.

She pulls me into her ample bosom and holds me tight. I slowly and deeply inhale the calming scent of her honeysuckle body powder-  while she whispers to me that I am precious and perfect.

I know I’m neither- but it surely can’t hurt to have at least one person in your life that thinks so – and tells you as much. Ms. Sadie is mine.

As I am leaving Tory comes running down the hall like a little girl, and puts her sheet in my hand.

“Well, thank you, sweet one, that was quick!”, I reply with a smile.

She says goodbye again, and I leave.

Now…. I am walking down that same sidewalk I was on, on Good Friday – yes, GOOD FRIDAY, when for my Christian “good work of the week”,  I delivered  Easter Baskets from my small group to the children at Hope House.

The day that I found myself so overwhelmed by what I saw, smelled, and felt,  that I just wanted to  get the heck out of there…

The day that as soon as I left- God stopped me in my tracks, and told me to “Go Back”.

So much more out of fear of Him, than love for Him, I went back.

Here I am some 4 months later, on that very sidewalk.

Having experienced who my Father is, more than I ever have.

Understanding who He created me to be, more than I ever have.

Loving Him more than I ever have.

Loving the girls and the staff at Hope House, more than I knew I was capable of.

And now…on that same sidewalk -in mid stride- I glance down at Tory’s sheet in my hand.

The category that says “my 3 greatest needs – in order of importance are:”

Reads as follows:

1. A Bible

2. A book about being a good Mother.

there is no entry for # 3

If not for the sketchy looking dude glancing my way across the street – I would have fallen to my knees, then and there, sobbed, and praised Him… my Father, the patient and ever persistent, King of the Universe- for Loving ME enough to bring me to Hope House to serve Him, by Loving my hurting sisters….and giving me the task – no, the privilege- of bringing His saving and eternal word to them.

Eyes watering, I get in my car, and am quietly consumed by what He meant when He said, “Be still, and know that I am God”

I lock my doors, then the profound timing of it all, begins to descend on me.

I realize why He brought me here on Good Friday.

Good Friday. The day that Love hung on the cross… for me.

Then I think about today…which is August 13.

August 13, 1982 was the day that God was about to give me the man that would  teach me a deeper meaning of the word Love than I even knew existed. He would shape me by example. He would mold me with his integrity. He would protect me from harm and temptation. He would provide for me sacrificially, but most of all… he would forgive me unconditionally, over, and over, and over, again.

August 13, 2000 was the day that God was about to bring home the woman He had chosen to give me life, and teach me what Love was to begin with.  If ever there was an angel of faithfulness and mercy in the flesh- it was my Mother. She loved our Father by serving others,including me- day in and day out…in ways that were neither easy-nor recognized.  A portion of her heart was my inheritance. It was also to become my destiny and her legacy…I just didn’t know it at the time.

And now, August 13, 2010 finds me at Hope House. I am a 50 year culmination of His Love and the Love of two others. My husband, and my Mother… the two He chose to show me what it really means to Love somebody.

For His purposes.

For this purpose.

I’ve been drinking in living Love for 50 years.

Love that sacrifices, Love that shapes, Love that serves, Love that protects, Love that provides, and love that forgives…over, and over, and over, again.

Now, it is time for me to pour that Love out on His daughters at Hope House who are so thirsty for it, even if they don’t know it at the time.

Now I know how.

…as if these things alone were not enough, something else was yet to occur on the afternoon of August 13,2010.

An encounter that I will nor fully grasp the significance of until months later.

I remain a mess, in more ways than I’m brave enough to share, but…I’m beginning to really get ” it”.

To KNOW Him and the message that follows the cross.

To know WHO He is, and WHY He is…. and more than anything in this life, I want Him to pick me- every day, to work through…. so that others…. my family, my friends, my sweet sisters at Hope House, the lady in Wal – mart… and people I’ve never even met- will know Who He is, and Why He is, too.

So that others can know the power -and the pleasure- of His Love.

It’s the only thing that can really change anybody.

It’s the only thing that ever has.

He didn’t want me to go to the Sudan.

He wanted me to go to the inner city…

Me- go figure.

The past four months have surely been one wild ride, with more wrecks and road blocks than sunny days with the top down…

But of this I am sure:

There is no such thing as coincidence- only providence.

Thanks be to God.

I Cor: 13

Loaves & Fishes (part I)

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Author’s Note: For the sake of continuity and clarity- I’ll be using fictitious names from this point forward for both the facility and the people, that God called to me to serve on that faithful Good Friday.

As they say, the names have been changed to protect the innocent…and frankly, sometimes the guilty.

While the names are contrived, the places, people, and occurrences are real.

The stories are written in present tense from my past journal entries.

Upon recollection and reflection, I’ve often included additions to both the introductions and conclusions- ….which is a fancy smancy way of saying, “In hindsight, I’m filling you in on what I realized He was doing behind the scenes!”

                                           LOAVES & FISHES

Four months have passed since God stopped me in my tracks on the sidewalk of the women’s shelter as I was leaving, and told me to “Go Back.”

Four months of learning to discern just exactly what the spiritual and physical needs of my sisters struggling with addiction are.

Four months of facilitating the purchase of- or purchasing myself-a wide variety of items. I’ve either solicted for or selected, everything from high chairs,to playground equiptment, to massive amounts of soap, shampoo, and deodorant, to maternity clothes, to a commercial washing machine.

Four months of watching GOD provide for these needs, usually in astounding, jaw dropping ways.

Four months of witnessing Him both rush His angels with skin on, to deliver items of necessity, while giving me a bottomless checkbook at the same time.

Four months of experiencing my Father unleash the resources of His Kingdom in ways that would even leave Billy Graham scratching his head.

And…

Four months of hard labor.

Four months of working to update bathrooms, helping to achieve order in the donations department, substituting in the childcare department, manning the space bounce for the children’s’ carnival on a 98 degree day, and buying lunches for the staff…just to mention a few the physical assignments He has given me.

Four months of campaigning for a weekly Bible study. Submitting the material, waiting,  and then discovering it was “lost” somehow.

Four months of repeating the process. Two more times.

And…

Four months of spiritual boot camp for Yours Truly.

Four months of the slow dawning realization that my broken sisters are in fact both stricken and stoic at the same time.

Four months of feeling anger toward them one minute -and then admiration for them the next.

Four months of praying, and begging, and weeping…for my sisters and their innocent children.

Four months of fending off frustrations from my family and my friends.

Four months of hearing people say that I’ve changed, and that they don’t understand me anymore.

Four months of loving the change, hating the change, and not understanding myself anymore- either.

Four months of grasping other’s pain and God’s power in such a way that my comfortable little world has been transformed and turned upside down on its ear.

Four months of all this….along with submitting to an extensive background check.

And…

Four months of learning to trust my Father, while learning to be patient with everybody else.

Four months in…and the powers that be at Hope House, have now collectively decided that I am…

well, to be both trite and accurate, “O.K.”

At last.

I can finally just show up at the door, ring the bell, and- come in.

Up to this point, the employess at Hope House were cautiously skeptical about me. You know that raised eyebrow, forced smile, look -that people give you when they’re continually in the process of sizing you up?

I got that look a lot.

Like I was told by one senior staff member, “The Christians that have come through here have done more harm than good. It’s takes us weeks to undo what they’ve done to the women”

Well, I don’t doubt that.

Four months ago, I was one of them.

I would have been prepared -sight unseen- to come in weilding a message that began with judgement, and ended with repentence… while relaying the work of the cross -along with a measure of grace – thrown in somewhere inbetween, of course.

I would have been dead wrong, and I would have been a failure.

Which is why God spent four months setting me straight…because He does not fail.

So here I am. It’s Thursday, and I’ve  been at Hope House most of the day.

It’s mid August, it’s gross hot-(remember I’m also menopausal- which does not help) I’m tired, and I’m sad, too.

One of the girls that I have grown to love and been watching make great progress, left today.

Just like that.

Her little boy is 5, and his name is Ethan. He asked me about a month ago if he could call me ‘Mimi”. He said his baby sister had a “Mimi”, and he wanted one too. While all these little cherubs have the same Mother, few share the same Father. This can be awfully hard and confusing to these small ones. 

So now, I whisper a prayer that God will send him another Mimi.

If his Mama is ever arrested again, which is likely, she’ll go to jail.

And DHR will take my little Ethan, and her baby girl, away from her.

I wish I could say this is rare, but it’s not.

Seeing this happen time and time again over the past few months has only gotten harder, not easier.

The girls eat dinner at 4:00 and they’re all headed to the dining hall now.

So I give hugs, gather my things, and leave.

I make the 40 minute drive home, and arrive physically and emotionally spent.

I sit down at my computer, and open my email- only to find one waiting from the director of Hope House, Ms. Margene.

I just left there.

Ms. Margene  wanted me to know that Iona needs school supplies for her two girls who are in 1^st and 3^rd grade. She knows I just left- so she is considerate and careful to tell me, “No Rush.”

They started school LAST week.

I just left there.

Apparently, Iona just told Ms. Margene. She had been trying to cobble together the funds, but after purchasing her daughters required uniforms, she was broke.

I’m fighting trying NOT to picture those cute little girls, each with huge brown eyes and a head full of a dozen tiny pony tails, wearing navy skirts and white blouses… and having no school supplies.

I’m losing the battle.

I see them all too clearly, because I see myself 40+ years ago… in a wooden desk, wearing worn shoes, and I know exactly how it feels to be the only one with out your tablet and #2 pencils…among other things.

I find Iona’s information sheet in my notebook. She lists her three greatest needs as:

1. Prayer

2. Being able to take care of her girls.

3. A job and a place to live.

Alright, God- that did it.

Back in the car – I race to the Dollar Store and nod a quick greeting  to my friends who work there.

They are now familair with me as the lady comes in a least once a week and buys tons of toiletries.

I know the store like the back of my hand-and have the girls supply list completed in short order.

I also decide to make one more stop to get them some cute book bags.

Dollar store school supplies look and perform  exactly like school supplies from anywhere else.

Dollar Store book bags do not.

I want book bags like I’d buy for my own daughter.

I want book bags like I wanted.

They weren’t on the list- but I just had to do it….I don’t even analyze these things anymore.

On top of that, I always seem to have enough money… to do these things I have to do.

The big difference from four months ago, is that I now think about how buying these things will make others feel-and not about how providing them will make me look.

My ever patient and mercy loving Father changed that in me too, and I’m pretty sure that’s why I always have the money.

My plan is to be at Hope House first thing in the a.m., which I never do because of highway 280 traffic; but, I am behind on my home responsibilities and need to get back.

On top of that, we are celebrating our anniversary a day early tomorrow. I have plans to bake his favorite- a lemon meringue pie. That’s the least I can do for greatest husband to ever grace this planet.

Tomorrow is Friday August 13th.

Our actual anniversary August 14th.

My Mother also went home to heaven on August 14, exactly 10 years ago.

I will never forget the covergence of events that is to follow.

The signifigance of the timing is not just irrefutable. It’s down right mind blowing.

…to be continued

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