A few weeks ago, I was sitting on the counselor’s couch—again. If you look back at some of my archived posts, you’ll find I spend a fair amount of time on this couch. He handed me a worksheet of sorts. I had to read a handful of statements and decide whether they were a fact or a judgment. Two things occurred to me as I did this exercise. One, I had to skip a few statements to get to the easy ones. I was stumped. And two, I had a flashback to elementary school and Fact and Opinion Worksheets. Remember those? I stopped and looked up at the counselor. “Hey, shouldn’t this be fact or opinion, and I write F or O by each statement?” “Krista, give me the definition of opinion?” “Ohhhh. It’s a judgment. Well that changes things, doesn’t it?” Can you see why I had trouble with some of those statements? Over the years my brain has become so conditioned that I don’t even recognize judgment—to the point of renaming it this nice sounding word, “opinion.” Dear Lord! Not only have I received so much judgment over the years, but yikes, have I ever been a judger myself. As this election season is upon us, I’m thinking we should rename Opinion Polls to Judgement Polls. It has a ring doesn’t it? And, while we are it, why don’t we stop and do some self-reflection? Ask ourselves the tough questions—am I opinionated, I mean a judger? If I post this article or statement on social media, could my opinion, I mean judgment, hurt others, or cause division? What if we filtered our thoughts, our words, and our actions a little more wisely? Before I speak, post, or interject, is this fact, or is this judgment? In this uncertain climate we are living in right now, we are searching for answers. Some think they have all the answers. We need to do this, this and this, and then it will be all better. Some think silence and distancing from the issues is the way to fix it. I’ve been in both camps the last few weeks, and all its left me is confused and defeated. So, what do we do? Maybe it’s not so much what we do, but what we become. A heart with ears. Wait. What? What does that even mean? It means listening without giving advice, without offering solutions, without asking a heap load of questions, without sharing our own stories and experiences, without judgment. Sounds hard doesn’t it? Like seriously, just sitting with another person and listening? A heart with ears. And wait, it can get even more uncomfortable, because what if while we are listening, the other person becomes emotional? Do we just sit in the puddle of tears with them? Yes, I think that’s what it means. A few weeks ago, I wrote a blog post about my personal experiences with racism. I received an overwhelming amount of positive comments, phone calls and texts. I cried over your words to me because they touched me so deeply. You were a “heart with ears.” You read that post and responded in the most heartfelt, humble way. Later on, after some good listening, some of you reached out and asked what more could be done? Be a heart with ears. Continue to enter the tough conversations as a listener. Whether the conversation is around racism, a global pandemic, or a personal crisis a friend is experiencing, be a heart with ears. Do you see what a humble posture that is? Humility is God’s favorite. He can do so much with a humble heart. “Who is wise and understanding among you? Let them show it by their good life, by deeds done in the humility that comes from wisdom. For where you have envy and selfish ambition, there you find disorder and every evil practice. But the wisdom that comes from heaven is first of all pure; then peace-loving, considerate, submissive, full of mercy and good fruit, impartial and sincere.” James 3: 13, 16, 17. NLT

What you are going to read about is a topic that is way bigger than me. There is so much to say, and I barely scratched the surface. But at the end of the day, this is my story, my experience, and my thoughts. I have a blog platform that I’ve been blessed to speak from, and I don’t take that lightly. I’m not asking for sympathy, and certainly not arguments. If you don’t like what I said, you can move on from this post. May God bless you! We’ve been saving for something for a while now, and dreaming about it even longer. A mountain house. A little cabin to make cozy and call our own. A weekend escape from city life and the hustle and bustle of the daily grind. That dream finally became a reality recently. With much fear, and a little trembling, we started the process of looking for a mountain getaway. I say fear and trembling, because this is a big deal, and a big investment, and times are uncertain for all of us. But mountain houses are for sale, and good deals are to be made. However, what started out as a fun and exciting adventure last Saturday, took somewhat of a cautionary turn. We pulled into “Mountain Town, Arizona” to check out a listing. The scent of pine trees wafted through the air as the treelined road turned and curved. We came up on a cute general store, Ma’s Diner, and a cluttered antique store. I could totally get used to this on the weekend, I thought. There were quaint cabins, and custom homes, nice yards, and sprawling porches. This is exactly what I had pictured. Then we pulled up to the listing, and started to look around, like really look. Was that a confederate flag in the window next door?

For those of us with children we pray from when they are very young that they will have a wonderful childhood, with limited complications. That when they are adulting someday they will look back and say, “That was really quite awesome. My parents are cool people. Man, I had it good.” Let’s be honest, we all wish that were, or will be, the case. For some of us we do everything to protect them from having our own childhood experiences—that maybe weren’t so great. And for others of us we wish they could have a taste of a more wonderful, simpler, time like we enjoyed. Oregon summers were the best. I had an awesome group of friends during my Junior and Senior year of high school. For the sake of their privacy, I will stick to initials only, but A, C, T, L and J made summers the best. I’ve secretly wished my own girls could experience summers like that. Boy did we have some adventures; boating on the Columbia River, hiking Multnomah Falls, campfires on the beach, swim parties, outdoor concerts, and miniature golf.

It was a purchase made on a whim. A little after Christmas indulgence at one of my fav stores, whose initials are BBB. We were running in for one little thing, but left with a cart full of a whole lot of things. You know how it goes—the “after holiday blues” take over and a little shopping therapy is right there waiting in the shadows to catch you off guard. I was so excited about one of the little things in the cart. It was a set of beautiful soft pink sheets. They were a cotton blend ,promising a night of blissful sleep. And Hubby agreed to pink. I got home and followed the laundering instructions carefully. The little care card inside the package said to follow up with a warm iron once they were dry. Um….no. They are sheets for crying out loud, but nice that there’s actually people who iron their bedding.

It’s a big day today. A day of milestone birthdays in our house. Maddie is turning 18, and Izzy is turning 16. Yes, we have two children, and they both share the same birthday. To ask where has the time gone, is silly. I’ve had a front row seat to every age, stage, and phase of their beautiful, young lives.  Some of the ages, stages, and phases I’ve wished to pass quickly, and others I’ve wanted to linger a little longer. These two milestones birthdays are different, though. I feel like I’m being moved from my comfortable, gently worn, front row seat, to one near the back. 

Recently I was cleaning out a credenza, and I came across a book I used to read to my girls when they were really young. So, I did what anyone would do with a children’s book they love. I sat down and re-read it; right in the middle of this monumental task; and right in the middle of a huge donation pile heading for a new home. To be clear, this book, along with a handful of others, will not be going to a new home. It will continue to enjoy the comfort of my special bookshelf. The book: Girls Hold Up this World, by Jada Pinkett Smith. After I finished, I grabbed my phone and took a picture of the book. I started to write out a clever caption. It went something like this. I need to preface this Instagram post by saying, I’m not a feminist, but this book… I stopped right there. I couldn’t post it. What would some of my Instagram followers think?  That book makes a bold statement. So does the author.  I canceled the post and set down my phone. I placed the book back on the shelf and continued on with the task at hand. I walk by that nice, clean shelf almost daily, and every time that book grabs my attention, I’m reminded of the unsent post. Why was I so reluctant to post about that book? Why did I feel I needed to explain that I wasn’t a feminist? Simply stated, I was afraid of being judged and labeled. Here’s the raw truth. I’ve held thoughts, questions and conversations about women’s issues deep in my soul for a long time, fearful of saying them out loud.  But I’m kind of done keeping it to myself. We are living in a time where these conversations are happening all around us—in our culture, our workplaces, our governments, and even our churches.  Hard conversations.  In fact, an entire movement was birthed out of this topic. Does #MeToo ring a bell?

“It’s kind of hard to sling mud and keep your own hands clean.” ~Jack Bartlett, Heartland I’ll admit I have a hard time slowing down.  I try to take time during the day to slow my roll and rest, but something will catch my eye that needs my attention, and all the best laid soul care intentions go out the window.  I wouldn’t say I’m OCD, but I might have tendencies.  I make deals with myself.  If I get this done, then I can rest.  Honestly, it’s not the healthiest approach because there’s always something to get done. I’m a firm believer that everyone needs a reset at some point in the day.  Whether it’s a short nap, a tall glass of ice tea, a few chapters of a book, or watching a new favorite show you just discovered on Netflix; it’s important to allow space in your day. I recently discovered two shows on Netflix that I absolutely love.  Everwood and Heartland. This whole thing of binge watching older shows is revolutionary. I can watch them whenever, and pretty much from wherever, on any given device, and I don’t have to wait a week between episodes.  It’s a beautiful experience. Heartland is a fictitious horse ranch set in the Alberta foothills of Canada. I do wish I would have discovered this show years ago when it first aired because I’m pretty sure we would now be ex-pats in Canada operating our own ranch. What I love about this show is the character of Jack Bartlett, played by Shaun Johnston.  Jack is the grandpa/guardian to two grown granddaughters.  He’s an aging cowboy, and young at heart.  But seriously, he has the kind of energy, wisdom, spunk, and tender heart I want to have when I’m that age.  I’m convinced that everyone needs a Jack in their life. And then there’s Everwood. Everwood is a fictitious small town set in the mountains of Colorado, but not to be confused with Evergreen, Colorado, though there are many similarities between the two.  The show ran for four seasons from 2002-2006, debuting such actors as Treat Williams, Chris Pratt, and Emily VanCamp, to name a few.  Now if I had watched this show when it originally aired, I know that I know I wouldn’t have continued.  My girls were babies back then, and this show is all about teenagers and the parents who raise them.  Good grief, I would have been scared out of my mind thinking about the parenting road that lay ahead of me.  But watching it now, oh my goodness, these Everwood parents killed it. They are my heroes. Since discovering these television gems, I feel my life has purpose now.  I’m kidding.  I’m not that shallow.  But I will say I’ve learned a better rhythm to life by inviting some space and margin into my day.  Not to get all churchy on you, but I believe the Bible, from Genesis to Revelation, teaches about a rhythm to life. From the Creation account in Genesis, to the life of Jesus, and many teachings of how to live life this side of heaven, there is an underlying rhythm that involved rest. Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. Matthew 11:28-30 I encourage you to check your rhythm.  If you’re not making space in your day, start incorporating a reset time.  It may not look like a Netflix series for you, but try something that gets you out of your own headspace.  You just might be surprised by what you see, what you learn, and maybe gain a fresh perspective you can apply to your life going forward. “When life doesn’t turn out how you pictured, the most important thing is that when you look at the picture, you are smiling. The background, who you’re standing next to, doesn’t matter so much. It’s if you’re smiling. That’s how it’s meant to turn out.” ~Edna Harper, Everwood I love you, Jack and Edna. Thanks for joining me in my reset moments, and for teaching me a thing or two about life.

Remember your leaders, who spoke the word of God to you. Consider the outcome of their way of life and imitate their faith.  Hebrews 13:7 It’s a day I will never forget.  It happened over five years ago on a warm September day in Colorado.  I was pretty much having a meltdown—overwhelmed by how busy my life had become.  I was trying to juggle too many plates, and some were starting to crash down and shatter around me. I called my friend.  She, of all people, would know how to help. Actually, I don’t really remember thinking that I needed any help. I just wanted to share with someone what I was feeling. Ask some questions. And gain some perspective.  I was pretty certain once I met with her everything would go back to normal, plates and all. I walked into her office at the church.  I sat down. Well, more like fell into the seat across from her.  She had a warm smile on her face, and her forehead crinkled a little when she looked at me. She must have known something was wrong.   She began to speak gently to me, trying to gage what was going on.  Her words, her smile, and her look did me in. The tears started to flow, followed by the outright ugly cry.  I told her how I was exhausted. I told her I didn’t think I could lead the ministry I was leading anymore.  Furthermore, I wasn’t really sure about church, God’s people, my faith, or all the things that defined me at that time. Stunned by the words that came out of my mouth, I sat back and just shook my head.  What the he** just happened, I thought.  She looked at me and smiled, as if nothing I said phased her.   I mean I was practically cursing the institution of church while sitting in her church office. She got up from behind her desk and came over to the chair next to me.   She looked me in the eye and she said, “I think you’re a little depressed, and anxious, and overwhelmed. I think you need some help, Krista.  I’ve sensed for a long time that you’ve been struggling. You’ve figured it out, and now it’s time to do something about it.” There were probably four other women in my circle at that time who knew something was off with me. They were my friends, at my age and stage of life. But, if one of them had tried to speak those particular words into my life, without permission, it would have been a train wreck for our friendship.  Now please understand me.  My encounter that day with my friend was divine in the truest sense.   God knew I needed a big nudge, and He handpicked this woman, this friend, this mentor, to do it.  At the time, my husband, my mom, and other friends, who have also earned the right to speak into my life, would not have had the same impact or results that this wise woman, on this particular day, had. Now five and a half years past that season, I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on that profound day in her office at church. I know she covered that conversation in prayer.  I’m pretty sure she asked the Lord, what would you have me say to Krista?  And God gave her the words that would nourish my soul—hard as they were to receive.  Do you see it? She did one simple, but wise thing, she paused, and she asked the Lord what to do.  Can you imagine how much healthier relationships would be if we paused and prayed before we spoke, especially when the person in front of us is facing a sensitive situation? I would even take it one step further and ask the Lord, and myself, have I earned the right to speak into this person’s life?  Do we trust each other? Is this the right time? Even when I am old and gray, do not forsake me, my God, till I declare your power to the next generation, your mighty acts to all who are to come. Psalm 71:18 This whole idea of mentorship has been on my mind.  I was asked recently to consider stepping into a mentoring role. Lord have mercy!  Am I really ready for something like this? The answer is NO! I’m so not ready. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t do it. As I look back on my life from the time I was a teenager to now, I could name a handful of mentors who have come into my life. Some I have crossed paths with for a season. Others have been there for the long haul.  And I’ll bet, if I called them out as my mentor they would hesitate. They might even think, no, we are just friends with a gap in our ages. And that right there is what makes a mentor. It’s not someone seeking a title or a position.  It’s someone pursuing a relationship. It’s someone who walks closely with the Lord, and in obedience, allows Him to grow and nurture a relationship naturally. I’m still the messy girl that sat with my friend and mentor a few seasons ago. The mess just looks different now.  By no stretch of the imagination do I have life figured out, but I know I’ve experienced a ginormous heap of God’s grace, love, and instruction over the years that can speak to someone else–someone younger.  So, I will humbly walk into this next chapter, with faith, that God knows, and has a plan, for whom I am to walk alongside. Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Ecclesiastes 4:9-10

About a year ago, I was with Matt’s parents. It was just the three of us on a long car ride from Arizona to California, when Matt’s dad turned to me and asked, “Kris, what three things do you love about Matthew?”  Before I go any further, it’s a Jamaican thing to give enduring nicknames to loved ones. “Kris” is mine. And if you’re wondering, it’s off limits except to a select few in my circle.   Three things came to me rather quickly. And since it is our anniversary today, I thought I would share them publicly. #1  He’s genuine. He says what he means, and he backs up his words with actions. I’ve never doubted from our first few dates to right now that he loves me, and he’s with me for the long haul. #2  He leads me and our family well. He does this by treating me as a teammate, with God at the center.  From parenting, to making big decisions, to handling finances, to choosing what to watch on TV, he values my input and treats me as an equal.  #3  And most importantly, he makes me laugh everyday. This is by far my favorite quality, because who doesn’t like to laugh? There is never a day that goes by that I don’t laugh at something he says. Even when we have faced the most trying and challenging times, we have found there is always something to laugh about.  Because it is impossible to have just three things after this long together, here are a few extra favorites in no particular order: He’s a great gift giver. This trait, however, has developed over the last few years, and is pretty spot on right now. Yay for sticking to the wish list, Honey!! He watches the Bachelor with me. There is no better way to feel good about your marriage, than a little dose of reality TV. No matter how stressful his day is, he always checks in with me to see how I’m doing and if I need help with anything. It’s not always realistic that he can drop everything to help me, but I know that is his heart’s desire.  He turns on my favorite country music station when I ride in his car, even though that is the last thing he wants to listen to. He speaks truth into my life that is wrapped in grace and love. He always gives me his last piece of chocolate. Oh wait. My bad. We are still working on this one. At the end of the day, he’s my favorite, and there’s no one else for me. I love you, Matthew Keane!  Happy 21 Years!!  (Who are those little kids dressed up so fancy?)    

Repost from The past is in the past, or is it?  I’ve often struggled with this line of thinking, because, personally, I struggle with letting things go. Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead. Philippians 3:13 I believe two things happen when we look to the past.  We either marvel at our accomplishments, or we dwell on the mistakes.  Neither is good because often times we become stuck in the past.  We fear moving forward because of the mistakes we’ve made in the past, or we fear moving forward because we might not achieve the success we did in the past. I believe what Paul is saying is that we are not to focus so much on the past that we miss what God has in store for the future.  It’s important to remember and reflect—especially on the great mercy and grace God has shown to us.  But the key is to not become so focused on the past that we get stuck there. Picture in your mind that you are driving down the street, but instead of looking out the window ahead of you, you are looking in the rearview mirror for the whole drive?  Yikes!  Remind me not to drive when you are on the road. Seriously though, would any mature drive do such a thing?  No way!  We would miss what was going on ahead of us.  And missing what’s happening ahead could be disastrous. Friends, as we start 2013, I believe Paul has some very important advice in these scriptures.  He does not want us to be so self-focused that we miss what God is doing around us.  Isn’t that what being stuck in the past is really about—selfishness?   When our focus is on ourselves it is off of God.  Moving forward means looking ahead and trusting that God holds our future. I find great comfort in knowing and claiming that Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever (Hebrews 13:8).  He is the God that reached into my past and gently moved me into the present.  And He is the same God that will walk with me into the future and show me the way. It’s time to live unstuck.          

Dear Summer, It’s not you, It’s me. I’m not breaking up with you or anything, I just think we need to dial things back a little. I guess I had different expectations of what you would be like.  It’s not that you’re bad or anything—you’re just not what I had in mind for this season.  I was hoping for a little more. But like I said, It’s not you, it’s me. I just need some space, but I’ll talk to you after I’ve had time to figure some things out. Until then, love, ~Krista If I’m honest with myself, I’ve been thinking about summer since my kids were on spring break in March. Is that bad?  It’s kind of bad.  I live for school breaks. Having two high schoolers is not easy, and I feel like I’m often waiting anxiously to just get through to the next day off, teacher in-service day, holiday, or school break.   Not to brag, but I should receive an award for making it through freshman and junior year simultaneously.  Friends, I’ve got a pretty good GPA going too from all the homework I’ve helped with.  But I’ve had a picture in my head of how these nine short weeks of summer break should go.  I’ve written this sort of story about summer in my head, and I’ve gotta say I’m a little disappointed with how things have gone. I had these big plans of me and my daughters hanging out by the pool, going thrift shopping, out to lunch, afternoon Sonic runs, and late-night ice cream or fro-yo stops.  But I find that we are running all different directions.  It’s not like it used to be, even at this same time a year ago.  Something happened in one year’s time, and summer looks a whole lot different now. You’re probably reading this and saying to yourself, well, duh Krista, they’re growing up, finding their independence, and spreading their wings.. There is truth to that, and I accept it.  But here’s what trips me up.  ME. I trip myself up.  My girls are doing exactly what they’re supposed to do.  They are growing up, and figuring things out. They still need me and all, but it’s different.  Things are changing as they figure out who they are independently of me.  But who am I in this new chapter of life? The other night Matt and I were watching a show together.  Please don’t judge us. The show starts with an “R” and is based on characters from the Archie comics.  For the love, I’m a forty-something.  I mean, we are forty-somethings who are totally into this show, wondering how these poor teenage kids are going to figure out who the “Black Hood” is that keeps antagonizing this small, quiet town.  And what’s worse is, I think we started watching the show in the first place so we could enjoy the connection time as a family. Now it’s only Matt and I that show up. I think our girls are actually busy doing things that use brain cells, while ours are being depleted one episode at a time.  HELP US!! Anyway, I had my a-ha moment the other night. I laid in bed thinking about the future; the near future, and the future a few years down the road.  I started to pray.  I told God that I was uncertain about my purpose.  What will life look like when these precious girls leave home someday? I told God I wanted to do something. Something beyond the crazy schedule I keep already that sometimes seems so routine and mundane, but also exhausting.  I told Him I wanted to do something that was creative, beautiful, inspirational, and relationship building.  Kind of a tall order, right? Well, that prayer has taken flight.  Over the last few weeks I have been re-inspired by a former hobby I used to enjoy.  At some point the busyness of life got in the way;  my supplies became dusty and a little outdated;  and perhaps my confidence about this hobby weakened. But God reminded me how much satisfaction and joy it brought to me at one time. So….what is it? Rubber stamping!  Ta-dah!! Yeah, yeah, I’ve probably lost a few of you right there, but hear me out.  Not only do I have a new- found love for this hobby again, but I want to extend an invitation for you to join me on this creative journey.  I believe everyone should have a hobby—a creative outlet.  No matter what it is, I highly recommend tapping into your creative side if you’re not already. It might not be rubber stamping, but who knows, it might be. Beginning in July, I will be hosting some rubber stamping events and classes in my home. I would love to have you come check it out if you live in the area.   Whether you are a newbie, a die-hard crafter, or just want to try something different, this is an opportunity for you. Check out the creative therapy link on my home page at www.alittlemessy.com Well, all that to say, I think Summer and I are back on.  I just needed some time to figure a few things out. And just so you know, sweet Summer, it was never you.

Out of nowhere the words came out of his mouth–slicing the air.  She cowered a little lower at each blow. Not a physical blow, but harsh, hurtful, surprising, and unsettling words.  By the time he finished his speech, she was a pile of stunned brokenness on the floor. What just happened, she wondered?  Where did all that even come from, she thought? For hours she played back the words he had spoken, trying to wrap her head around it. It was devastating. So what was it? It’s what our culture fondly, or not so fondly, refers to as a break up.  The ending of a relationship.  Rejection in the rawest form. I watched this scene unfold in front of me one Friday afternoon not so long ago.  The girl, who shall not be named, is one of my heroes. I didn’t know it at the time, but as the hours turned into days, and days into weeks, I witnessed an incredible journey of a broken heart finding wholeness again. You would think after 20 plus years of a healthy marriage, with four decades of growth and wisdom on all things “relationship” tucked in the recesses of my mind, that this break up I witnessed wouldn’t affect me the way it has.  But my goodness, rejection has a way of rearing its ugly head in profound ways. It was as if I was suddenly back in those younger days again.  Those days when life didn’t come with a ton of responsibility.  Heartache seemed miles away.  And the hopes of a beautiful relationship with Mr. Perfect was mine to hold onto.  But then, rejection would show up.  The pain. The heartache. The self-doubt. All of it.  In one fell swoop that sting, that unforgettable sting hits, and you are down for the count. It’s not easy to get over the pain of rejection.  In fact, I believe that a small piece of life’s rejections takes up residence in a part of our souls and camps out there for years to come. But here’s the difference from when I faced relationship rejection in my younger years.  There wasn’t this monster called social media.  There wasn’t this fear of everyone, and I truly mean everyone, having a front row sit to every piece of the painful story as it unfolds moment by moment. Whether it’s on your story, his snap, that tweet, it seems it’s everywhere stirring up painful emotions and memories.  And don’t forget the sweet little apps that remind us daily of pictures taken one year, two years, or ten years ago.  Reminders everywhere, for all time and eternity. Where is the sacredness I wonder?  The sacredness of walking through pain without the world looking on?  We don’t mind people seeing the end of the story, when everything has been figured out and glued back together, with a nice ribbon on top.  But the painful chapters? No way!  No one should be invited into that part of the story. Or should they? You know the Bible is full of stories, some painful, some not.  It doesn’t read like an Instagram newsfeed, but it gives glimpses into the lives of ordinary people who encountered an extraordinary God in the midst of their story.  And here’s what’s interesting.  There were witnesses all around to record these God stories.  Two thousand years later we get to read about the pain, the sin, the victories, and the miracles of ordinary people like you and me.  If you’re not reading the Bible, you really should give it a try. So as this painful chapter of rejection closes, the heroine should feel pretty good about herself.  She’s handled this journey with honesty, integrity, grace and dignity.  She’s held her head high when other onlookers wanted to see her crumble under the weight of it all.  God is penning a story that is beautiful, messy, and sacred.  Sacred not only to her and the lessons she’s learning, but sacred to those who look on and watch a big God doing His thing.

Many things can be said about time. Time flies when you’re having fun.  Time heals all wounds.  Time is an illusion.  You can’t stop time. Ugh…and there it is. You can’t stop time. I have this picture in my head.  It’s kind of like a daydream.  Or maybe it’s metaphorical for something I’m trying to process in my head. I’m holding this giant alarm clock. It’s the old-fashioned kind. It’s black metal, with a glass casing around the bold, Roman numeral face.  It has two giant bells on the top, with a handle in the middle.  Did I mention it’s huge? I’m holding it oh so tightly. Nothing could wrestle it from my grip.  And don’t you dare try.  I’m just not willing to let it go quite yet. Here’s the thing. I know full well what this little vision is all about.  My two precious babies, who happen to share a birthday of March 11, will be turning 17 and 15 in one week.  For the love, how did this happen? I want time to stop. I want to hold this giant clock in my grip as long as I can, and will the alarm not to sound, or at least hit snooze several times. It’s hard for me to understand why these particular birthdays are so difficult for me.  Why not 6 and 8? Or 11 and 13? Why are 15 and 17 causing me so much grief? I’ve wrestled with this question for a few days now. My oldest is experiencing all the firsts right now. The first one in our tribe to get her driver’s license. The first one to take the SAT’s and ACT’s. The first one to attend a college fair.  The first one to go on an alone date with a boy. The first one to look for a summer job. The first one who will all-too-soon leave home.  And then there’s the younger one. She will share the exact same milestones as her sister.  But with her it will be the last time I get to experience the firsts.  Does that make sense? Let’s say I could stop time though.  Let’s say I could control the order of things. Can you imagine the disaster?  Think about that for a minute. We have all uttered those words about slowing time down, or stopping time all together, but what about the consequences?  I would be stifling the growth of my children.  I would be sabotaging their experiences to feed my own pride.  I would be messing with what God has intended for them.  I would truly be causing more harm than good.  And all for selfish gain. Yep, selfish gain.  That’s the heart of the matter right there. A mother’s heart is a tricky thing–and sometimes selfish. I can only speak for myself, but I’ve written a sort of story for each of my girls.  I have an idea of how I would like things to go for them.  The details are fuzzy, but they include a good education, a good job, a mate, a healthy marriage and children.  That’s not asking too much, right? Well, sadly it is.  It’s me setting an agenda for God, and asking Him to bless it.  It’s me wanting only good things for them, and in the time I want them.  No suffering. No heartache. No mistakes. No waiting. But what if there was something better for them on the other side of suffering? On the other side of heartache, mistakes, and waiting?  What if. It’s not a difficult answer at all. There is something so much better on the other side of those things.  How do I know this?  Because scripture after scripture, and Bible story after Bible story, tells me so.  They’re not riding the coattails of my faith in Jesus.   They are learning and growing and owning their own faith. And with that will come challenging times. That’s a promise. Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything. James 1:2-4 Let perseverance finish it work so that Madeline and Isabelle may be mature and complete. It’s with fear and trembling I type that sentence out. Oh to be able to protect them so they wouldn’t have to persevere through anything.  To order their lives so they wouldn’t experience difficulties.  To bottle up this precious stage of life for just a little longer. There’s a country song that I have come to love.  (I know I lost about half you at country song, but just bear with me.) It’s called Five More Minutes.  Take a listen, but grab some tissues.  The song talks about milestones in a person’s life, and the chorus says, “Time rolls by. The clock don’t stop……Wish I had me a pause button. Moments like those, Lord knows I’d hit it.  Yeah, sometimes this old life will leave you wishing that you had five more minutes” That song writer is not lying. There are many situations I wish I could have five more minutes to experience.  But at what cost? I think it’s time to give that giant alarm clock to Whom it belongs, and trust that the Creator of time knows what He’s doing.       **From LyricFind: Five More Minutes. Songwriters: MONTY CRISWELL, SCOTTY MCCREERY, FRANK ROGERS

“There’ll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long ago.” I’ve always wondered about this particular line in the famous Christmas Carol, It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year.  I mean, didn’t we just celebrate the “scary” holiday two months earlier?  What do ghost stories and Christmas have to do with each other? Well, the line in this song makes a little more sense now—at least after the “ghost” story I heard while gathered around our dinner table the other night. This week we have the wonderful honor and pleasure of hosting my husband’s parents for some much needed family time.  I love my in-laws, or more appropriately, my in-loves. Something you need to know about my mother-in-love is that she has the gift of storytelling.  Whether it’s humorous, or suspenseful, a tear jerker, or just a feel-good illustration of daily life, she can draw and captivate a crowd of her children and grandchildren. We had just finished dinner, and she began telling us a story.  The room grew quiet, and eerily cold. I think the lights above us even flickered. I might have heard a clap of thunder outside, or maybe it was our two big dogs running down the stairs. I’m just not sure.  But I do know this, she had captured our attention with one sentence, and we all leaned in to listen more closely. “We found a Voodoo doll at your sister’s house last week.” Wait, what? Matt’s parents just recently relocated to California from Jamaica.  They are going to split their time between their home on the island, and living with Matt’s sister and her family in California.  Matt’s sister lives in a beautiful, sprawling, historic home in the High Desert.  Last week they experienced some flooding from a pipe that burst in the kitchen. It caused quite a bit of damage to the kitchen and adjacent dining room. Plumbers and Contractors were called in to repair floors, cabinets, baseboards and pipes in the two rooms.  It was quite the inconvenience right before Christmas. One afternoon, a contractor, who was working on the repairs, found Mom and handed her a wrapped item that he had discovered behind a damaged piece of baseboard in the dining room. Upon unwrapping the little package, Mom found a doll—a doll with pins stuck all over it.  It doesn’t take a paranormal expert to figure out that Mom was holding a Voodoo doll.  There was a note accompanying the doll that was written in Creole (a Haitian dialect). The note most likely explained the details of a curse.  The contractor went on to explain that he finds Voodoo dolls at many of the projects he works on. They are usually hidden in walls and cabinetry, only to be found during a renovation.  Not the most comforting information I’ve learned recently. And to say I haven’t thought about this in the late, dark hours of the night since, is a complete understatement. Good grief! Voodoo, as you may know, is a type of magic practiced in various places around the world.  Voodoo dolls are often made out of cloth, and stuck with pins.  The idea is that the pins, which are strategically placed on the doll, are used as a curse to inflict physical pain (at the same location) on the person receiving the doll. I need to stop right here and explain a few things. First of all, Matt’s side of the family is God-fearing, Christ following people. Matt’s dad works in church ministry, as well as, Matt’s sister and brother-in-law, who pastor a church in their area.  Many church gatherings happen around this particular dining room table that sits just a few feet away from where the Voodoo doll was found.  You must be wondering, could this Voodoo curse really be directed at them? The answer is no.  Matt’s sister and her family moved into this house about a year ago.  As I mentioned, the city they live in has given this house distinction as an historic home due to the status and wealth of the family that occupied the house, and the land around it, for years before.  Parts of the home, including the kitchen and dining rooms, were renovated by that family in 2005. Most likely the Voodoo doll has been behind that baseboard since then. So, what happened to the potentially cursed family?  What horrible calamities came upon them?  Sadly, I don’t know.  But I have conjured up a whole story in my head of what I think happened, because I’m a writer, and I have a wild imagination. A few days later Matt’s family said good bye to the Voodoo doll by burning her to a crisp in a makeshift fire pit. They prayed over their home, and each other, and canceled out any such “magic” that may have lingered. Phew! The plumbing is now fixed. The floors, cabinets and baseboard are repaired. Christmas celebrating commenced, and life has continued on as normal for Matt’s family. And isn’t that just the beauty of life in Christ? Yes, we face hardships. Yes, we face uncertain situations. Yes, we can even face Voodoo, witchcraft and evil because we live in a dark and fallen world.   But here’s the thing. We may have to live in this world, but we certainly don’t have to conform to it. Do not be conformed to this present world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind, so that you may test and approve what is the will of God—what is good and well-pleasing and perfect. Romans 12:2 In the world, not of the world. Amen?

We’ve officially resided in the desert for just shy of 18 months. I love most things about living here. I like that we don’t have to shovel wet, heavy, snow in the spring. I like that we get to enjoy amazing sunsets every night. I like that we have a Monsoon Season, with thunder, lightening and rain in the middle of the scorching summer months. I like feeling the warmth (I mean the crazy, intense heat) when I come out of an air-conditioned building. I don’t like 100 degree temperatures past Labor Day. I don’t like wearing summer clothes as often as I do. I miss my boots. And I absolutely despise some of the critters living in these parts: rattle snakes, coyotes, javolena pigs (yep, Google them), and of course, the infamous scorpions. These critters are what nightmares are made of. The night we moved in, my brother-in-law and teenage nephews, showed up at our door with this thing called a black-light. They informed us we were going on a scorpion hunt. We were weary from moving and unpacking boxes, and we weren’t really thinking through the magnitude of this whole hunting expedition. I don’t think it became real until they walked through our house and to the backyard to shine the black light in every nook and cranny to hunt for scorpions. These little critters are best found under a black light in the dark of night. Did I mention, our backyard? They weren’t intending to take us to the vacant lot down the street, or the neighborhood park. No. They were planning to find scorpions in our own backyard. God help me! Much to my dismay, they found some. They were along the fence line of our house. I didn’t look. Couldn’t look. That night, we lay in bed, in the dark, unfamiliar room, staring at the ceiling. I’m not sure what my husband was thinking, but I was very much aware that if scorpions were outside our door, they most definitely wanted in at some point. And that’s when this unhealthy fear of these critters started for me. You better believe I called THE best pest control service in town the very next morning. I started to hear scorpion stories everywhere I went. My sister told me, “Scorpions don’t crawl upstairs. You only have to worry about them on the main level of your home. Some people I know put the legs of their bed posts in glass jars because scorpions can’t climb up glass for some reason.” A neighbor told me, “Scorpions don’t like the sunshine or the heat. They live under rocks. You’ll be fine. Just always, always wear shoes when you’re outside.” “The lady at Sprouts said, “I always keep a pair of flip flops near my bed at night in case I need to go to the bathroom. Wouldn’t want to step on one of those critters.” And this topped them all. The pool guy shared this ditty with me. “I had one come through the jetted tub in my bathroom. They can live in pipes.” Then I started to hear horror stories of actual scorpion stings. I stepped on one outside one evening. Boy did it hurt. I was folding laundry, fresh out of the dryer, and one stung me. My 3 year old daughter was stung by one while taking a bath. It was so scary. I ended up in the ER because it was so painful. Lord have mercy. Last week a friend of mine showed up at my house. She came in, and gingerly sat down on my couch. I asked her what had happened. No joke, she had thrown out her back the night before when she was scorpion hunting. And then, a few nights ago I was parked in a dark driveway picking up my daughter from a friend’s house. I saw a figure and dim light out of the corner of my eye. You guessed it. The next door neighbor was on the hunt. Friends, this is a real thing. People everywhere, across the Valley of the Sun, armed with black lights, participate in scorpion hunts on a nightly basis. So logically you must be wondering how you dispose of such evil? Of course insecticides, but some “professional” hunters I know carry a propane lighter (when hunting outside) and burn them to a crisp. Done and done. I can assure you that 18 months later, I am still a hot mess about scorpions.  I can’t say I’ve ever seen a living one, thank the Lord. However, to quote our realtor who sold us our lovely home, “Those who don’t see scorpions, don’t want to see them, but that doesn’t mean they’re not there.” And there you go. Sleep tight, and don’t let the bed bugs bite, or the scorpions sting.

It was a Sunday afternoon, and I had a really great coupon to one of my favorite clothing stores that was expiring soon. I decided to make a quick stop at this favorite store of mine. I found a few items, tried them on, was pleased with how they looked, and proceeded to check out with the cute, friendly, sales associate, who most likely goes to high school with my kids. Let me stop right here. I’m in this stage of life where I am well aware that I am a forty-something. I like to dress in what’s stylish, but I’m too old for some styles and too young for other styles.   I know this. So here I am at this store. I vacillate about shopping there every time I enter through its double wooden doors, but I feel like a rock star when I’m there. I get my own dressing room with my name on it. I pick out a few items to try on, and an employee takes them to “my room.” By the time I get back to “my dressing room” to try on clothes, some invisible fashionista has added accessories and sweaters and jackets to show me the cute outfits I could wear with the items I’ve chosen. And of course buy—which is probably what it’s really about. As I frantically searched through the several hundred emails in my inbox to find the most amazing coupon ever, I heard the sales clerk say, “Oh I love the skull shirt you chose.” I looked up from my phone, smiled, and said, “Me too.” Yep, I’m pretty sure that’s what I said. I was half listening and half searching my emails, which clearly need some pruning. “Here it is,” I said, as I handed over my phone. “Oh this is a great coupon! You definitely saved some money.” I walked out, well maybe skipped out of the store. I was really happy with my purchases, and even more happy with the savings. I don’t seem to have the best luck when it comes to using coupons. I cut them out, save them in a special tray in my office, and then they expire before I even remember they’re there. Or, as the case was this day, they get buried in my unorganized inbox. But regardless, I scored this particular day, and nothing was going to ruin my joy. Except for maybe a certain shirt folded nicely at the bottom of my bag. I got home and excitedly showed off my finds to my husband. I pulled out the infamous shirt, and he said, “Hmm. Wait. Step back a little. “ I stepped back and held up the shirt. “Honey, that has a skull on it,” and burst out laughing. “No. No. it’s flowers in a pretty pattern, with two holes, and, oh my goodness, that’s what she meant. But it’s cute, right?” “It is, but it’s not you. And maybe you’re too old for the demographic of skull shirt wearers.” “Well sheesh, that’s not nice to say.” He’s right though. It’s not me. It may work for someone else. It may even work for a fellow forty-something, but I have a style, and skull shirts just aren’t it. I would even go as far as to say I like to wear things that represent life, not decomposed corpses. So, Friends, lesson learned. I need to pay a little more attention when I shop at youthful stores with a great coupon; and an even bigger lesson learned, I need to be fully present when visiting with young sales associates who are working hard and making conversations with someone who could be their mom. Not the biggest life lessons, but important none-the-less.

It’s called Black Hawk Days, fondly named after the school mascot.  It happens once a year at this time, when students from these parts wind down summer break, and focus their attention on the new school year. Black Hawk Days is a fancy way of saying, Students: It’s Time to Pick Up Your Class Schedule, and While You’re at It, Bring a Parent or Guardian, and their Wallet. I had the privilege of accompanying two little “hawks” to The Nest for school registration. (I’m not even kidding, they are referred to as “hawks,” and there is a figurative “nest” on campus.)  Actually I was only there for monetary reasons.  There were class fees, dance fees, parking pass fees, class shirt fees, activity card fees. You name it, I wrote a check for it. I’m not mad about this. I get it. It takes a lot to run a high school, and for the most part, this high school is worth all of its fees. Maddie had a great sophomore year last year, and I know Izzy is going to have an exciting f-f-ff-ffreshman year. Ugh, I’m still finding it hard to let that word escape my mouth. How is it that I have a freshman and junior? So back to picking up the class schedule. My Friends, this is a big deal. Registration opened at 1 o’clock, and by 1:02 p.m. Snap Chat was lit up on Izzy’s phone. Everyone (Izzy’s word) was posting a picture of their schedule for the sole purpose of seeing which friends were in what classes. Izzy and I, however, were enjoying a nice bowl of soup at Panera. (Because it was 108 degrees outside, and soup just seemed refreshing.) I wasn’t planning to join the long lines at 1pm. Registration was open several hours, and being that I had just joined about 10 lines the day before when Maddie was registering, I was going to be a little strategic this go around. But the girl pleaded and begged. “Can we please go as soon as we finish lunch? I’m so anxious. I really hope I know people in my classes.” “Okay. Hold on, Izzy. Why is this so important? The schedule is going to be the same whether we go at 2 or at 4.” “You don’t understand, Mom. I’m nervous, and I’ll just feel better when I know what to expect.” Won’t we all, Sister. On the drive from lunch to the school, I could tell Izzy was nervous. She squirmed in her seat, and checked her phone every other second to see if another friend had posted the all important school schedule. “So why is it so important to you to have friends in your classes? I mean, I guess I get it. Ideally it would be great, but chances are it won’t be that way. This is high school. It’s bigger and more crowded, but on the bright side, it’s not like you can talk to your friends in class anyway. You’ll be too busy learning.” “Well, Mom, that’s not really true. Just because it’s high school doesn’t mean I’m going to quit talking to people in class. I’m Izzy. “ I shouldn’t even wonder why I spend so much money visiting my favorite hairdresser. There it was. The reason for so many grey hairs was sitting in the passenger’s seat next to me. “So here’s the deal, Honey. I wouldn’t want you any other way. I love that you’re social. I love that you are fun loving and adventurous. I’m sure everyone around you does too. You make people feel good, and included. But, there is a time to be social, and a time to be quiet. “ She is so different than I was at her age. I followed rules. I studied. I thought, and planned, and worried about my future. I envied people like Izzy. The social butterflies. The adventurous types. The ones who never seemed to have a care in the world. But this time, I have a front row seat to see the reality. I see a girl with lots of dreams she keeps to herself. I see a girl who needs her space away from people sometimes. I see a girl who has a tender heart. I see a girl who gets hurts, and cries, and wonders about this sometimes dark world. I see someone who gets nervous about eating lunch alone on the first day of high school. And I see a girl, who, all she can think about, is being first in line at Black Hawk Days. Every day of this parenting journey is about letting go. It’s about giving up control, little by little, as God pens my children’s story. I love it. I hate it. I don’t understand it half of the time.  But I realize they need to begin to forge their own path. They need to figure out how to navigate the journey that is before them. And whether I like it or not, that time is now. In the end, Izzy was quite pleased with her schedule. You’ll be glad to know that she has at least one friend in every class. We came to an agreement too. I said, “How about we approach high school with the 80-20 rule? Do you know what that means? It’s 80% focusing on academics and grades, and 20% on all the other stuff in high school.” “I understand, Mom. But I’m thinking 70-30? Or 60-40?”

She could not meet another brand new group of mothers. She’d found socializing with the school mums difficult enough when her life was in perfect order. The chat, chat, chat, the swirls of laughter, the warmth, the friendliness (most mums were so very nice) and the gentle hint of bitchiness that ran beneath it all. She’d done it other places. She’d made a few friends on the outskirts of the inner social circle, but she couldn’t do it again. Not now. She didn’t have the strength. It was like someone had cheerfully suggested she run a marathon when she’d just dragged herself out of bed after suffering from the flu. ~Liane Moriarty, The Husbands Secret It’s not often that I run across a profound excerpt from a popular fiction book where I can emphatically say, “Yes! This! This is me. This is how I’ve felt, and this author captured me so well.” I don’t often post quotes or excerpts from a piece of popular fiction that really have no spiritual basis at all, but since we’re friends, you should know that I enjoy reading. And I read all kinds of genres—even edgy things. I have come to realize that I can learn something from many different someones. Sometimes I learn that I absolutely disagree with something once I filter it through scripture and prayer. Sometimes I learn that I need to yank the log out of my own eye and not be so quick to judge. And sometimes, in this case, the book I’m reading gives me great insight to some personal truths about myself. The above excerpt is something that, Tess, a young mom, is realizing about herself. She’s going through a rough season, and even if it weren’t a rough season, her introverted self struggles with building relationships in a new setting. It’s exhausting for her, even in the best seasons of life. I can relate to this. I remember when we moved to Arizona, just over a year ago, and a couple of my close friends from Colorado asked me if we had found a good church community, and if I had made some new friends yet. I tentatively would answer, “Well, yes, kind of. I mean, I’m not really looking for a lot of friends right now, and I’m just trying to figure out where I want to get involved in church ministry again. But I’m fine with this. Really, I am.” And I was. At least I thought I was. It was late last year when I began to realize that maybe I wasn’t so fine. Maybe I was a little lonely. Maybe it was time to pull up my big girls pants, put aside the past hurts, and get involved in a church community again. So, I tried. I tried out some volunteer opportunities at the church we were attending. I remember walking out of one volunteer meeting for this particular ministry team and trying to stifle my tears. I couldn’t leave the building fast enough to get to my car for a good ugly cry over the steering wheel. I pounded and gripped the wheel wondering what was wrong with me, and how come I felt like such an outsider with this team of people. I felt God gently whisper, “You are not ready yet. This is not the place and the time for you yet. Wait.” The “W” word—WAIT. Ugh, I strongly dislike that word. But I complied. I waited. And then, through a series of some pretty amazing events, I found my people. My family found our people. It turns out they attend this church that meets in an elementary school about 10 minutes from our house. They are genuine, accepting, hungry to know God and study His Word.  They are eager to know and love others well. And I figured out, just from a few visits, that they will have my back. If crisis were to enter my life tomorrow, I would have a crowd of people in my living room, loving on me and holding me up. It actually gives me goose bumps when I think about it. I’ve been pretty open about my story with ministry and church on this blog site. You’ve read about my ups and downs and hurts and joys that I’ve faced inside the fours walls of church. It’s been three years since this journey began, but I can say with confidence, I’m on the other side of that challenging time. I’m ready to build relationships again. I’m ready to be vulnerable, and let people in. I’m ready to serve, no matter the cost. I’m ready. I’m just ready. And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of his return is drawing near. Hebrews 10:25 During the last three years, I’ve avoided this particular scripture at any cost. I knew I was neglecting church, and giving up on the body of Christ. I was the “some people” this verse refers to. But I also believe, as with many biblical truths, there is space and margin and grace in these words. There is an aspect of God’s timing in these words that we don’t understand. I don’t regret this last season. God had to teach me something. In His way.  In His time.   

Today is February 11, 2017.  Maddie hiked Camelback Mountain this morning, with six of her (newish) friends.  Izzy is enjoying a rare Saturday of relaxation, and hanging out with friends, since she has a weekend off from volleyball.  Matt and I just returned from Lowes where we bought an umbrella and some potted plants to go by the pool in our backyard. After all it’s almost time to bring out the swimsuits. I realize this all sounds a little boring and mundane, but it’s February 11. One year ago (this weekend) looked much different.  (It was actually Valentines Day.  And 2016 was a Leap Year, so my dates for this little story don’t quite line up, but you get the gist.)  It wasn’t quite as sunny.  It certainly wasn’t as warm, and we were in a bit of holding pattern, not sure what to do.  We spent the day looking at homes in Parker, Colorado, while buyer after buyer went through our home.  We entertained a couple of offers, and finally accepted one, but with such uncertainty of what our future held. Then came this extraordinary thought…….Why don’t we move to Arizona? We have family there, and we could use some family in our lives right now.  Of course it wasn’t that easy, but it was right, and when things are right, and God directs, and we obey, things just have a way of coming together. So here we are.  One year later.  Living in Arizona.  It’s February 11.  I think we’ve settled in quite nicely. 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. Then you will call on me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you, declares the Lord. Jeremiah 29:11-14

I think we can all agree that receiving good customer service is a really good thing. In our American culture, good customer service is expected. Let’s face it: We notice when it’s good, and we really notice when it’s bad. Over the weekend, I saw an ad for some “natural” deodorant. Before I knew it I was reading an in-depth article about all things pertaining to the underarm. And boy was it convincing. In a moment of weakness, I almost clicked the button to order this amazing deodorant, but then I got my wits about me, and walked away from my computer. I’m all for good deodorant, and I pay attention to what I put in, and on, my body, but this was an expensive purchase for a toiletry item. I left the page open on my screen, just in case, and went on with what I was doing. I have been known to make a hasty purchase before, and I have certainly been persuaded by the marketing and advertising industry from time to time. But truth be told, I love to try new products. Though it isn’t so new anymore, my favorite innovative product of all time is Clorox wipes. I don’t even want to imagine my life without them. Then came Wrinkle Releaser. Thank you very much, Downy! I mean, I can’t iron to save myself.   And then, Nivea (in-shower) Body Lotion. Do you know how much time I save skipping this step in morning? It’s bone dry here in the desert. Moisturizer is a must. But to take care of this much needed beauty routine in the shower, is quite honestly, revolutionary. I came back to my computer this morning, and was greeted with the deodorant page. I read it again.   Okay, I told myself. We are going in. I clicked a few buttons, entered a few digits, and my sample pack should arrive in a few days. I promise you, this was not a hasty decision this time. I thought about it all weekend. Every time I opened my medicine cabinet in the bathroom, and saw my old deodorant sitting there, I wondered if I was missing out on something better. Okay, that’s a little dramatic, but I did think through this purchase before typing in my cc number. I want you to see the email that came with my invoice. This just confirms to me, whether I made the right purchase or not, someone knows how to market their product, and a thing or two about virtual customer service.  Krista, You Rock! It was just another mundane day at our office when suddenly, Jackie took a look at the computer and her eyes widened. “We did it,” she exclaimed! “We got an order from Krista Keane!” Laura jumped out of her chair and ran to Jackie’s desk. She didn’t even read the entire email – she just saw “Krista” and started screaming in delight! “O.M.G.” Laura shouted. “This is real! We have an order from Krista!” The entire office erupted in applause. “Party In the USA” blared from the speakers (Jackie’s a huge Miley Cyrus fan) as confetti rained down from the ceiling and champagne bottles were popped. The entire Native Team is thrilled you’re a customer! Thank you so much for your support and for giving us a reason to cheer on another champion of health! As soon as we’re done exchanging high-fives, we’ll send you tracking information so you can track your package. If you have any questions or concerns, please reach out to us at…… “Oh no, no, YOU rock, Jackie and Laura.” Good customer service? How about exceptional?

The morning wasn’t going well.   It always comes down to feeling rushed, and then everything seems to unravel from there. It was the first day back to school for my kids, and back to work for my husband after a long break. For some reason vacations zap me of some brain cells. It’s like I forgot how to do daily life and routines. It was only two weeks off, but it was enough to throw me for a loop that morning. I ran upstairs to blow dry my hair and put on some makeup. I have this thing, a mantra of sorts. If I look good, I’ll do good. It sounds dumb, and a little vain, but I just function better when I feel better about myself. Makeup and hair care makes me feel good about myself. So back to the blow dryer…..yeah, well, it suddenly didn’t work. Weird, but no problem, I thought, I’ll put on my makeup first. Hmm, lighted makeup mirror doesn’t work. I yelled downstairs to my daughter who was enjoying a nice breakfast while she waited for me to drive her to school. And when I say nice, it might have possibly been a Pop-tart. The details are fuzzy. Do you have electricity in your bathroom?  No, I had to straighten my hair in my room.  This is not good. And couldn’t you have let me know this? The lights worked fine, but every outlet I tried in our bathroom and bedroom didn’t. I ended up blow drying my hair in the hallway. The hallway. I wondered the same thing. Why is there an outlet in the hallway? Because I have a husband who has traveled for work our whole married life, which will be 20 years in August, I have become somewhat familiar with household maintenance. I know a thing or two about sprinkler systems, leaky faucets, electric garage door malfunctions, breaker boxes, snow blowers, and GFI’s. The lights were working, so I knew this was a GFI issue and it needed to be reset. Right?  So simple, yet so not. Every house we have lived in, the GFI reset buttons are attached to outlets, but not in this house. Oh no, that would have been too easy. In this house, they are located in the breaker box on the side of the house. Thankfully it was a bright and sunny morning because fiddling with a breaker box in the dark, outside, well too many scary movie plots happen in dark corners of the yard. It took several minutes for me to figure out how to even open the box itself, but I did. My frustration level, by this point, was high. I pulled out my phone and called Izzy, who was still enjoying her Pop-tart and reading Snap Chat stories. (Insert eye roll here.) I was in a panic state, and she was calm, relaxed, and eating. Hey Mom, she answered. Look, I hate to interrupt your nice little breakfast, but you might have noticed I’m running around the house and yard with half wet hair and no makeup, and we need to leave the house in 10 minutes. DO YOU THINK YOU COULD HELP ME?!?!? Yes Mom. Gosh. What’s wrong? Go upstairs and tell me when my blow dryer starts working. I have to figure out what’s going on. There were five GFI reset buttons. They weren’t labeled very well. How am I supposed to know what is bedroom #1 and bathroom #3? And one was labeled “smokies.” Seriously. I decided to reset all of them. Is it working, Izzy?  No.  Are you sure?  I know how to tell if a blow dryer is working, Mom.  Do you now? Do you really? Ugh. This day is killing me, and it’s only 8 a.m. Time was ticking, and I needed to get my girl to school. I took a few deep breaths and walked away from the breaker box. The whole drive, to and from the school, I spent trying to figure out the problem. I lost precious moments of one on one time with that sweet girl of mine, all because of a silly outlet not working. I find it ironic that all morning, and most of that day, I spent searching for a power source. I tried resetting those GFI’s like five times, and still could not get power to the outlets. I yelled at my daughter out of frustration.   I texted my husband several times, with pictures of outlets and breaker boxes, and they weren’t very kind texts. As it turned out, there is a GFI attached to an outlet inside the house. It’s located in Maddie’s bathroom. I never even thought to look there. Once I found it and reset it, everything worked. Instantly. One click of a button, and problem solved. Did you catch it? Did you catch the part about I never even thought to look there?  Tears well in my eyes as I write this. So often I miss it. So often I miss plugging into THE power source. So often I make first things first that should be last on the list. So often I look everywhere else, but not the one place I need to. And then, this: Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love, that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days. 17 May the favor of the Lord our God rest on us; establish the work of our hands for us— yes, establish the work of our hands. Psalm 90:14, 17 Satisfy. I love that word. I wonder if the Psalmist wants us to realize that being satisfied; nothing more, nothing less, just enough, means we can experience joy from God’s unfailing love every single day? The problems will come. They will come daily. That is a promise too. But joy? Sometimes that’s a little harder to find. Sometimes it’s a choice. God is waiting, though, with unfailing love, to have us fall into His arms and…

It was another night of excitement as the undefeated Blackhawks Football team took the field for their first playoff game of the season. (If you are wondering who are the Blackhawks, they are the local high school team my daughter cheers for.  It’s quite possible I am their biggest fan.) The Blackhawks were up by a few touchdowns at the beginning of the third quarter as the visiting team, from Tucson, now had the ball. The crowd was on fire, chanting, “Defense, Defense!” The play was made, and the ball carrier was running down the sidelines toward his end zone. And then, all of a sudden, he wasn’t. He was down. Flat. From my vantage point, I could only see his still legs. A few players from the visiting team stepped away from the scene on the field, and took a knee. Then the whole team joined. Our coach and trainers walked over to the scene of the injury. With a nod from the head coach, our players took a knee. A few minutes turned into five minutes, and then 10 minutes. The injured player was still down. The cheerleaders were now seated and quiet. The rowdy student section sat down with eyes fixed on the scene unfolding in front of us. The once loud and excited stadium was eerily quiet. Fifteen minutes passed. Sirens could be heard in the distance. Soon the fire department arrived, and made their way on the field to assess the injured player. Every once in a while, when the crowd cleared around him, I could see what looked like lifeless legs. His position never changed. The crowd began to mumble. The worst thoughts raced through our minds. Head injury? Spinal injury? Something worse? I closed my eyes and prayed for this young man. I prayed for his parents, wondering if they were watching this horror play out. Twenty-five minutes now, and then flashing lights could be seen on the track below. The ambulance proceeded on to the field. The EMT’s carefully moved the injured player on the stretcher and into the ambulance. The crowd stood and cheered as the ambulance made its way off the field, across the track, and into the parking lot.  The announcer came over the intercom and said that the player had sustained a head injury, but was conscious. He asked that we lift up this player and his family in our thoughts and prayers. And then there was this moment that captivated my attention. I will never forget it. Both teams, without prompting, gathered in the end zone of the visiting team, and took a knee. All of them. Our guys wore black and red; their guys in blue and gold. But in that moment, there was a blend of colors, as they formed in clusters, praying, hugging, and comforting one another before the game resumed. Tears welled in my eyes. I thought how this, this, was the definition of community. This was sportsmanship at its finest. This was what it looks like to take our eyes off of ourselves and focus on another human being who is struggling. I thought about how moments like this are somewhat rare–at least these days. You may wonder why this was all so touching to me. This game took place two days after our country’s presidential election. This game took place a day after my husband returned from traveling, and peaceful protests (well barely peaceful) broke out in the streets below the hotel he was staying. This scene unfolded a few hours after I deleted the Facebook app from my phone because, frankly, I couldn’t stand to read status updates anymore. This game took place on November 10, because school and football was not going to happen on the 11th, as we honored our country’s veterans. I shake my head and wonder.  Why, during the week of the election, did I have to look to a high school football game, and a serious injury, to find goodness, human kindness, and unity? But I did. Several days have passed. I’m still cautious about what I read on the Internet, or if I should watch the news at all. I’ve found I like Instagram better. Pictures and short captions are just what I need right now. The Blackhawks continue their undefeated streak, and will play in the State Championship game on Saturday at the Cardinals Arena. And the injured player from Tucson? He’s fine. Praise the Lord. He’s fine. This month of thankfulness didn’t start out so thankful or grateful for me. The negativity leading up to election night, and the days to follow, made me everything but positive. But that football game changed something. It made me realize, once again, that we need each other. In moments of crisis, like the one on the field that night, there was an unspoken understanding throughout that whole stadium that we needed to come together as a community. Race, age, gender, political views, and even religious affiliations, didn’t matter in that moment. We all needed to hope in something greater than ourselves. Or, as I’d like to think, Someone, greater than ourselves. Thank you to the Blackhawks Football Community for giving me some hope in humankind again.

Don’t worry. This is not a political post. It’s mostly just something light and humorous, well I guess you’ll be the judge of that. I happen to find it funny. I woke up this morning feeling a little numb, indifferent, serious and perplexed. I know I get this look on my face when I’m deep in thought about something. I can almost feel my face stiffen. Let’s just say, I had the stiff look going on for most of the morning. I tried to unpack some of my thoughts with my friend over coffee, but still left feeling contemplative. There’s a lot to unpack from the last 24 hours. My phone dinged to let me know that I needed to pick my youngest up early from school for a dentist appointment. I was running late, so I decided to use voice commands with Siri, while driving. Here’s where my day began to pick up. Me: Siri, text Izzy. Siri: Facetime with Dr. Micah? Me: NO WAY! (as I click my home button frantically.) Can you imagine me face timing with my doctor while driving around town? Me: Siri, text Izzy. Siri: Call Izzy Two Hearts? Me: What the heck? Izzy Two Hearts? No, No, NO! I then remembered that Izzy added the two pink hearts emoji to her contact in my phone, but calling Izzy during her Spanish class, hearts or not, well you can imagine how that would go over. Me: Siri, text Izzy Siri: Play music by Katy Perry? Me: Are you kidding me? NO! STOP! And then this: “I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter, dancing through the fire. ‘Cause I am a champion and you’re gonna hear me roar. Louder, louder than a lion.” Yep, pretty much. I was yelling into my phone. And believe me, I was yelling louder than a lion. My arms may have been flailing by this time. I could not get the music to stop. For the love. How can she not understand such a simple command? And then I realized I was at my destination. Sitting in the school parking lot. All that, just to let Izzy know I was on my way. I started laughing.  I mean what else can you do? Sometimes you have to laugh at poor, computerized Siri. Sometimes you have to laugh when life gets too serious. And sometimes, you just have to laugh at yesterday.  Today will have enough troubles.

Halloween was just a few days ago. As I sat in my neighbor’s driveway that night enjoying a hearty bowl of hot soup, good conversation, creepy music in the background, skeletons, cobwebs, and ghosts strewn about the yard; I thought back to a time when I probably wouldn’t have attended such a party. It was before we had children. Matt had never celebrated Halloween being from Jamaica, where it’s not a recognized holiday. Nor did he understand the point. Me, on the other hand, analyzed the holiday, studied it’s origins, and decided that based on the evil surrounding it, I was going to have no part of it. No carved pumpkins or scary décor; no Fall Fests or Halloween alternative events; no candy for trick or treaters. Nothing. I was going to boycott the whole creepy affair, and be the neighbor who would shut her house up tight on Halloween night, and protect her future babies from all things evil. Right… And then these two precious pumpkins showed up. They were sweet and cute, and through their toddler and pre-school years, loved all things dress up, pretend and imaginary. Halloween made its appearance that October, like it does every year, and boy were they intrigued. Not only was this a night to dress up and socialize with neighbor kids, but it was also a night to collect candy. Lots and lots of candy. I mean seriously, even at three and five-years-old, no argument against Halloween would have satisfied their desire to participate. So I caved. We bought the decorations, the candy, and the costumes. They went trick or treating and had a blast. So did I. As the years have gone by, it has become one of my favorite times of year. I don’t necessarily love the creepiness Halloween represents, but that’s just because I scare easily.   I do, however, love the opportunity to hang out with neighbors on October 31. We set up lawn chairs in our driveway, haul out the fire pit, make hot apple cider, and then we chat the night away; catching up on kids, vacations, jobs, and life. I would like to believe there is this unwritten “rule” among neighbors that Halloween is the one night in the fall where we gather together and take a break from our busy lives. It’s that time after summer cools down, and before winter settles in, where we can reconnect, and remind ourselves once again that we need each other. Sometimes connecting with others isn’t about what I want to do, or what makes me feel comfortable. It’s about learning what others find enjoyable, and joining in, because I like being around them. Who knew I would have learned that lesson all those years ago from two young kiddos just wanting to dress up and collect candy on Halloween? And as far as protecting these pumpkins from all things evil, yeah, that’s a ginormous challenge. Turns out monsters lurk around every corner at their school. Creepers troll the Internet and social media sites they visit. Thugs pester and prod them on a daily basis in the name of bullying. I’m learning to pick my poison. There are so many things to fear in this life, so why get uptight about a little Halloween fun? I’m choosing a different poison.

The night before I travel I have a tendency to get a little frazzled. The to do list that I never allowed to leave my head, and land on paper, starts to jumble up and confuse me. Did I pack that? I did. Yes. Right? It’s dumb really, but I hate to believe I need to write things down. It’s a game I play with myself. Let’s see how much I can remember without writing it down. Like I said, it’s dumb. Here’s another look inside this silly head of mine. This was a random thought that seemed to appear out of nowhere in the frazzled mess of the eve before traveling. I even said this one out loud to my husband. “I wonder if people from our former community think I’m the one who made us move to AZ. Like I’m this out of control, out of her head, wife, who, in order to have any peace in your own life, had to move your family.” The look on his face was priceless. “What are you talking about? Where did that even come from? I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of all the Divine Intervention everyone of us felt when making this decision. No, don’t even think like that. We were all on board, and this was meant to be. Look how good things are for us.” Yes. You are right, I thought. But still, where did that thought even come from? Oh Friends, the random thoughts weren’t over yet though. And this next one is a doozy. I have to believe that in moments of stress sometimes our minds trick us. We might be thinking in the here and now, but on some deeper level, these random thoughts are leading to a deep truth, or lie, locked away inside our minds. I started to think about how my oldest daughter has noticed this boy at school. She’s told me a few things she’s observed about him. And now, I might possibly think he’s the one for her.  Seriously, I can’t make this stuff up. She got up the courage to ask a mutual friend about him. The friend could not stop talking about what a great guy he is, but then ended the conversation by telling her that he just found the love of his life, and is now in a relationship. You might be thinking I had a moment of clarity and did not let this situation that is completely out of my hands, and really has no direct influence on me personally, bother me. Nope. Not so. It added to the tension I was already feeling. Fast forward several hours later, and one night of restless sleep. We arrived at our gate with a few minutes to sit and catch our breath. My youngest nudged me and asked if I had seen the lady standing in line crying and talking on her cell phone. I told her I had not, and went on with sipping my coffee and tidying my carry on luggage. We boarded the plane. My husband and two daughters took a row, and I took the aisle seat across from them. Then I heard the sobs from the window seat next to me. It was the lady. She was on the phone. My heart dropped. A lump formed in my throat. I could hear bits and pieces of her conversation, and knew she was grieving the loss of a loved one. She was on this very full flight for a very different reason than the other passengers. Fun, adventures, sight seeing, even business meetings did not await her on the other end, but instead a most dreadful situation. She fell asleep shortly after we took off. I looked at her tear-stained face and prayed silently for her. And then my thoughts turned. I looked at the three precious people in the row beside me. I thought of the many precious people on the ground at home. What if? What if that was me making a dreadful trip like the person next to me? And then, as if the skies had opened up and dropped a huge revelation right in my lap, I picked up a book my sister loaned me for our trip. Uninvited: Living Loved When You Feel Less Than, Left Out and Lonely, by Lysa TerKeurst. At first appearance, I wasn’t sure if this book would really relate to me. I can’t say I feel lonely, left out, or even less than. I have at other times in my life, but not really right now. After reading a few pages, I was hooked. This author speaks truth. I laughed and cried all in the first three chapters, and all while sitting on a crowded airplane. No matter how saved, sanctified, mature and free we are, there are misalignments embedded in our souls. The cause of [some] misalignments is something we all wish would have stayed in the middle school locker room: rejection. Rejection. I like her choice of words. Misalignments. Over the last 24 hours I had been out of my mind with irrational thoughts, or ‘misalignments” as she so graciously puts it. But rejection? Hmm. That’s a tough one. I’m not sure I saw that truth coming. Lysa went on to explain that rejection doesn’t have to be some monumental act done against us, like in her case, a difficult relationship with her father, but it can be as simple as words spoken over us that we’ve carried with us over time. Words we may not even be able to recall until taking an inventory of our soul. Two core fears that feed a person’s sensitivity to rejection: The fear of being abandoned; and the fear of losing one’s identity. I laid my head back. Well, that’s not true. I was still on the airplane, and why bother even clicking the button to move the seat back? What’s one more inch going to do anyway? I sat straight up…

I walked into the auditorium, like I’ve done many times before. I found a seat near the front, but far enough from the stage for my introverted self to feel secure. I looked around and realized how I didn’t know anyone. My stomach did a little flip as it caught on to what my brain was processing. I wondered if I should stay. I wanted to, but I also knew there were 15 other things I would rather do that would be more comfortable than this. As I looked around the auditorium, my critique-y side started to emerge. I wonder who’s speaking? I wonder if his words will make me mad? I wonder who designed the set on stage? I wonder how many volunteers it takes to run such an event? I wonder if I’ll ever feel comfortable in this place. It’s been six months already, come on now. Another woman, about my age, walked in and sat across the aisle. What had motivated her to come? Did she feel as uncomfortable as I did? I looked around again. Good grief this place is huge. I heard the background music start playing through the sound system, and my stomach did that flip thing again. The speaker walked out on the stage and welcomed the now growing crowd. He said, “I don’t know what has brought you here today, but know this,  you don’t have to believe before you belong. We are just glad you’re here.” Wait. What? You don’t have to believe before you belong? I don’t really think I heard much after that. I’m sure if anyone had studied the expression on my face, they would have seen bewilderment. You see, I was sitting in church—the place I’ve always, always thought you had to have things a little bit figured out, and quite a bit in order, before darkening its doors on any given weekend. Yet, there I sat. I’ve believed since I was a young child, but the belonging thing, well, I don’t know if I’ve thought much about that. I wanted to raise my hand, in that very moment, and ask for a do-over from 30 years ago. Every church I’ve ever attended I’ve jumped in headfirst. I’ve been driven by this idea that to be in God’s good graces I needed to get involved immediately, become known by the church leaders, serve whenever an opportunity presented itself, but now I wondered if I missed an important step along the way. I don’t think I’ve really taken the time to just belong—at least not in recent years. The pastor came on stage to deliver the message. He spoke about community and being part of something greater than yourself. He talked about how this church has a saying, “Life is better together.” He shared this scripture: Two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. But pity anyone who falls and has no one to help them up. Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 I fell recently. Not literally, but figuratively. I fell hard. I fell because I was so consumed by all the work of the church that I lost my balance. I became overwhelmed, burned out, and eventually had to take time off.  There were a close few who walked through this season with me. They held me up. It could have been a very lonely time had it not been for my tribe who allowed me to feel, to vent, to process, and to be broken. As much as I learned from that season, I do wonder if the outcome would have been different had I taken the time to belong first. Instead I rushed in with this faulty belief system about God and church. I will never know what could have been, and there really are no do-overs for me, but I can certainly change some things going forward in this next season. I’m thankful for the pastor who carefully crafted the greeting he gave that day that resonated so deeply with me.  I don’t know his story, but I think he understands what it might feel like for someone checking out church for the first time, or the one who is bravely stepping back through the doors after a difficult season of ministry.   I’m thankful for a church that promotes belonging as the first step. I’m thankful for this new community. I feel safe. I feel comfortable. And I’m going to sit and enjoy belonging for a while.

It was a beautiful Friday night here in the desert. The sun was setting across the field. The temperature was dropping—well a bit. And a nice breeze was blowing. The announcer came on the loud speaker and welcomed the parents and students to the first home football game of the season at Williams Field High School. I peered through the crowd and spotted her on the track. She was sporting a black and red cheer uniform. A big red bow held her golden brown hair in place. And a smile that lit up the entire stadium spread across her face. I was barely able to stifle the sobs that wanted to erupt from my mouth. Not sobs of sadness, but of complete joy. A year ago, I never thought this day would come. ****** I’ll never forget that warm, October day in Parker, Colorado. It was one of those perfect Rocky Mountain days. I had even pulled over on the way home from the store to take some pictures of the Aspens that were changing color. I was unloading groceries from my car, when my cell phone rang. I saw the caller ID light up on my screen, Madeline Keane, and I had that “mom feeling.” You know the one. That feeling that makes your heart sink to your stomach. That feeling that something was horribly wrong. I dropped the bags of groceries and sat down on the garage steps. “Hey Honey,” I answered, in my most cheery voice. “Hey Mom,” said the very weak voice on the other end. “I just woke up on the bathroom floor at school. I think I fainted. Can you come get me?” And in that moment, the comfortable, fairly easy, life I had known, changed forever. That day marked the start of a journey that would take our family through a hell we had never expected. After a few trips to the ER that month, and several tests later to rule out this and that, our beautiful, firstborn, 14-year-old daughter was diagnosed with Social Anxiety Disorder and Generalized Anxiety Disorder. I remember hearing those words ring in my head as we sat in the sterile room at the doctor’s office. I’ve since grown to hate the word disorder, and for that matter, doctor’s offices. Those words just sound so hopeless. So clinical. So private. So embarrassing. How could this have happened? Did we mess up in our parenting somehow? It was home schooling for those three years wasn’t it? Maybe I made her think she wasn’t brave somehow? Maybe we pushed her too hard? Or not hard enough? Maybe that Russian dance instructor ruined her confidence? She might need new friends? Heck, she might need new parents? Could there be a history of mental illness in my family? My husband’s?  God, how did this happen? I don’t know if I’ll ever find the answer to that question of how, but I can tell you a story of grief, loss, pain, and the hope of redemption, We had noticed some signs of anxiety early on in 2015. Maddie would experience moments of feeling nervous before school, dance classes, and youth group. Pretty much any social situation would trigger what we called “nervousness.” But not always, and that’s what made it so tricky to figure out. There were two high school students in our community who died that year—one from suicide, and the other from a car accident. Their deaths rocked our community, and I think deep down they rocked Maddie. It was a rude awakening for a young girl to see the ugliness of this world played out in front of her, in her seemingly safe environment. We sought out a counselor, and Maddie started attending weekly sessions. She talked through things that scared here; she learned tools to use when she felt anxious. It worked for a while, but then it didn’t. And I became anxious. I wanted to fix her. I wanted a solution. I didn’t want her to face this darkness. I called our family doctor. I explained what was going on. She listened. She understood. And within 10 minutes after hanging up with her, Walgreens called to let me know that a prescription for Prozac was ready for pick up. It was that easy. Desperate times call for desperate measures, right? Sometimes easy isn’t the best, though.   We thought we saw some glimpses of improvement, but looking back, I think we were being overly optimistic. Not wanting to face the reality of the situation before us. Things went from bad to worse. The pills that were supposed to fix her had the complete opposite effect. It was now December. The time when all the yuck in life was supposed to take a backseat, but our reality just sat there in front of us, not moving, not even budging. I decorated our home with red and green cheer. We trimmed the tree. Christmas was Maddie’s favorite. Maybe this would be just what she needed to snap out of her disorder. A new doctor came on the scene, and with him, a new shred of hope. His suggestion was not one medication, but three. He explained chemicals, and the brain, and lots of sciencey stuff, and so we believed. We trusted. This was the logical next step. It had to be. After one dose of this cocktail though, my girlie could barely get off of the bathroom floor. She wasn’t hungry, and if she was, she couldn’t keep food down. She lost weight she didn’t have to lose. Her hair started falling out. She pushed through school a few hours at a time, but then crashed, and slept the afternoon away. She dropped out of dance, choir, friendships and social activities. She existed, but by no means was she living. I cried in my closet almost daily. I didn’t want Maddie to see my tears, frustration and fear. The darkness of winter not only lived outside my door, but it lived…

A few months ago, I received an invitation to join an online neighborhood social media group. It even came complete with its own app for my smart phone. The invitation email went something like this: Krista, come and meet other neighbors in your community. Find out what’s going on around your area, so you can stay informed. So I joined the website. Now I have 24/7 access to all things neighbory in our area. The first time I perused the website, I found a lovely sectional for sale. It now sits in our family room. What can I say, neighbors helping neighbors. And she had very good taste in furniture. A few weeks later, my husband asked a question about scorpions, and how to make sure we never come in contact with such critters. Fifteen comments later, he had his answer. And let me say, our perimeter is secure. I’m telling you, this site has been great. Until last week. And now it’s not so great. Oh my goodness me. I don’t even know where to begin.  Last week, a kind soul, at least that’s how I picture her, posted on the website. She shared about a crime she had heard was happening in our community. Apparently there was a suspicious group of people casing and marking homes for potential break-ins. The suspects would leave a chalk marking of some sort under the doormat that would alert the said burglars of how secure the home was or wasn’t for a break-in. My first thought was that this crime spree might be a hoax, but I went and checked under our doormat anyway. Much to my surprise, we did have a white chalk marking, but it was a straight line, not an X or an O, like I would have thought. I told myself the straight line must mean we are a secure home, and not a target for burglary. I didn’t think much more about it until later that evening when I refreshed the post on my phone. FIFTY comments had been posted in about three hours time. I started reading. My heart even raced a little. Some claimed the security threat was probably a hoax. Others were alarmed. Many neighbors thanked the woman who had posted about the threat. One responsible neighbor even called the police, who later claimed it was a hoax, but a good reminder about being aware of what’s going on in the area. And then there was “Randy.” (That is not his real name.) I would like to call Randy another name, but it’s just not appropriate. Randy is cynical, sarcastic, rude, inappropriate, a bully of sorts, and most likely an insecure individual who sits in the privacy of his own home, behind his computer, typing outrageous comments on social media sites. That’s just my humble opinion, though. If truth be told, we all know a Randy.   He’s the type who attacks people with his words. He belittles others, embarrasses them, all for a few laughs. And when I say a few, I truly mean a very small handful of chuckles. I went to bed that night so fired about Rude Randy. I wanted to give him a piece of my mind. I wanted to defend the sweet woman who, out of concern for her neighbors, had posted the alert to make us all aware. My youngest daughter even said, “Mom, let it go. Don’t be a Fix it Felix.” The next morning I checked the website. Things seemed to have calmed down. There weren’t any new comments, and Rude Randy seemed to be silent. I went on with my day, being a little more aware. I locked my car, even though I feel it’s safe in my driveway. I made sure all our exterior doors were locked. I was thankful for the reminder to just be more aware of my surroundings. My phone chirped at me at about 3:00 in the afternoon alerting me I had new messages on the neighborhood app. I opened the app, and sure enough Rude Randy was at it again. He wasn’t making comments on the original thread, though. Oh no. He had started about three new threads of his own, all of them mocking and making fun of the original post from the day before. This guy needed to be stopped. To heck with Fix-it-Felix, I was going in. My keyboard lit up. I gave him a piece of my mind. I carefully crafted my comment, using words that were firm, and somewhat kind, but I got my point across. On this particular site, you don’t “like” comments, you “thank” people for their comments. I am happy to report I ended up with my “thanks” being in the double digits, and about 10 “atta girl” comments. And guess what? Rude Randy didn’t retaliate. I went to bed that night with a smile on my face, gloating in my victory. I told my husband how glad I was that I stood up to Rude Randy. And then the next morning, well, I’m not really sure what I felt. I didn’t have regrets for standing up to the neighborhood bully. I had truly felt led to say something, and that my motives were right. He was clearly out of line. I guess I felt disappointed in humanity. I know it’s just one very little annoyance in this very big world we live, but it bothered me. I could take this blog post in many different directions. I could give you a Bible lesson about “loving your neighbors.” Like literally, since this is about a neighbor. I could share with you the importance of “turning the other cheek,” and not stirring up a hornet’s nest of attacks. I could research, and share with you, the appropriate times to come to someone’s defense, and when to let things go. I could even talk about the judgmental spirit of mine that just erupted in the above sentences. But honestly, I just don’t feel like…

The pile has sat in the middle of our garage for over four months now. I’m not even sure how it got here. Did we really mean to pack all that stuff, and move it from Colorado to Arizona? My husband occasionally picks up items from the pile, and asks me if the movers might have packed it by accident, because surely we wouldn’t have brought junk with us. We did so much cleaning out before we moved, and made so many, many trips to the Goodwill. Yet, the pile sits, and grows, mocking us each time we are in the garage. The proverbial “elephant in the room.” This weekend I asked my husband, “So, are we ever going to go to the Goodwill and drop off the pile in the garage?” And then this, “I thought you were going to take it. You’re the one who’s home, and has more time during the day.” He didn’t just go there. Yep, he did. And, I could tell he regretted the statement the moment it left his lips. “Hey now. I haven’t had any time either,” I said. Yelled. How dumb, I thought to myself. That’s the best you can come back with, Krista. Bring on this argument. You got this girl. I shook my head. We made eye contact. And somewhere in the silent exchange he apologized, and I forgave. He knows me well, and knows there’s a deep seeded reason statements like that hurt. There’s a bigger elephant in the room than the pile that sits in the garage. It’s the big, ugly beast I call self worth.Here’s how it looks for me. Random person: “So what do you do?” Me: “Um, well, I’m a stay-at-home mom. I mean, well, I rarely stay at home.” (LOL, wink, wink.) And I know, without even looking in a mirror, that my face makes this funny expression. And I feel shame well up inside me. I despise that question. I absolutely despise it. I want to sit down with Random Person and tell them the long list of things I do. I want to explain that my husband has traveled for work ever since we said, “I do,” and it makes it impossible for me to have a paying job. And then there was that time I did try to work, and with childcare bills and tax brackets, it hurt us more than it helped us. I want to grab Random Person by the collar and make them understand that I do have a college degree, and it takes so very much of my energy to manage this busy family of mine. And I totally have all the credentials to be an Uber driver, a bookkeeper, a housekeeper, a cook, and a qualified volunteer for just about any organization. The thing is, Random Person probably doesn’t care. They were just making conversation. Yet I walk away feeling shamed, hurt and angry. The questions, wrapped in untruths, form in my mind and come at me like daggers. Who are you, Krista? What was that degree all about? What do you do all day anyway? Must be nice living your life. What about that pile of junk in the garage? You are really that “busy” during the day, that you can’t manage a trip to the Goodwill? For the love. Stop with these lies already. I would love to tell you I’m on the other side of this self worth crisis, but I’m not. It’s a little better now that I realize how the root of my self worth problem is based on comparison to other women at my age and stage of life. And I find fuel for this comparison/self worth fire all the time on social media. I have the friend who is single, living in a large metropolitan city, working in the career she always dreamed. I look at the single moms who manage work, kids, a home, custody issues, and the occasional relationship. I look at the happily married women, with a gaggle of kids and a corporate job to boot. I view photos of the woman who raises her own support, and travels the world bringing aid to those in need. And I think to myself, what’s their secret? How do they juggle all this? There are probably as many unique answers to those questions as there are women who ask them. In fact, if you put all of us in a room to discuss this topic, we might find we struggle with the same taunting demons. Self worth, found in the wrong places, is ugly and fierce if not dwelt with. Case in point, my pile of junk. Though there was a literal pile of junk in my garage for the past four months, there’s also this figurative pile of junk that’s been around for many years. It’s even traveled with me as I’ve moved through different stages of my life. It might take on different appearances at times, but it’s still there. I wish I could offer a ten-step process of How to End the Self Worth Crisis, but I really don’t have any tangible answers. It’s an unhealthy thought pattern that needs to be broken. It’s a lie that needs to be destroyed. It’s caring what other people think, when it’s the perception of the One and Only that matters. It’s believing with every fiber of my being that God knows. He created me. He knows me. He knows the number of hairs on my head. He knows my struggles. He knows my energy levels, and my breaking points. He knows the plates I juggle, and the ones I shatter. He knows. Now why would I even search for my worth anywhere else?

My husband compiled some photos of our 19 years together, so rather than writing about our anniversary today, I’ll let these pictures tell the story.  Sometimes words just aren’t necessary.

Last week my daughters started back to school. At new schools. In our new place of residence. Oh the anticipation in our household a week ago. You could have cut the air with a knife as tension and fear crept into our home last Sunday. I’m happy to say we all survived the week. I’m convinced that “back to school” is a journey for the entire family. There were nerves. There were tears.  And there were sighs of relief. There were new teachers, new coaches, new friends, new academic challenges and many new opportunities for a fresh start—something we all needed. I’m struggling to find the words to write. I want to craft a story that brings you into my world, so you can understand, that despite all the tension and newness and change that occurred in our lives recently, how good it really feels. But that would mean explaining the circumstances that we left behind—things I’m not quite ready to share yet.   So, what do I write? I’m going to tell you three things, in no particular order, that I learned by watching my kids navigate the many changes that came at them the first week of school. First Lesson: “What fear tears down, bravery overcomes,” Madeline Keane. That would be a six-word sentence Madeline constructed to describe herself at this current time in her life.  It was a “get to know you” assignment in her English class.  Students had to describe themselves to the rest of the class in one very short sentence. Second Lesson: After having a difficult night of jitters about making new friends, and some people pleasing tendencies she discovered within herself, Isabelle woke up Monday morning with a fresh perspective. “Not everyone is going to like me, Mom. No matter how nice or how approachable I am, some people just don’t connect with each other. And that is okay.” As I collapsed into bed one night last week, I thought through these two deep thoughts the girls had shared with me. I was reminded of the story of Joseph in Genesis. Whether you have read the story in the Bible, or seen the musical on the live stage, there is one profound takeaway. (Joseph addressing his brothers.) “You intended to harm me, but God intended it for good to accomplish what is now being done. Genesis 50:20a” After years of facing hardships because of his jealous, misguided, brothers; Joseph, through God, overcame slavery, scandal, and imprisonment, only to rise to great power and honor in a new land. I love it when a story has a happy ending. I love it even more when that story is full of adversity, crisis and tough struggles, and in the end, there is a happily ever after. Last school year for my daughters will not be one that is remembered fondly. They both faced many adversities. At the time it was difficult to see God’s hand, or understand His plan for them. As parents we stood by wondering what God was up to. Those hardships eventually pointed us in the direction of making a move, and finding a fresh start in a new place. And a fresh start it has been. Sure the week was full of many anxious moments as the girls settled into a new routine, with new people, in a new place, but it is so much better than the old place. Third Lesson: Despite the difficulties we faced as a family this last year, this life is pretty damn good. I am blessed and grateful for the lessons I’m learning.

The day began like any other summer day. One daughter was up and dressed by 8 am; the other was snug as a bug in her bed trying to grab all the precious hours of sleep before school begins. That’s right, school begins on Monday. I knew when we were looking to move to Arizona that some districts were on a modified year-round school calendar. Well, it turns out, we moved to one of those districts. So as the rest of the country is vacationing, church camping, pool partying, and night owl-ing; we are school clothes shopping, supply finding, and class registering. I try not to get discouraged when I look at the calendar and realize the summer solstice actually began four weeks ago, and now a month into the season school is starting. It’s just kind of weird, but I’m sure there are reasons beyond me as to why this is the way it is. Like I said, the morning started out normal, and then one of my precious people checked the student portal. A scream arose from her bedroom. “Maddie, Mom, come here! The class schedules have been posted!” Let me back up.   I know my reading audience is at various ages and stages of life, so let me explain the portal system. I can only imagine the imagery that comes to mind when I say that. And not only is there a student portal, there’s also a parent portal. No, this is not some space age, alternate universe, black hole type of device; it’s a one-stop, online, communication hub for parents, students, teachers and school administrators to effectively communicate throughout the school year. It’s actually pretty ingenious, and it cuts down on so much paper and refrigerator door space. I have to say it has made my life easier. At the tip of my fingers, any time of the day, I can access grades, attendance, hot lunch balances, permission slips, sports schedules, and so much more. I will admit, there’s part of me that misses the olden days. I remember the excitement and nerves that came when the school schedule showed up in the mailbox in front of our house sometime in late August. “To the parents of:” I certainly didn’t take a picture of it, and there was no social media tool to post it. I maybe called a few friends from the phone that hung in our kitchen, or I just waited for the first day of school to see who showed up in my classes. Now I hear minute-by-minute updates as friends text, Snap Chat and Instagram my daughters about their class schedule. Izzy found out that she is the only student at her middle school that has C lunch. The only one! Poor girl. Maddie doesn’t know what lunch she has. I tried to look on “the portal” to help her figure it out, but it looks like my BA degree didn’t equip me for this. It was a ten-step process, having something to do with her fourth hour class, and teacher’s last name. For the love. As much as I’ve been reminded this week of simpler times when I was growing up in a world that seemed safer and more predictable, I also realize this is my children’s norm. This is their reality. I can make judgments all day long about the influence of social media on our youth, online portals, and school beginning a month into summer, but what does that really accomplish? I came across a quote I had jotted down a while back. Forgive me for not knowing who said it, as I would like to give proper credit to the source. It is what it is, but it will be what I make it. These past few weeks have been difficult ones, not only for our nation, but the world. I don’t know what exactly I’m expecting, or even looking for, when I turn on the news or scan social media sites, but I know I don’t like what I see. I like order to my life. I like to makes sense of what’s going on around me. I like to know what tomorrow holds. I like control. The reality is, though, I don’t really have much control. Not over the news. Not over other’s posts on social media. Not over parent portals and school schedules. But I do have this. For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind. 2 Timothy 1:7. In other words: It is what it is, but it will be what I make it.

Twelve years ago, on the Friday of Father’s Day weekend, I picked up my husband from Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, AZ, and took him to dinner. He had returned from a weeklong business trip in Denver, and I thought it would be nice to celebrate him being a dad to his then three-year-old and one-year-old daughters. I use the term “celebrate” loosely. I can’t say I went into that dinner date with an agenda, but we both left a little unraveled. And the poor, new, dad I had intended to shower with all things love and honor, well, not quite so much. In Isaiah 5, the Lord is rebuking Israel, and He describes Israel as a once thriving vineyard, but then says this: I will make it a wasteland, neither pruned nor cultivated, and briers and thorns will grow there. I will command the clouds not to rain on it.” Isaiah 5:6 That pretty much describes what I thought of my dwelling place at the time. I was convinced God had moved us to Arizona three years prior, to just drop us off in the desert and leave us. And I really felt that this particular day in history was the perfect opportunity to share with my husband how I felt. Can you say passive-aggressive?  In my defense, I was a new mom, with a spouse that traveled 75% of the time, and it was stinkin’ 110 plus degrees for three months out of the year. I’m telling you it felt like a wasteland. Let me pause right here and tell you something before I go on.  God is so patient with us. No matter where you are at in your walk with Him, I want to encourage you that God is patient. I also believe I’ve matured in 12 years, and I think I have a better understanding of reading scriptures in context now. (Insert winky face Emoji here.) So after that monumental Father’s Day celebration, we began the process of relocating to Denver, Colorado. God’s hand was all over that move, and it became clear to me He had orchestrated that Father’s Day conversation to open the doors to us making the decision to relocate our family.   I mostly loved every part of our 12 years in Colorado: the mountains, the weather, the friends who became family, and our daughters growing into teenagers. It was a great experience, until it wasn’t. About a year ago, God began stirring in our hearts again. At the time I didn’t see it as stirring though. I saw the too many circumstances we were facing as downright upsetting. I often found myself shaking my fist at God, questioning Him as to His whereabouts in our family’s time of need. I remember crying out to God many times, “Give me something here. Seriously, You’re God, aren’t you?” Then in January of this year, in the midst of a chaotic season, we felt led to sell our home. We weren’t sure what God was up to. I wondered if He was even up to anything, or if moving was our clever way of finding greener pastures in a new location. Isn’t that funny? I thought, for a minute, that maybe a new location would make all the yuck disappear. We sold our home six weeks later on Valentine’s Day, however, we had no place to move. The Denver housing market is a strange animal that way. We had walked through many possible home contenders, only to find none of them were available when we sold our home. So now what? There is a sacredness about this story, and its details, that I like to reserve the right to share in person. I think you need to hear the inflection in my voice, see my eyes light up, hear my children and my husband interrupt and share their insights of this adventure. It doesn’t do it justice to convey through written words. So, to make a long story shorter, and give you the highlights, God slammed shut some doors to stay in Colorado, and opened wide some doors to….wait for it…..move back to Arizona. Say what? The wasteland? That was pretty much my reaction too, but you should have seen how wide those doors opened. There was no reason to second guess what we needed to do. On Easter weekend we arrived back in Arizona. We braved one of the most significant blizzards we had ever seen the day we left, (I call that confirmation) and drove to sunny skies, warm temperatures, and a fresh start in a place that once represented a dark, empty wasteland. As the days have turned into weeks, and the weeks into months of  living here, I recalled a scripture that makes a little more sense to me now.  Not only does it help tie the  journey of the Israelites together, but I can truly see the irony of my own desert journey in the words of an ancient prophet. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland. Isaiah 43:18b-19

[Repost from a few years ago.] It was somewhere around early October of 2015 when we decided to visit a different church in Colorado. Up to that point, we had attended the same church for ten years, and now here we were. I can’t say at the time we were really looking for a new place, but just wanting to see what else was out there. It felt a little weird, like maybe we were cheating on our other church. My husband was very excited to hear the worship music. My daughters were mostly along for the ride, and I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for. Maybe nothing, or maybe I would know it when I saw it. The upbeat, energetic, service opened.   A young man, maybe in his twenties, introduced himself and welcomed us after the first song concluded. Then he said, “Hey, I just want you to know how much I love you guys.” Wait. What? What did he say? He must have said, “I love this church.” I must have not heard that right. After enjoying a great worship experience, the pastor came up to the stage, and he said, “Before I start, I just want to say something. ‘Church, I love you. I love each and everyone of you.’” I did hear that right the first time.   What’s up with this church? What was it about those three words that touched me so deeply? It’s not like I hadn’t heard them before, quite the contrary. My husband and I tell each other those three words daily. We speak those words to our children. I say those words to my friends and family over text and in phone calls all the time. I’ve heard many pastors say that they love their church because of this or that, but this was different. And for some reason, at this moment, it was like I was hearing I love you for the first time. I’m not sure I came right out and said this in my last couple of posts, but I’ve recently gone through a season of feeling burned out.   Burned out from church ministry. I know, it doesn’t really sound like those words should be used together in the same sentence—ministry and burnout. I’m sure there are a few souls out there who would disagree that burnout could ever happen inside the four walls of a church. But I’m here to tell you, IT HAPPENS–probably more often than you think. I stood in the burnout for a while. I felt it. I tasted its bitterness. I cried in it. I yelled at it. I cursed it. I told a few close friends about my frustrations with it. And then slowly, things started to change. I started to find a rhythm to my life and my faith again. And on that Saturday night, I sat in that burnout for one of the last times. I sat as a fragile and broken person. I let the words, I love you wash over me. It was as if they were coming straight from the mouth of God to a deep wound in my heart. I may have read more into those words than others sitting in that room, but I want to tell you what I heard. Who knows, they may be just the words someone else needs to hear. Krista, I want you to know that I see you. You have been hurting lately. I know. Nothing goes unnoticed by Me. I’ve heard your cries. I’ve listened to your requests. I’ve even let you linger in the muck and mire for a while. It might seem like this journey has gone on for a long time, but it’s really just a blip on the map when you see it from My angle of eternity. You will get through it. You will be stronger, better, and deeper for this experience. And here’s something to chew on, you are going to love people better when you come through this journey. That’s right. It’s hard to see right now because you’ve been hurt by people who claim My Name. You’ve seen the humanness of ministry on your side of heaven. But I’m here to tell you that you are on the right path. You will experience healing from this pain. And you will have a story. You will have a beautiful story to share, because I’ve written it. Krista, you are seen, you are heard, and you are loved by Me. Phew.  Deep breath.  Thank you, Lord! I walked out that evening feeling so unbelievably blessed. My journey was not over by any sense of the word. In fact, little did I know, it was going to become even more messy. But those two pronouns, three words, and one profound sentence would be a lifeline for me in the months to come. Update: To all my friends, no matter what capacity of ministry you are serving in right this minute: YOU ARE LOVED!

It’s been a year and a half since I wrote Part 1 and Part 2 of my journey. I mostly wrote those pieces for myself, and wasn’t sure if I would ever share them publicly. So much happened during that time.   So much of it was sacred–things that were for me and me alone to process. I think I’m ready, though. I think I’m ready to share some pieces of my journey with you. I’ve thought long and hard about this. I don’t want to be self-serving, but authentic. I don’t want to draw attention to me, but to the Lord, Jesus Christ. I don’t want to be judged, but shown grace. “Friendship is born at the moment when one person says to the other: What! You too? I thought I was the only one.” – CS Lewis That’s what I want. So, here goes. This is what I’m learning… I would love to tell you that I choose the right path most of the time now, but that would be a lie. I would love to tell you how counseling worked wonders, and Krista 2.0 is pretty awesome. That would not only be a lie, but pretty arrogant.   I would love to tell you how I received blessing after blessing the minute I started to walk in obedience on this journey God called me to, but that would be a lie too. This journey has been challenging, and full of questions about things I thought I had figured out long ago. Here’s the truth about my life right now. Sometimes Bible verses are just words to me. Sometimes sitting on a couch and talking to a counselor is just too much to process.  Sometimes I don’t go to church, or pray, or have a quiet time regularly. Sometimes I really wonder how God feels about me. I sound messy, don’t I? But here’s the deal. I’ve learned about this thing called freedom. I’m not talking about land of the free, home of the brave, although, that’s pretty awesome. I’m not really talking about Constitutional freedoms either, though another great privilege. I’m talking about freedom in Christ. Freedom. In. Christ. Most of my life I’ve been wound up pretty tight. I think a good descriptive word would be legalistic. I’m kind of embarrassed when I think back on some of the thoughts, opinions, statements, and even posts I wrote, and how judgy I was. Yes, judgy. You see, legalism is just a fancy word for judgmental. Remember the Pharisees? They were an ancient, Jewish group of teachers who strictly abided by laws and traditions, and they saw it fit to call people out who didn’t follow their ways. Legalism at its best. They often gave Jesus a hard time during His ministry on earth. “They tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them. “Everything they do is done for people to see.” Matthew 23:4-5a (To really get a flavor of the Pharisees, check out Matthew, chapter 23, in its entirety.) This really became clear to me sitting on the infamous couch in the counselor’s office.   In one of our sessions he told me that I was a good Christian girl. I smiled and blushed. He didn’t. “I don’t mean that in a good way. You’re too good. You follow all the rules that good, little Christians follow, but you’re driven by pleasing people and not pleasing God.” Ouch. Like really, painfully, OUCH. “If the Trinity were sitting in this room, right now—The Father, Son and Spirit—they would each tell you that they don’t care about what you DO. They care about YOU. They just want you, in all your messiness.” I don’t think I will ever be able to repeat that transforming statement without choking up. “Oh my goodness,” I said. “That sounds like freedom.” He shook his head in agreement. And that was the day I started to walk slowly toward freedom. I didn’t understand it that day. I’m not sure I fully grasp it now. But with the help of weekly counseling sessions, I found some tools. When ugly thoughts start invading my head, well actually one ugly thought, I should… I’m learning to take it captive. Should is an ugly word for people pleasers like me. I should do this. I should volunteer in this ministry at church, even though I’m totally exhausted. I should sign up to serve at this event, even though my family misses me. I should reach out to this person because they might be mad if I don’t. Should. Should. Should. “God doesn’t want your shoulds. He doesn’t want to be a should—something you cross off your list. He wants you to want Him,” the counselor said. Again, words I had to chew on for a long time. Time has passed since those exhausting, honest, counseling sessions. I’m getting better, but I still have to reach for my “tools” on occasion. At first it was really difficult, but now, well now, I attend church services because I want to be there. I pray and read scripture because it fills a deep need. My “quiet time”—if I have one—looks a little different. Turns out there are a lot more ways to connect with God than I realized. As far as volunteering in church settings, well I don’t right now. There are still some deep wounds that need attention before I venture down that path. But that is another story for another time. Today, I’m choosing freedom in Christ.  And freedom feels really, really good. “Then you will know the truth, [about yourself] and the truth will set you free.”  John 8:32 [emphasis mine]  

I’ve been thinking about the two paths I mentioned in my last post. We are faced with choices everyday that can lead us down a path of life, or lead us down a path of destruction.  The path leading to life may not seem easy at first.  It may not be the most popular choice.  It may not be roses and sunshine and easy to navigate all the time, but I am believing it leads to life, and it will make all the difference. The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;   Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,   And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back.   I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. Robert Frost, published 1916 “Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it.” Matthew 7:13-14

My Name is Krista, and I’m My Own Torchbearer. It was another Friday in November. I sat on the same couch, holding the same Bible, and reading truth that jumped off the page and hit me between the eyes. Who among you fears the Lord and obeys the voice of his servant? Let him who walks in darkness and has no light trust in the name of the Lord and rely on his God. Behold, all you who kindle a fire, who equip yourselves with burning torches! Walk by the light of your fire, and by the torches that you have kindled! This you have from my hand; you shall lie down in torment. Isaiah 50:10-11 He asked me my thoughts about what I had just read. “Isaiah, the prophet, is describing two types of people in these passages. The first one he describes fears the Lord and obeys and trusts him even through dark times in life. The second one he describes kindles his own flame and walks by his own human wisdom.” In my head, I was patting myself on the back, certain I had the right answer. Then he asked me to read the last line. “This you have from my hand; you shall lie down in torment.” “Oh. Okay. Hmm, that’s not good. Nor at all comforting. So, I will experience strife and torment if I try to be my own torchbearer? And I’m clearly being my own torchbearer?” He nodded yes. Again, tears welled in my eyes. All these things I thought I had figured out, and nothing. So many questions swirled in my head. Questions I thought I had answered years ago. “Wow, I’m quite the mess,” I mumbled. He smiled and nodded in agreement. “We all are.” He went on to explain that there are two paths I can choose every time I’m faced with a decision. I can either choose the path of life, or the path of death—figuratively speaking of course. The path of death is based on my own humanness, pleasing others, and basically carrying my own torch. The path of life, however, is based on walking in obedience to God, and pleasing Him. I sat for what seemed like a very long time, with the counselor across from me. He must be very comfortable with silence. I’m not.  At least I thought I wasn’t, but I couldn’t think of anything to say. No words came to mind. Nothing. I must have had a blank stare on my face. So much emotion began swirling all at once in my head. I didn’t know if I should laugh, or cry, or get angry, or curse and throw the Bible across the room. I felt so broken, so indecisive, so not me. Let me stop right here and say something about counseling. It is not for the faint of heart. If you are determined to face the truth about your life, and a counselor is determined to help you, then it will be exhausting, challenging, even painful, but so very worth it. And as much as I was uncomfortable sitting in silence, not having answers, and not being able to carry on a conversation with my counselor for what seemed like several minutes; I have found that there is depth in silence.  That what is not spoken is sometimes just as important as what is. There is depth and healing in quietness.  You should try it sometime. Later that day, after a long nap, the emotions calmed, the exhaustion subsided, and energy returned. I knew this was just the beginning though.   The beginning of a new journey. The beginning of a journey that would be the most challenging one I’ve ever experienced.   It would have been so easy that day to choose a different path, a different journey, one that wouldn’t be so painful and challenging.   But in that moment, I realized that if Krista 2.0 was in there, it was going to take work. Deep breath…..Here goes something… More later, my Friends.

My Name is Krista, and I’m My Own Torchbearer (Part 1) I remember the hour well. Sitting on the comfortable sofa in his office, although it didn’t feel very comfortable with how stiff my shoulders felt. Probably due to the weight of the burden I was carrying. The box of tissue sat about 24 inches in front of me on the coffee table. I was determined not to need one. I was determined to be strong. But then I remembered that there is strength in tears. Or is it strength in numbers? No, I think there’s strength in tears too.   Did I make that up? No, I think it’s true. But sheesh, the mess tears make of mascara. I grabbed a tissue to hold onto for safe keeping—you know, just in case. The cozy room was quiet on this cold, November day. The sound of a crackling fire would have made it just about perfect, but it was a counseling office, and there was this elephant in the room that needed some attention. He sat down and pulled out a ginormous Bible from the bookshelf behind him. He handed it to me and asked me to read some scriptures. I read aloud from passages in Isaiah and Romans. I read perspective from ancient prophets, and from apostles of the first church. And then it hit me. On that November day. In the middle of my session. I’m selfish. The elephant in the room suddenly addressed. How did I not see it all this time? Pride. Self-centeredness. A sinful nature. You might wonder why I didn’t hightail it out of there. After all, admitting to someone that you are as selfish as they come, well, it’s humbling to say the least. But here’s the thing. I’m not alone. Since the fall of man in the Garden of Eden every human being that walks this earth is selfish. We can’t help it. At the very core of who we are we have this thing called a selfish nature. But the serpent said to the woman, “You will not surely die. For God knows that when you eat of (the fruit) your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.” Genesis 3:4-5 And there it is. Temptation. Lies from the enemy’s mouth to our hungry hearts. Maybe God isn’t right? Maybe my way is better? Pride entered this world and corrupted the purity of God’s word. I think what Adam and Eve missed, and what we so often miss is the warning God was giving in the Garden that day. Eating the fruit, and going against God’s specific instructions would cause death—not physical death, but death in our souls. A separation from God that causes a gap we don’t have the power to bridge. I continued reading. This time a short, powerful sentence written by the Apostle Paul.   A statement that I don’t think I’ve ever noticed in my many years of walking with the Lord. “Wretched man that I am! Who will deliver me from this body of death?” Romans 7:24 I looked up. Tears staining my face. Trying to find that look of I get it. I’ve been there too, from him. And then the fleeting thought that I must remember waterproof mascara next time, as I reached for yet another tissue. It was there, in his eyes, the look I needed. I realized that I was in good company—someone further along in their journey, and a little less messy than me. “Let’s stop there,” he said. “Chew on that for a while and we will meet again soon.”

I was watching a little HGTV with my morning cup of coffee today—well actually a recording of the 2014 Dream House.  Come to find out you can still enter the drawing until February 14.  I thought I had missed the window to enter, but not so. I am now entered, and have set alerts on my phone to remind me to enter every day.  You see, the folks at HGTV are so nice they let you enter two times a day.  I know.  Way better than the Lottery. Now thoughts of the dream house are consuming my mind.  It’s a beauty.  A contemporary, yet lodge themed house located in the mountains of Northern Nevada in a community called Schaffer’s Mill.  Doesn’t that sound quaint and dreamy and Norman Rockwell-ish? And the house comes fully furnished, indoor and out, with three outdoor barbecues, a media room, and top-of-the-line appliances. I’ve pretty much moved in. I even asked Matt if we would move there if I win.  Clearly he’s sipping the same punch as I am because he told me that we could live in Schaffer’s Mill half the year and Parker the other half. Or use it as a mountain house that’s roughly sixteen hours away by car.  Well, a new car that is, because that’s part of the giveaway too. This actually eased my mind. So, here’s the thing.  I love my house.  I love Parker, Colorado.  I love so many things about my life, and yet, in a matter of 30 minutes this morning, I became dissatisfied with everything. That’s hard to admit.  But I don’t think I’m alone. I heard a quote from my pastor recently, “Rich people are plagued by discontentment.” Think about it.  We are rich.  You and me.  We are.  Compared to the rest of the world.  We are rich.  We may not feel like it because of that little thing called comparison.  But the truth is—we are rich. The reason we don’t embrace our richness is because of our discontentment. The distorted view that if we acquire more stuff we will find true happiness. As if. As if we don’t have a Provider. As if we are placing our hope in provisions and not the Provider. Oh Lord, forgive me.  Let my eyes and thoughts continually be fixed on you. “Command those who are rich in this present world not to be arrogant nor to put their hope in wealth, which is so uncertain, but to put their hope in God, who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment. 1 Timothy 6:17” Here’s the thing.  The HGTV Dream Home Giveaway is not the problem.  My entering the contest is not the problem.  If, by some odd turn of events, I win, that’s not the problem either. The problem is tucked deep into the recesses of my mind and soul—the place where my hope rests. Where is your hope, Krista?  And has your hope migrated away from God? And those are the questions I’ll be chewing on before I submit my entry tomorrow…If I submit an entry… As if I don’t have enough already.     **excerpts of this post are from my personal notes taken during a sermon titled, How to be Rich, 1/5/2014**

Yesterday our family enjoyed a rare Sunday afternoon at home.  It was delightful and relaxing.  And the Broncos won!!  During the game, I noticed Matt was sipping some Cranberry-Grape juice.  Not sure how that goes with football, but . . . “Honey, this juice is amazing.  It’s like drinking communion juice—anytime I want.” Minus the unleavened bread bites of course. “Please keep buying this kind of juice.  It’s so good!” So there you have it. And if you attend church with us.  And if your communion cup is a little low some week.  It’s possible we’re out of juice at home.

Dear Breckenridge, I love visiting your beautiful town.  Your lovely shops, restaurants, walking paths, hiking trails and resorts are absolutely charming.  Though I’m not much of a skier, I have many friends who enjoy your slopes during the season.  I love you, Breck!  You are truly a joy to visit. But this new town ordinance where you charge 10 cents for a shopping bag—paper or plastic—is ridiculous.  Many of your merchants think so too.  You can see the hesitation, possibly fear, as they ask each customer if they want their items bagged. “Well of course I want a bag.  I’m a tourist here.  I didn’t think to pack shopping bags.” “I’m sorry Ma’am.  We have this stupid bag tax now, and so I have to charge you 10 cents, but I’ll give you a nice big bag, so you can have room for the rest of your shopping.” “Thank you so much……..I think. “ I just don’t get it.  Breckenridge is a tourist town.  Most tourists I know don’t travel with extra shopping bags.  Any good traveler knows that packing lightly is the key to an organized suitcase.  And, if this an attempt to save the environment, aren’t shopping bags already made of recycled paper and plastic?  Do we really need to charge for them? I’m sorry if I’m offending any environmentalist types here, but I just want my shopping bag after I’ve spent money in your store and supported the state sales tax. Oh, by the way, one of our City Market sacks accidentally blew out of the back of our truck on the way out of town.  Not sure if that’s your loss or our loss.  Ooops. Sincerely, A Shopper Who Just Wants Her Shopping Bag

A few nights ago, we had the privilege of joining two other families for an evening of belly laughs at a Tim Hawkins comedy show.  It was great!  I highly recommend this event if you ever have a chance to see it.  If not, YouTube some of his sketches.  You won’t be disappointed. My throat hurt after it was over, and I’m pretty certain my make-up was non-existent after many tears of laughter were shed.  Turns out I’m a knee slapper when I laugh hard—even my right knee is sore.  Who knew? Tim Hawkins poked fun at the church, politics, technology, the President, marriage and parenting.  I could relate on some level to all of it. Towards the end of the evening, Tim sat down on the steps of the stage.  His voice took a more serious tone.  And he shared some profound thoughts that I wouldn’t have expected to hear from a comedian. Tim admitted that when he started his comedy career it was all about getting laughs from his material, now it’s about giving people a break from real life through laughter.  There’s a purpose to his work that goes beyond entertaining.  In a world full of broken people, laughter heals, if only for a couple of hours one evening.  It’s a chance to escape and rest from the brokenness of this world. “The question is not what would Jesus do?  It’s, what has Jesus already done?  It’s about resting in His finished work,” said Tim. But here’s the statement he made that has me thinking:  “It doesn’t start with walking with Christ, but resting in what He’s already done.” Resting in what He’s already done. That’s a loaded thought that has consumed me all week. Could it be that I need to quit striving to find answers to my own brokenness, and rest in the healing power of Jesus?  Rest in the marvelous things He’s already done for me? I think so—even when rest shows up in a form I wouldn’t expect—laughter.

Remember the Seinfeld episode when Elaine went to get her nails done and was certain the nail shop employees were talking about her in their native, Vietnamese language?  She then discovered that George’s dad was fluent in Vietnamese and brought him to interpret.  Sure enough they were talking about her, and laughing and mocking, and gossiping about here. Although I laughed at the show back in the day, I can’t say I would welcome the same experience myself. A few weeks ago my daughters and I went for pedicures.  The shop was clean and nice.  I had not visited this particular nail salon before, but I was impressed.  The nail technicians made us feel welcome, and in for a pampering experience.  I sat back in the relaxing chair, while my feet soaked in the hot bubbly water, and began reading my Kindle. That’s when the salon phone rang. You would think they had received a threatening call of some sort.  The staff was scurrying around, talking loudly, back and forth, with a hint of panic.  I set my book down.  This was far more interesting to watch.  And they were speaking English—even better.  The lady who answered the phone told the rest of the staff, “It’s Debbie.” Technician One: “Uh oh.”  And rolled her eyes. Hmm.  Who is Debbie? I wondered. Technician One:  “Which Debbie?” Technician Two:  “Yeah, which Debbie?” Down the row of chairs Technician Three piped in:  “Is it Loud Debbie?” Loud Debbie? “Or 10:30 Debbie?” piped up Technician Four across the store working on a manicure. Oh good grief people, which Debbie? The salon manager, covered the phone, and said, “it’s ‘Loud Debbie’ and she left her credit card here.” All the technicians in unison: “Ahh. Oh!”  They nodded and smiled at one another.  My technician smiled at me as if this was some sort of celebration I was supposed to be in on.  A sigh of relief filled the entire salon.  I even felt relieved.  “Loud Debbie” would be reunited with her credit card.  Yay!!! But who is “10:30 Debbie”? Just as I was musing about who The Debbie’s were, a pizza delivery boy rang the bell at the counter.  He had four boxes of delicious smelling pizza.  The store owner, well, at least that’s who she was in my head, ran to the counter.  She looked at the receipt. All the technicians turned toward their fearless leader.  Pedicures and manicures ceased for the moment.  Waving the receipt in his face, she said, “This is wrong.  All wrong.  We get discount.  This not discounted.” Oh for heaven’s sake.  Why didn’t they get the discount?  I was fired up now. The young delivery boy punched in a few numbers on his cell phone, apparently no one answered.  He asked to use the salon phone, but again no answer on the other end.  He hastily excused himself and said he would try calling the pizza store from his car.  He left the pizzas on the counter.  I wondered if he would return.  But four boxes of pizza is a good chunk of change. The staff erupted in conversation with one another once he walked out the door.  This time not in English.  Except I heard the word “pizza” about a dozen times. About 10 minutes later Pizza Delivery Boy returned.  “I’m sorry for the confusion.  My manager gave you the discount, and it won’t happen again.” Another sigh of relief flooded the salon.  And the pizzas quickly disappeared to the back room.  Bummer. Guess it wasn’t Customer Appreciation Day after all. A thought crossed my mind while my nicely painted toes were drying.  Maybe “10:30 Debbie” is the manager of the pizza store?” Hmm. If only Elaine could meet The Debbies.  I think they would have a lot in common.

All I have seen Teaches me To trust The Creator For all I have not seen. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

On Monday of this week our family said goodbye to our sweet, human-like, friend to all, Chester.  He was only five.  He lived a short dog life, but in the end his young liver gave out and he could no longer continue on.   It was heart-breaking to say the least. The grieving process is interesting to me.  The four of us couldn’t be more different in how we’ve handled letting go of our four-legged family member. One has held onto all things Chester (toys, collar, tags–any tangible reminder).  One has been quite strong, only breaking down the moment the news was shared.  One has shed a lot of tears and wondered if enough was done to save Chester’s life.  And one of us had to leave the scene for a while, regroup, and come back. We’ve received phone calls, texts, cards, and gifts from dear friends who knew we needed to lean on them.  I’ve poured over the words in each card.  I’ve re-read texts a half-dozen times.  I’ve played voice messages over and over.  I can’t express how comforted I’ve felt. And just when I thought I was doing all right, a stranger strongly suggested our family attend grief counseling for pet loss. There it is.  That unsolicited advice from someone who has not earned the right to speak into my life. In that moment my tears dried.  And my sadness turned to anger.  I think anger is a part of the grief process, but is it supposed to be brought on by words from well-meaning strangers? I don’t think so. Grief is tough.  It’s unique to each individual.  And there’s really no right or wrong way to grieve.  It just happens.  And it has to be done. I’m going to tell you something.  You will have an opinion.  But I ask you to keep it to yourself.  To remember that this process is unique for every individual.  It may not be how you would do things.  And honestly, it’s not how I thought I would do things. When Chester’s health problems started a few months ago, we were optimistic.  He was under the care of a great doctor, and we thought he was improving.  We decided to start the process of adopting a rescue dog.  We wanted Chester to have a buddy to live out his many healthy years.  We wanted to be a two-dog family. We narrowed down our search last week.  Found the perfect breed for our family.  And then we received the results of Chester’s blood tests.  No improvement.  He really wasn’t getting better.  The outlook was grave. Now what? I’m not really sure, but it’s possible we will welcome a new furry friend, or two, into our home very soon. Chester taught us how much we love dogs.  He opened our hearts and minds with a great capacity to love all things canine.  And we will carry that love on.  Chester set a high bar.  He will never be replaced.  But I think he would be open to sharing a family and a home that was once his. Thank you for all you taught us, Chester, including that the timing of things in life may not be what we ever expected.

My parents came to visit last week.  They come every summer for one week.  Sometimes we rent a place in the mountains, and other years we have a stay-cation.  This year we stay-cationed.  Since we are new residents to Parker, we decided it would be fun to show off our favorite town. We spent a day shopping on Mainstreet, eating lunch at Portofino Pizza.  We took long walks on the Cherry Creek Trails and through the neighborhood.  We went to watch horse lessons, and dance practices.  We shopped some more.  And ate out some more.  We enjoyed meals on the deck, and sunset dips in the hot tub. And then I had this brilliant idea to venture on a hike through Castlewood Canyon–a local state park.  I’ve hiked through the canyon before with no issues.  I knew my parents were in good shape, and I was certain it would be a nice memory to create. It was. Memorable indeed. As with any trail system, there are landmarks along the way.  I’ve gone the same way every time I’ve hiked there.  So when we got to the stairs, and I use the word “stairs” loosely.  They are more like uneven, dirt steps that park rangers probably carved out long ago.  I knew when we reached that landmark, we had a little less than half-way to go until we were back at the parking area. We made our way down the steps and to the big boulders at the bottom, where a nice stream was trickling through.  It was a beautiful site.  We continued on.  And that was when I realized we should have continued up instead of straight ahead. I pulled out the park map. “Um, I think we needed to take that other trail, but don’t worry I know that we can get back on it.” At least I hope so. And that’s when it happened.  My dad must have sensed my hesitation. And being the only male in the group that day, he took the lead.  He could see the trail ahead.  It would take some fancy maneuvering, and possibly some rock climbing, but we were up for it—with him in the lead. We slowly made our way out of the bottom of the canyon.  Izzy was first to reach the trail.  And she was the first to whip around and run into my arms in a panic. “A snake, a snake.  A huge snake,” she yelled between sobs. I saw it too.  A rather large, striped, six-foot long, snake, coiled in the middle of the path—two feet in front of us.  Yuck.  By that point he was very aware of our presence and striking a pose with his head held high.  I briefly remembered the warning signs around the park for rattle snakes. Dad went in for a closer look and assured us it wasn’t a Rattler.  Whew.  But it was still a snake. Brave me had checked out by this time, and been replaced by panicked me who was completely frozen.  The only way out was to go around the snake. My dad assessed the situation.  Being the courageous father he is, he stood on a large boulder, and with one eye on the snake, helped each of his ladies up and around the scary beast below. Several feet later, and a safe distance away, we breathed a sigh of relief.  We had made it!  On with the rest of the hike.  This time with a keen awareness of our surroundings—especially the ground beneath us. I learned something that day.  As much as my husband is now the leader in my life and the protector of our family, my dad will always hold an equally special place in my life too. What a girl needs?  Her dad.  Always.    

Repost from one year ago today: July 19, 2012.  It started like any other summer day, except I had to wake up early to get our dog, Chester, to the vet for grooming and a comprehensive exam.  From the time I stepped out of bed, I couldn’t shake the feeling that God was calling me to pray.  I felt anxious, like something bad was about to happen. As I drove Chester, and listened to my favorite morning radio hosts, the anxious feeling left.  I actually felt thankful.  The sky was a breathtaking blue.  There wasn’t a cloud in sight.  The mountains to the west looked glorious, and I couldn’t help but thank God for His beautiful creation of Colorado.  I even asked out loud.  Why do I have this bad feeling?  What are you asking me to pray for?  Is it Chester? I don’t understand. I prayed for Chester.  I love that dog.  For a quick second I wondered if he was facing danger—especially being out of my sight for the next several hours. But once he was checked in at the vet, and I was driving back home, I felt it wasn’t him I was to be praying for. Then I asked God again, or actually pleaded with him.  Please don’t let this be about the girls, or Matt, or my family, or extended family.  I can’t handle that.  But I felt His assurance—Yes, I could handle it. I prayed for my dad as I remembered he had a surgical procedure done on his eye the day before.  But after talking to my mom and finding out that he was doing well, I knew it wasn’t that. The day went on.  Everyone near and dear to me seemed to be fine.  But still, the feeling loomed and it wouldn’t leave. As I climbed into bed that night I felt God ask me to continue praying.  This was bigger than me, than my family.  A national disaster Lord?  Terrorism?  What?  I just don’t get it. I fell asleep quickly, but at 12:08 a.m. I woke and glanced briefly at the clock.  The feeling was still there.  And as I drifted off again, I prayed once more.  This time for our country. I remember my phone lighting up the room around 2 a.m. with its blue hue. I can’t see a darned thing without my contacts, but as I squinted at the phone on my nightstand I could see the news alert logo.  Good grief, why are they texting people at this hour?  I fell back to sleep. At 7 my alarm clock went off.  I checked my phone and found several news alerts waiting for me.  I quickly scrolled through them.  Words flashed: Aurora. Police. Shooting. Twelve Dead. Shooter in Custody. This can’t be for here. Isn’t there an Aurora, NY?  Yes, that must be it. I climbed out of bed stepping over my two sweet girls who had spent the night with me while Matt was out of town.  I reached the TV and fumbled with the remote. Shock, panic, gapping mouth, I watched the coverage of the Movie Theater Massacre.  Twenty minutes down the road.  Oh my!  It can’t be! Lord, was this it?  This is what you wanted me to pray about?  Could it have been worse?  How?  I don’t understand. One Dark ‘Night’, indeed. Writing is therapy for me.  I needed to share words—these words.  I needed to somehow process what happened, and how God was speaking to me the last 24 hours. Keep on praying.  Apparently that’s my assignment.  It’s all of our assignment. And pray in the Spirit on all occasions with all kinds of prayers and requests. With this in mind, be alert and always keep on praying for all the Lord’s people. Ephesians 6:18 This story is not over.  There is much more to hear; to think; to feel.  But for now, we must pray.  The strength to get through this tragedy lies in prayer.

[Mark Teats has been a guest writer on my site a couple of times.  He lives in Mesa, Arizona, and works as a counselor for Hospice Family Care and as a police chaplain.  He is also my dad.  This is an experience he had over the weekend, and kindly put into words for us.]   19 Just a few days after the Yarnell fire took the lives of 19 Hotshots from Prescott, AZ, my wife and I had a chance to meet with several Hospice Family Care staff members that work in Prescott.  My job was to listen and provide needed emotional support for our staff. Driving into town we could feel the somber mood of this tight knit community.  One very large flag was blowing in the wind at half-staff.  This was an emotional and graphic reminder to us of the 19 lives lost.  What was planned some time ago as a celebration weekend turned into a time of vigils, reflections, tears, and at times, stunned silence. We met people who knew family members, or knew people who knew family members, and they all said the same thing in their own words.  The community out-pouring of support has been phenomenal.  Our hospice was involved at many levels in the support, which gave us an up close and personal insight into the tragedy. We saw and felt how the people were being affected. One of our staff members, a former firefighter herself, saw, and spoke to the “20th firefighter.” The one survivor.  The meeting was brief and emotional with a big hug and few words. While the community rightly pours out its heart and resources to the families who lost their loved ones, the “20th man” is dealing with his memories and emotions. Nineteen is a number he will never forget, but more than that he knows the people, faces and personalities of 19 Hot Shot firefighters and their surviving family members. In the city of Yarnell, not much is left.  Homes are either a pile of ash, or left standing, with smoke damage. At the time I write this, only residents and necessary personnel are allowed into the town.  A town with massive devastation, no electricity, and the smell of destruction hanging in the air. Still to come is a search for missing and unaccounted persons. That grim task has to wait for the hot spots to be contained so it is safe and accessible. We found out that several of our patients were evacuated from Yarnell. It took several days to determine which homes were still left standing. But it was officially confirmed, while we were visiting, that none of them lost their homes. Thanks to many volunteer outreach and disaster recovery groups, these patients remained safe. As details of the tragedy unfold, the emotional weight and impact continues to build on the communities. Even for those who lost their homes, their focus is on those who lost loved ones. Prescott had an annual rodeo and other related events over the 4th of July weekend. Celebrations turned to memorials this year, though.  Friday night and Saturday night were scheduled rodeo shows for the community.  Nineteen wreaths were on display at the show location.  Those 19 wreaths accompanied the 19 firefighters to Phoenix on Sunday, and then will be displayed at the memorial service later this week. Memories impact each of us to different degrees.  This was one memory that had a great impact and will live with me for a lifetime.  This little description of our day barely touches the surface. The journey for those closely connected to the 19 firefighters is just beginning. The journey is unique and individual and each will deal with the tragic loss in their own way, but never alone and without support from the community. Long after the media has left town and the memorial services (both public and private) are over, the community will still deal with the loss and tragedy of this event.  Healing will begin, but 19 lives will never be forgotten: Nineteen men who died in the line of duty; nineteen sons, husbands and family members; nineteen friends and community members.   Never to be forgotten. Take time today to hug your loved ones, count your blessings and thank the Lord for life.

The calls started coming Thursday–the week before last.  Up to three a day.  It was Bank of America.  I was certain they wanted to talk to us about refinancing our mortgage, which we don’t, so I never answered one call.  Not one. After three more computer generated messages by 1 p.m. on Saturday, I started to wonder if we really did need to call them back.  Maybe this is important?  Maybe I should make sure we made our June payment? We had.  Whew. So what was the deal? The deal was that Bank of America never processed our payment in June because our escrow account was a tad short due to property tax and insurance adjustments.  Our payment had increased slightly for the month of June to account for the shortage.   But instead of accepting the payment and billing us for the shortage next month, they chose to…well…I’m still confused. It’s quite possible they are too. But why all the threats?  And when I say threats I’m referring to the time I called back the kind lady who had left an urgent message on our phone, and the pre-recorded message before being transferred to an agent stated, “This is a debt collector.  Calls will be monitored and recorded.” Oh for the love of Pete.  We are not felons.  Or maybe we are? Hmm. Last Monday morning, after getting caught in a tangled web of phone prompts and computer generated questions with Mr. Bank of America, I was able to speak with Solomon.  Bless you Solomon—you are a real-life person, with a voice that is radio quality.  Seriously, maybe a career change is in order. Solomon helped me sort it out.  I made an additional payment to cover the shortage over the phone.  He even waived the processing fee.  Yep, processing fee.  That’s another post for another time. Guess how much the shortage was? $22.08.  That’s one Jackson, two Washingtons, and some pennies. I still can’t wrap my head around it—and all the worrying I did that weekend.  I lost my appetite.  I lost sleep.  I had dreams of incarceration, and living in our car. It truly brings new meaning to the phrase, Much Ado About Nothing.

To all the volunteers (of every age) who served at Southeast’s Vacation Bible School this week: I have thought long and hard how to put into words what I have seen played out before me this week. But I only have a few. You made a choice to serve.  You chose service to others over a thousand and one other activities.  You took the more difficult path.  The path that required every ounce of energy. The one less traveled. And you, you my friends, have made all the difference in many young lives. The Road Not Taken Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, Long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;   Then took the other, as just as fair,  And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear,  Though as for that the passing there,  Had worn them really about the same.   And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day. Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back.   I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence; Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. ~Robert Frost

I don’t poke fun at people often—unless I know them and it’s ok to tease them.  So let’s call this an interesting observation that caused me to giggle, and write about, and post on my blog site.  I’ll ask forgiveness later. Madeline and I were sitting on the deck one afternoon, and she says to me: “Mom, you know that lady that sometimes visits her parents next door to us?” “Yes, what about her?” “Well, she talks to their cat.” “I talk to Chester (our dog) too.” “Um, not like this, Mom.  Full on conversations.” Not thinking too much of it, I dismissed it. And then yesterday. . . “Go away Kitty.  This is not your deck, or your house.  Go away.  This house belongs to my kitty.” What?  Did I hear that right? Who is that?  I stopped folding clothes in the bedroom and scrambled to the bathroom window that looks directly into our neighbor’s backyard. Well, look at that would ya?  Madeline was right.  Oh my! “Kitty, you leave now.” Clearly she was talking to another cat who wandered into her parent’s backyard. “Go away.  This is my kitty’s house.” But Kitty didn’t leave. Still didn’t leave. Then the Kitty Whisperer disappeared into the house. What is she going to do now?  And seriously, Krista, you’re spying on your neighbor.  ‘Have we really sunk this low?’ my Conscience asked. I could see the sweet, golden, meaning no harm, tabby still sitting there, wondering what was going to happen next. A few seconds later, she returned with a large cup of water. Oh no, really?  Run kitty.  Run. She proceeded to pour the water over the intrusive feline. It worked.  The cat left her cat’s yard.  Fast. And I thought cats were territorial.  Yikes!

It was going to be a perfect evening.  Our dear friends had called us earlier in the week and invited our family to dinner and a concert under the stars.  Tim McGraw.  Woo Hoo! After a lovely dinner with lots of laughter and great conversation, we packed eight of us into a seven-seater and made our way to Fiddlers on the Green (an outdoor park and concert venue in town). We spread out blankets for eight on the big grassy hill looking down to the stage. We made a trip to the concessions, the bathrooms, and the bathrooms again.  Kids and Sprite you know.  The weather was perfect.  A light breeze was blowing and the temperature hovered around 78 degrees.  The threat of storms made a move around us instead of over us. As the minutes ticked by, the once massive grassy area we were sitting on became crowded with blankets and concert-goers.  We enjoyed some people-watching, and even made a few acquaintances around us.  Everyone seemed nice.  One lady even shared her Chocolate Riesens with us. Now that’s a nice person. At 7 o’clock the first band opened.  Love and Theft.  Hmm, not sure the origin of that name, but they were pretty good.  Then the second performer, Brantley Gilbert.  I’m not really sure what genre of music he represents.  Country?  Heavy Metal?  Rock?  Anyway, we decided he’s a cross between Metal and Country, therefore, Mountry.  Yep, we could be our own comedy troupe. Then the sun set, and darkness fell across the venue.  And somewhere lurking in the shadows must have been every wild and crazy person in the Denver Metro, because now they were all around us.  The once calm, friendly, chocolate sharing, crowd was snuffed out and replaced by drunken, stoned, Tim McGraw fans.  Or perhaps just fans.  Fans of parties in general, and the music doesn’t really matter. Our once comfy section for eight on the soft grass and clean blankets, was now littered with beer bottles.  Our blankets were soaked, and I’m not sure from what.  The smell of cigarettes and pot (thanks to the passing of that amendment) wafted through the air making it thick and difficult to breathe.  Then dozens of people started making their way through our little oasis.  Trampling over our blankets.  Cutting through inches of space between us.  And going where?  I still don’t know, but they came by the dozens. By the light of our cell phones we grabbed our blankets and belongings.  And stood.  We stood close together.  Not one more person was breaking through this human chain of eight strong links.  No way. Oh, and Tim McGraw was still singing.  For some reason he had no clue what was going on in Section D.  Silly guy. About 10 p.m. we decided enough was enough.  Now it was our turn to make our way through the crowd.  Holding onto each other for dear life, we headed to the nearest exit. We made it! Outside the gates of Fiddlers Green Park, we burst out laughing.  That’s all we could do.  Because in that moment, there were no words.  There was no great explanation we could give to our tween and teen daughters.  Never did we expect a concert, under the stars, to be so, so…. Honestly, I still don’t have the words for what it was, but it was an evening I will cherish and never forget. Because we were with friends.  And it really doesn’t matter what you do, or who you see in concert.  When you are with friends, it’s all good.  You are together.  Making memories. And by the way, the concert tickets were free. Whew!    

I received a beautiful pedestal blackboard for Mother’s Day.  It has magnetic wrought iron filigree around the edges, with pretty little floral magnets adorning each corner.  I love it!  It sits on the island in our kitchen, and we write little notes to each other, or post scriptures and thoughts of encouragement. The weather is cloudy and cool today, and it put me in a little funk.  So I thought it was a perfect time to write, in what I consider to be pretty descent cursive writing, Choose Joy. I didn’t think much more about it until Matt came home from work and asked me, “Who’s Jay?” “I have no idea.  What are you talking about it?” “You wrote ‘Choose Jay.’  Really? You could have at least wrote, ‘Choose Matt.’” Those darn cursive o’s and a’s.  Apparently mine need some work.

A couple of months ago, my husband was out running errands and came home with a new purchase.  A beautiful, full length, wooden framed, mirror.  It’s nice.  It’s heavy.  And so he propped up against a wall in our master bedroom. Do you know the secret about slightly angled, propped-against-a-wall, mirrors?  Yep.  They have quite the skinny feature.  I loved that mirror and where it stood in our bedroom.  I would stop a few minutes in front of that mirror each day.  Sometimes, very faintly, I could hear it whisper, “Nice Krista.  Lookin’ good.  Flat tummy, toned legs.  Good girl.” Did you catch it?  That nice little shift to the past tense?  That’s because I’m now mourning the mirror. A few weeks ago I came home from running errands. “Hey Honey.  Guess what?  You will be so proud of me.  I hung the mirror in our bedroom.” “You did what?”  (I’m pretty certain my head whipped around 360 degrees, like a scene from a horror movie, and quite possibly I had the scary voice to go with it.) “I hung the mirror.” “Flush to the wall?” “Well, how else would I hang it?” “Never mind.” I huffed off, mumbling under my breath.  I mean really.  That mirror was fine resting at an angle against the wall.  I’ve even seen such decorating protocol on HGTV.   It’s perfectly acceptable. After humbly admitting to my husband why I preferred the mirror at an angle, his solution was a pair of wadded up socks.  Yes, socks. The socks now sit between the wall and the mirror to give it the angle it had before. Ridiculous, right? Even as I write this, I’m embarrassed.  Because what I’m really saying is that I’m perfectly fine living with this distorted view of how I look.  I’m okay telling myself this little lie. It makes me wonder how many other truths I don’t face.  For instance, the News.  Sometimes I’m perfectly fine not knowing what’s going on in the world.  I prefer my little bubble of happy. When friends and family suffer a crisis, it seems easier to look the other way. To move forward quickly–past the problem–to where it’s nice, and right again.  Ignorance seems better than the truth of the situation. Sometimes God’s word trips me up.  I read certain scriptures and can’t turn the page fast enough.  That truth can pierce deep. The truth can be so difficult to face sometimes.   But no matter how difficult the truth, a lie is worse.  A lie is bondage.  Truth is freedom. Do you have a lie? I get it.  I understand. But I think it’s time to quit the lies.  Embrace freedom. It’s time.  It’s time for me to remove the socks from behind the mirror.

It was a dark, stormy night.  Blizzard warnings and storm warnings appeared on the crawl across the bottom of our television screen. Fify-five mph wind gusts. Blowing and drifting snow. Temperatures plummeting 45 degrees from a few hours earlier.  We were cautioned to not go out unless we absolutely had to.  Treacherous road conditions loomed in the night. It’s April. It’s Denver. And something about calling it an Epic Spring Storm just doesn’t seem fitting.  Sixteen degrees is remotely seasonal in my mind. As it turned out, not so epic at all, but I’m on a roll here, so let’s go with it. Dancing With the Stars was on.  We were enjoying popcorn and hot chocolate.  Zendaya and Kellie Pickler are our favorites this season.  We were awaiting Kellie’s scores, when all of the sudden our fully locked, French patio doors blew open. It was a scene right out of a scary movie.  Except the lights didn’t flicker, the dog didn’t bark, and no colorful apparition blew into the room.  Nope. Just the three of us sitting there stunned. I didn’t mention that the man of the house was traveling all week.  Yep.  That’s the reason for the timing of the epic storm.  I’m sure of it. Since I was the only adult on scene, and the closest thing to the man of the house, I jumped to my feet.  After quick inspection I realized the pin from the stationary door had come loose—probably from the wind gusts.  I secured it into place and locked the door.  I thought about moving furniture in front of it, but that task seemed daunting. I texted our sweet neighbors and gave them the head’s up about the door situation.  They would come in a moment’s notice if it happened again. The wind died down slightly and changed directions.  DWTS was over. Our votes were cast. And it was time for bed. Upstairs.  Away from the door.  Hmm.  How was this going to work? I crawled in bed.  One child next to me.  One on the floor in a sleeping bag.  It’s how we do things when the daddy is gone.  Izzy assured me that she had prayed, and God had told her the door would not open again.  Bless you Child. I soon heard the sounds of soft breathing, accompanied by deep sleep.  And then I heard the wind howling outside.  Every creek and thud.  I kept telling myself it was just the wind—55 mph at that.  Then I heard a squeaking sound.  What on earth?  Oh, those darn hamsters on their wheels.  Haven’t you heard of daylight for such tasks? The clock struck Midnight—ok, just the digital clock turned from 11:59 to 12.  A thought crossed my mind.  If the wind can blow those doors open, surely a person could use the same force and walk right in.  Surprisingly I didn’t linger on this little thought.  I mean really.  Who would be out in such weather anyway? Note to self:  Get that door fixed.  TOMORROW!

It was a Tuesday.  Tuesdays are the crazy days in our home.  Running here and there with hardly a moment at home, or to catch my breath. I had dropped my purse at the door and run in to catch up on some emails before we had to leave again.  That’s when the call came.  But I missed it.  I had left my cell phone in the car because we would be back on the road again soon, and if someone really needed me, they could wait.  Right? Wrong. The home phone rang.  I sighed, and held the phone in my hand for a few rings.  I didn’t recognize the caller ID, and for some reason our caller ID only displays phone numbers, not names.  But something compelled me to answer. And so I did. It was a dear friend.  I could tell within a few seconds she wasn’t right.  Through whispers and sobs she told me that her brother had just died—a few moments ago. I fought to understand what I just heard.  I tried to wrap my brain around it.  I had so many questions.  But this clearly wasn’t the time.  She asked for my prayers.  I struggled for words.  Help me, God.  Help me. And then I started to pray.  Tears streamed down my face.  Someday I must accept the fact that I’m a prayer-crier. I can’t tell you for the life of me what I prayed.  I don’t know if she could tell you either.  But somehow comfort was there.  The miles that separated us didn’t feel so extreme.  I could picture her, in a hospital, and me sitting next to her, holding her.  It was a beautiful picture. The call ended abruptly.  Grief had overtaken and she needed to go. I hung up.  I sat in silence for a long while.  I could barely form a thought. What just happened?  I remembered ending my prayer, as I do all my prayers, with “In Jesus Name.”  And that’s when I realized.  In Jesus.  That small, two-letter preposition.  In. In Jesus we have comfort.  In Jesus we have peace.  In Jesus we have hope.  In Jesus we have friendship bound by a shared faith.  In reality I can’t be there with my friend.  But in Jesus I can walk through this with her.  I can help her carry this burden of loss. In Jesus. Oh how I love that preposition. And oh how I love promptings from Jesus that a phone call must be answered. In Christ Jesus you are all children of God through faith, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. Galatians 3:26-27

I woke up about 3 a.m. one morning last week to find my husband not in bed with me.  It wasn’t a surprise, really.  We had both been fighting nasty colds and coughs and I figured he had ventured downstairs to his recliner where he could prop himself up to breathe again.  Probably a good choice. When my alarm went off a few hours later, I stumbled out of bed.  The sinus pressure and pain made me wonder why I had attempted to get up in the first place.  I walked downstairs and found my husband in his recliner covered in decorative throw blankets. He turned to me and said, “I’m done with our bed.  I want a new one.  It’s time for a King.” No, good morning.  No, how are you feeling?  We are getting a King bed.  Done. I could have taken offense to that whole scene, but honestly I felt miserable, and it’s not like we hadn’t talked about this upgrade before. We shopped around.  We Googled. We discussed.  Sleep Number?  Tempur-Pedic? A visit to the local Mattress King—um no. The commercials alone squelched that option. On Sunday night we held a photo shoot for the queen bed.  She looked fabulous.  We posted pictures.  Received an offer.  Sold! And then it wasn’t.  The buyer backed out.  Now what?  The new king bed was scheduled to arrive in a few hours. Moments before the delivery, we received a call asking if the bed was still for sale.  It was someone in need of a bed.  A person just like you and me who had hit some hard times—needed a bed. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being amazed by God and how He works.  What started as a simple plan last week, to sell an old bed and replace it with a new one, took a completely different turn in an hour’s time today.  The queen bed is no longer for sale.  She has a different purpose.  No money will be exchanged with this transaction.  She’s going to a new home with no strings attached. Thank you, Lord, that your ways are always better than my ways.

About twelve years ago today, Matt and I celebrated our third Valentines weekend as a married couple.  Monday was President’s Day, and a holiday from our jobs.  So we balanced the checkbook, dipped into a credit card, and embarked on a weekend getaway. We were living in North Orange County (CA) at the time, and made the long trek to South Orange County.  It’s not a joke–the long trek that is. Thirty miles can take two hours if one gets stuck in the entangled freeways of the Orange Crush.  We arrived at sunset and checked into our hotel that overlooked the Pacific Ocean. Matt was apparently really excited about the view.  I vaguely remember him asking me if the glass door to the balcony was really clean, or if it was opened.  He later found out it was just really clean as he tried to walk through it.  Thankfully, no concussion to spoil our romantic weekend, but a great memory none-the-less.  If I ever need a laugh, I just picture that scene. We enjoyed a fabulous dinner and then walked around a hoity-toity, Southern California mall.  We came upon a jewelry store selling 14 carat-gold, diamond heart-pendant necklaces.  I could see the sparkle in Matt’s eye. “I want to get this for you,” he said. “It’s beautiful, but I don’t know.  It’s $99 plus tax.  Um, I just don’t know.  It is beautiful though” One thing led to another, and a pushy salesman too, and soon my neck adorned a special Valentine’s treat.  We walked through the mall hand-in-hand while I smiled and admired this thing of beauty around my neck. Tuesday morning came way too quickly.  We were back to work and back to life.  I opened our checkbook to enter our weekend purchases, and that’s when cold, sheer panic set in.  I had made a mistake.  A BIG one.  A subtraction error most likely.  We had less than $20.  Pay-day was not until Friday.  There were bills to pay, groceries to buy, and cars that needed gas. And there was this necklace sparkling beneath me. I called Matt and admitted this gross error in our finances.  I told him we should take the necklace back.  He insisted we shouldn’t.  He assured me we would be okay. We were. Today is our 15th Valentines Day.  I still have the necklace.  Some Valentine’s Days have been richer than others.  And $99 doesn’t seem as much as it did 12 years ago.  I have never thought of that necklace as a mistake, or a frivolous purchase.  Perhaps poor timing and a mathematical error.  And maybe, just maybe, God’s gift for a financially struggling, deeply in love, young- married couple. A blessing, indeed. Happy Valentine’s Day, Honey!  Here’s to many more—richer or poorer.

So we have this awkward wall in our house.  It’s basically dead space above the archway going into the dining room.  Except the old owners put a four-by-four-foot white frame with nothing inside—at least not that they left for us.  So here’s this framed out space that your eye is naturally drawn to as you enter our home—with nothing in it. I thought, briefly, that a picture of me would look great in the space, but the rest of the family decided that was slightly vain and conceited of me.  Then a friend suggested we put a blown up picture of our dog, Chester.  Um, probably not.  And then it hit me.  Wall Words.  I’m sure you’ve seen them.  There’s even an online company called Wall Words who sells stickers with quotes, scriptures, even custom designs that can be adhered anywhere in your house. In three easy steps. Right. So I got right to it.  I shopped the website for a few days and found the perfect scripture.  Ecclesiastes 3:1. I placed the order, and it arrived just in time for the weekend.  A perfect time to hang this lovely piece of décor. We read the instructions.  Three easy steps.  Yep.  Even the picture on the instructions sheet showed a little girl hanging her own name in her bedroom. Matt said, “I’ve got this.  You go relax.” Will do. Ooops, we only have an eight-foot ladder.  Hmm—that will definitely not reach the space.  I’ll bet our next door neighbor has one we can borrow.  A quick phone call later, and a plethora of ladders to choose from.  He even had them laid out on his driveway when we walked over. You can’t beat good neighbors. So Matt went to it.  Three hours later.  Three.  A trip to Home Depot was in order.  Seriously, it’s a STICKER.  But we have textured walls—apparently more texture than normal. Some spray adhesive.  Some finishing spray.  Another hour later.  And one freezing cold house because the spray fumes were toxic and required ventilation. Nice.  I was beginning to think the little girl pictured in the instructions must be a wall hanging, sticker prodigy.  We just weren’t getting it. It’s been 24 hours now.  The living room is a mess.  Out little sticker made it through the night with only a few letters curling.  Matt and I are still on speaking terms.  Yay us!  I’m having a bit of a spiritual crisis, though.  Doesn’t God want us to have scriptures on our walls?  After all He tells us to keep His commandments before us. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates. Deuteronomy 6:9 It’s quite possible they didn’t have textured walls back then. We are now considering plexiglass.  What doesn’t stick will be covered.  And what started as a very easy, inexpensive project has turned into….well….I’ll keep you posted.

Most mornings I take a peek at Facebook before my day gets going.  Over the past two weeks this recurring thought crosses my mind each and every morning: I wonder who’s sick today?  Let me just say, there’s some nasty ickies going around right now.  I know this because I continue to read post after post of ALL the symptoms, diagnosis, doctor visits, and so on.  Where’s that filter button? I’ve even considered taking a “medical” leave from Facebook during this cold and flu season. I’m a huge germa-phobe.  I read such posts and I consider putting on a medical mask before opening my laptop again; or sanitizing my keyboard and phone; or grabbing gobs of hand sanitizer after I read certain posts.  I know I can’t catch any of these illnesses through cyber space, but the mere thought drives a germa-phobe like me to do some crazy things. It makes me wonder if we go to the doctor, and then straight to Facebook.  Or, for some, just Facebook.  After all, I’m sure one post listing symptoms could easily be followed by a comment with a diagnosis. Before you jump to any conclusions and think I’m heartless and uncaring, you must know that I think Facebook is the best thing since class reunions, email, and scrapbooking.  I love the opportunity I have to connect with friends from my past, and get to know new friends in the here and now.  It’s a remarkable social avenue.  Really. I will admit that some posts I read are attention seeking.  Some are inappropriate.  Some are funny.  Some are informative.  Some save lives. And some are honest cries for understanding. That’s the reality of any social circles we run in—cyber or real.  The point is, that for some, Facebook is the only comfortable way to reach out for help.  There is something easier about typing a post in private, rather than calling someone or talking face to face. I believe that reaching out for help is one of the most difficult things we do—especially in a society that thrives on independence.  We don’t want to bother others.  We don’t want to appear weak.  We don’t want to seem needy.  So, when reaching out actually happens, it’s really quite a brave gesture don’t you think? So what should be our response when a friend reaches out to the masses on our newsfeed? The answer will vary friend to friend.  You will know.  But if you’re my friend I will do something to help you.  I may not comment, or like, or private message you, but I will do what I know works—I will pray.  It may involve some sanitizing actions, but I will pray for you. Too Much Information—maybe; sometimes.  Reaching out for help—courageous; commendable.

I know Who goes before me I know Who stands behind The God of Angel Armies is always on my side The One who reigns forever He is a friend of mine The God of Angel Armies is always by my side   Chris Tomlin Whom Shall I Fear (The God of Angel Armies)

Last night Cirque Du Soleil was in Colorado Springs (about an hour from our home).  Matt really wanted to go, and so he bought our family tickets for his birthday.  He’s thoughtful that way. Here is a brief recap of the night: The car ride So Maddie, did you tell your friends at church where we are going? Um, not really.  I told them I was going to a show because I wasn’t sure how to pronounce the name of what we’re doing tonight. Ok.  And you Izzy? I told all my friends we were going to the circus. Well, not really.  We are going to Cirque Du Soleil.  It’s French.  We are all going to have to pay close attention tonight so we can understand the story that’s being told.  Got it? The arrival So, when the signs on the entrance doors to World Arena read, “Doors will not open until 6:30,” it’s the truth.  Brrr is all I can say. Hey Mom, that sign says shirt and shoes must be worn. That’s right Izzy.  They don’t want anyone nude inside World Arena Matt:  There’s nudity in Cirque? Oh my. I go first as we walk through security, and Izzy is behind me. Boy, I sure hope they don’t search my purse and take my diary or my cell phone.  Mom, did you see the signs that said ‘absolutely no cell phones are to be used.’ Oh good grief Child.  Some things just don’t need to be broadcast. This little conversation took place as our tickets were being scanned. The kind attendant smiled at me, and Izzy.  As they always do. The Pre-Show Wait Izzy made herself comfortable.  Let me back up.  Izzy made herself comfortable.  Have you seen the comfortable and spacious seating at any large venue?  Yep, neither have I.  She had a plate of pizza on her lap, a drink at her feet and a Justice catalog in the middle of her and her sister.  I’m sure she would have taken her shoes off had I allowed it. At one point she quietly told me that she thinks she will prefer Justice training bras. Yay for whispering!  But still perplexed about the bras. Then a slightly older than middle age couple sat down in the cramped seats next to me.  I was visiting with Maddie when I saw her eyes grow larger than normal.  I turned to the couple next to me.   They were all over each other.  Gross.  It’s one thing to see young love, but this, um, not so much. I heard them whispering.  It sounded like they were on a date.  Then he announced to her (in a not so quiet voice) that he has a very small bladder, so he may get up a few times during the show. Heavens to Betsy.  Filter people!   Maddie and I snickered.  Let me say though, Izzy may have met her match when it comes to not filtering. The Show Amazing.  Spectacular.  Beautiful.  Captivating. Why do good things have to come to an end? As we stood and applauded the actors, dancers, acrobats and contortionists, I looked at my family.  Izzy was cheering and waving at the cast.  Maddie had a tear in her eye.  Later she told me that she was sad the show was over.  Matt had a grin from ear to ear. I was happy too.  Not only about the show, but there’s something about watching the people I love enjoy a great moment. Perhaps it was the little doses of realness sprinkled into an evening of abstract performances that made beautiful memories for this mom.

If anyone were to ask me, I would say that I love animals.  I love dogs, and most cats.  I love dolphins, bears, deer, moose, giraffes, horses, hamsters, and even a few reptiles.  I believe they all serve a purpose on this great earth, and I have experienced great joy over the years from owning domesticated animals.  But I put human beings first.  If you’ve ticked me off, I may prefer my dog over you at that particular moment, but for the most part, it’s my human relationships that I hold closest. If you don’t live in Colorado, you might not have heard the story I’m going to share with you–a very embarrassing story that happened recently in a city in this state.  I use the term “embarrassing” loosely, though, because when you’re done reading, you might just be appalled. Last week there was an elk sighting in a subdivision of Boulder (a city just outside of Denver).  The elk was seen walking through the neighborhood by a police officer.  I’m not quite clear on all the details, but the officer felt the elk was possibly a danger to the community, and shot and killed it. I heard the story, and for a brief moment, I wondered if the police officer might face some scrutiny for his actions.  It wasn’t so much about shooting the elk, as it was the place in which it was shot.  Boulder.  It’s a unique community with varying social, political, and spiritual views.  I’m convinced every state has a Boulder. Are you with me so far? As the week went on this story hit every local media outlet.  News reports. Public outrage.  Police department statements.  Officer suspensions.  And, over the weekend, a candlelight vigil for the dead elk. Woe.  Back up the bus. Yep, that’s right.  A candlelight vigil for the elk. Approximately one hundred people turned out to pay their respects.  A few of the vigil-goers were interviewed on local television.  They were crying, and couldn’t find the words to convey their sadness. And to top it off, a few verses of Amazing Grace were sung. I’m not joking. Frankly, I’m mortified about the whole thing. I wonder how someone in Newtown, Connecticut, might feel hearing such a story?  For their sake, I hope they never do.  And closer to home, I wonder how those directly affected by the horrific Aurora theatre shooting might feel?  Or the victims of the wildfires that ripped through parts of Colorado Springs a few months ago? This nation has faced tragedy.  Colorado has faced its share this past year too.  This.  This is not a tragedy. This is not worth a candlelight vigil, nor the profound words of Amazing Grace. In my opinion.

Written by: Guest author and Krista’s dad, Mark In Mark 12 and Matthew 19, we find a very familiar account. Even though this is not part of the Christmas story, it speaks of principles that are fitting for the Christmas Season. It was the prelude of what we know as the triumphal entry of Jesus into Jerusalem. Jesus told his disciples to go to a house in a village outside Jerusalem and find a donkey colt that had never been ridden. They were to bring the donkey back to Jesus. Jesus told them if anyone asked why they needed the donkey they were to say, “The Lord has need of it.” Sure enough outside one of  the houses, the disciples spotted a donkey colt tied up. As they were untying it, they were confronted with the obvious questions. (Hey, I’d be asking it too if several men were after my property.) The disciples simply said, “The Lord has need of it.” And there were no further questions. They took the donkey to Jesus. The word “Lord” has powerful meaning in this sentence. Jesus was saying he is Lord. At the very least, a powerful position, or the most powerful being in the universe. Jesus used the word to say he was God. “The Lord has need of it.” The account continues as they bring the donkey to Jesus. Before Jesus mounted the colt, the disciples threw their cloaks on it’s back. Cloaks were exceedingly important in that day. The cloak was a big coat that kept people warm when traveling.  Sometimes it was used as a blanket, sleeping bag, or a winter coat. A cloak was not to be left at home. But here, in this account, cloaks were used to make a saddle for Jesus. The disciples gave up something of real value. That one act of generosity gave honor to, and exalted, the Lord. What do you prize? What do you treasure? Would you be willing to throw it on the ground? No? What if it was for Jesus? Would you give it away?  Would you be willing to tell Jesus that He is worth anything and everything? What is Jesus asking you to give to Him during this Season of Giving?

Twas a few days before Christmas and the family was gathered in Mom and Dad’s living room.  There was no fire going because it’s Arizona, and well, you know.  We had just filled our bellies with roast, baked potatoes and green beans, and we were settling in for an enjoyable, relaxing evening. When what did my clever husband propose, but a game of Charades.  Some rolled their eyes (me, just not a gamer); and possibly my dad (not a gamer either); and the rest excitedly shouted “Yes!”  So Charades it was. We formed teams, and squabbled over which team would get Mom.  (No disrespect, we just like to tease her.)  Several minutes went by and it was a tie game, so switched the teams up we did.  This round–boys against girls.  An hour passed.  And then another.  It was 10:02 and time for bed.  But the game was still tied. So Izzy went for the girls.  This time–a song. Four words. First word–Baby.  Fourth word–Time.  Then Maddie screamed “Baby One More Time.”  And that was it!  Girls won!  High fives. Hugs all around.  Yes, it was a site to behold. Perhaps a tear or two was shed by a boy or two.  But not to worry, we didn’t gloat in our achievements. However, I must say, Joy to the World and Merry Christmas to all!  The girls won!!  

For many, today is Black Friday.  For some it is also Hang Your Christmas Lights Friday.  And for the few, the proud, and the brave, it’s a little of both.  We fall into the Christmas lights category, and if you call a trip to Home Depot, parking a mile from the entrance, and fighting the crowds for all things Christmas, well it was Black Something. It began around 8 a.m. this morning.  Neighbors could be seen from far and wide standing on ladders, rooftops and window-sills stringing lights.  We had to join in ourselves.  I realize we’ve only lived here 34 days, but what are a few lights in the big scheme of things? We can’t be “that house.” Besides, it was strongly suggested by another neighbor that we not be the only house on our street without Christmas lights this year.  (That conversation happened the day the moving truck pulled in our driveway.  So we’ve had some time to prepare.  Yeah, right.) Pleased with our purchase, and only going $12 over our light’s budget, we proceeded home.  Something caught my eye from down the street, but I couldn’t quite make it out.  As we drove closer, there it was, in plain site.  A 10 foot Santa, an eight foot Rudolph, and hundreds of lights graced the yard a few houses down from ours.  We looked at our purchase.  We looked at our house.  We looked at each other.  I felt to cry. There was no way we could compete with this.  Not that it’s a competition mind you, but if it was, well, we would probably be disqualified. My husband went straight to work, while I scrounged box after box for anything resembling red, green or Christmas.  A few hours later we were done.  Now, before you wonder why this is so complicated and defeating for us, you need to know we have no trees or bushes in our front yard.  Nada.  Zip.  Zilch.  Not one.  So, in our defense, we don’t have a lot to work with.  But regardless of the landscaping issues, we did our best. Then night began to fall.  We plugged in.  We flipped switches.  And there it was.  Our light’s display.  Hmmm.  We looked up the street.  We looked down the street.  It’s a grand site in either direction.  Until you look at our house. All evening we’ve tried to wrap our heads around what more we can do.  We even threw around the idea of a live nativity?  Any volunteers for Mary and Joseph?  Or, maybe Matt could set up a sound system and belt out a few Carols each evening? I’m not quite sure how all this is going to go down.  I’m telling myself it’s a work in progress.  I’ll keep you posted.  Until then, I’m feeling a bit bah humbugish about the whole thing.    

Julie Andrews sang about it.  Oprah talks about it.  And I’m curious, what are your favorite things? I’m doing some research for a blog post and would love to know your top three favorite things.  The only rules—you have to list things–not places, people or activities.  I know some of you don’t think a list is complete if it doesn’t say Jesus or family at the top, but let’s stick to “things.”  No spiritual consequences, I promise. Here are mine: 1. My Kindle 2. Brighton Jewelry 3. Plain M&M’s Ready. Set. Go.

[Disclaimer: I write on a wide variety of topics.  Some serious, and many light-hearted and simple.  I find that many times we need the light-hearted topics to get through the heavier parts of our day.  I know that many of you are in the middle of some storms right now, and in no way am I trying to downplay the issues you are facing. My hope is that by writing on the simple things, you will find some levity to your day, and a smile on your face.  Thank you for being loyal readers.  Many blessings on you!] One Moment Please That’s a phrase that has appeared on the television screen in our bedroom for the last three nights.  The funny thing is–it’s ONE BIG LIE!  It’ doesn’t take moments for a picture to appear.  It doesn’t even take hours.  It just doesn’t appear at all.  Period. I won’t mention names, but our cable provider, whose name starts with a C and ends with a T, is probably to blame.  The TV and cable had been working fine until Matt called to correct another minor problem, and they told him to reboot the system.  Now all we can watch are shows that have been recorded on our DVR.  We can’t watch live TV. This has led to several nightly calls to our cable company.  None of which produce good moods in our household.  Again, I won’t mention names of fellow residents with bad moods over this. (Starts with an M, ends with a T.) What we have figured out is that there is no problem because nothing shows up on their system that says there’s a problem.  It’s possible we might be making all this up—according to them.  I even heard Matt ask if he could speak to one of the “underground technicians.” Underground technicians? Grasping at straws, Friends.  We are grasping at straws. So last night, determined to believe that somehow the problem had corrected itself, and somehow the cable company figured out the issue, we turned on the TV.  Yep, One Moment Please.  We smiled at each other through gritted teeth while we waited several minutes.  Nothing.  Starving for some entertainment, we turned on a recorded show.  Guess what?  No sound. Fun times here.  Fun times, indeed.

Dear Parker, Colorado: I feel like I might owe you an apology.  For many years you’ve just been a town that held the church I love so dearly.  As time went on, and relationships were formed at my church, I started visiting your community much more: Lunch at Tequila Joes, picnics at Challenger Park, coffee at Kunjani, and of course dinner at the beautiful homes of great friends.  You started to grow on me. That’s not to say I still don’t snicker that there’s a gun and ammo right next to McDonalds off Parker Road.  Murdochs and seed and feed stores are still foreign to me, but one day, maybe, I’ll venture in to check them out.  I doubt I’ll ever sport cowgirl boots, but you never know. And the names of some your streets–Motsenbocker, Dransfeldt, and Mainstreet spelled as one word.  Yikes!  That kills me as a writer.  And is Twenty Mile Road really twenty miles long? Someone once told me it was better to live further west because the mountain views were better.  I disagree.  The views are beautiful—grand.  There’s much more open space, and that in itself is a beautiful backdrop for the Front Range.  And Pikes Peak, how gorgeous are you?  I never could see you before. The hometown feel in this community is more than I could have imagined.  You take great pride in your town.  I can tell by the beautiful fall decorations adorning each corner of Mainstreet.  I can’t wait to see what the Christmas season holds.  You will probably look like you jumped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. We had a situation at the post office, but after visiting yesterday, I feel much better now.  Yes, the line was still long, but the postal worker who has no sense of a “quiet, indoor voice” brightened my day.  I can tell he loves his job, his co-workers and his community.  That’s rare these days. There’s much more for me to discover in your town.  I can’t wait.  I’m glad I gave you a chance.  You grew on me more than I ever expected.  I will do my best to be a good resident.

We moved to a new house over the weekend.  Well “moved” implies past tense.  That’s it’s done.  Complete.  It’s not.  So, really we continue to move.  The old house continues to produce pile after pile of moveable items every time we walk through its doors.  And there seems to be no end to this vicious cycle. It’s been stressful.  There have been harsh words spoken, and apologies made. There have been plumbing issues, broken doorbells, and light switches that don’t turn on anything. So time marches on.  And sooner than later we will be unpacked and settled.  The old house will welcome new owners without a trace of our existence there.  The new house will become a home.  But as we work through this process it helps to have moments of humor to keep us going.  For instance, this morning.  Definitely a moment of laughter. Here’s the story: Last night I was hanging up coats in the coat closet.  One of the coats knocked over a dark, plastic cup that was sitting on the floor.  Because, as we all know, brand new carpet is a great location for a drink.  In the nicest tone I could muster I asked whose cup it was. “It’s mine,” said my husband, “But before you get all upset, it’s empty, and it only had water in it.” Okay.  That’s good.  I picked it up and set it on the counter.  It rattled.  I then asked if the cup had ice in it. It did. No big deal.  It’s only water in a frozen state.  Nothing that could make a stain. This morning as I was out running errands, I get a phone call from hubby. “So you know the cup that you thought had ice in it last night? Well it wasn’t ice.  It was the earpiece to my phone.” Okay, I thought, not quite getting it. “Well, I filled that cup with water before I went to bed, and as I was drinking my last sip this morning, guess what I found?” Yep. As I type my husband is upstairs blow drying his earpiece. I’m really not sure what’s funnier.  But, it sure feels good to laugh.        

I’m not saying I wasn’t looking forward to it, but at the time, it was a calendar item that I just wanted to cross off and get done.  I knew that I would be spending three hours on a Saturday evening with hundreds of teenage girls.  At this point in my life, it’s not my calling to hang with this demographic.  But the tickets were purchased, and it was time to buck up and face the evening ahead. Contemporary Christian artist, Britt Nicole, was in concert for one evening at a local church, and my almost teen girls couldn’t wait to go. I consider myself to be pretty up-to-date with music.  I knew some of Britt’s music, but I didn’t know a thing about Britt—the person.  I’m beyond impressed. The concert began.  And so did the screaming.  It was the part I dreaded, or so I thought.  But then, I could sit no longer.  I had to be apart of this.  God was in the house, and I didn’t want to miss a second of His presence. As all concerts go, Britt soon led us into a quieter portion of music.  She shared pieces of her life, her story.  She looked at the beautiful young ladies beneath the stage that waved their hands in hopes to touch hers.  She spoke amazing words into their lives.  I cried.  My daughters were up there.  In that sea of teenage girls.  Hearing that their life matters.  That their Creator knows their dreams and wants to fulfill them. Then I noticed something.  Sometimes God’s messages can only be sung.  The band played.  And Britt sang words like Freedom and Surrender over and over in a beautiful melody.  A couple of times she stopped singing, put down her microphone, and joined the crowd below the stage.  What was she doing?  I tried to see.  Oh my, she’s praying with those sweet girls.  Then, before long, she would be back on the stage belting out another powerful tune. I knew what was happening.  The Spirit of God was leading this concert. Every word she spoke. Every song she sang.  None of it was her.  She completely surrendered, and let the Spirit lead.  I’m certain she had a printed order of service to follow.  Every artist does.  The band needs to know cues.  The sound and lighting techs need to know what’s next.  But I doubt the agenda was followed last night.  God had other plans.  And He found the vessel in which to deliver His message. Every moment of that concert ministered to my soul.  I walked out inspired to listen to the Spirit of God better.  More.  It’s vital I do this.  It’s important my daughters see this modeled to them.  And it’s fairly easy.  The Spirit of God lives in me.  He lives in all of us who choose to follow God.  It’s a wonderful gift really. But to not open that gift.  To not tap into its power.  To not engage. To just ignore it.  Well, it’s not how gifts form the Father should be treated. This morning Britt Nicole is not the hero in the eyes of Maddie and Izzy.  God is.  She did what she was called to do.   And my girls got it.  They saw the Spirit of God in a beautiful, young, musician.  Their lives will not be same.  And neither will mine. All this time From the first tear cried ‘Til today’s sunrise And every single moment between You were there You were always there It was You and I You’ve been walking with me all this time ~Britt Nicole  

We are moving.  Not far.  Just a few miles east to Parker.  I couldn’t be more excited, but at times, it feels like it will be a lifetime before we get the keys to our new home—30 days to be exact. I feel like a thousand tasks are coming at me from all directions demanding my immediate attention.  And, I’m realizing there’s only one of me.  Well of course I knew that already, but I often quietly commend myself for the multi-tasker that I am. This truth came to light (about the multi-tasker thing) when I was juggling two important phone calls, responding to three texts and reading a disclosure statement about the new property, all while teaching Izzy a history lesson about Austrailia. I might have told our Farmers insurance agent, Kim, that we are relocating to Sydney in a few weeks so that we can enjoy a warm tropical Christmas on the beach.  You see Australia is in the Southern Hemisphere meaning the seasons are opposite of what we have here in the Northern Hemisphere.  It’s highly possible that’s what I said.  I’m sure she’ll figure it out and then wonder whom this goof ball is that she’s writing a quote for. It’s stressful right now.  I’m wondering what we got ourselves into.  I’m wondering if we heard God right.  Should we be making a move like this?  Is this the right time? A hundred questions.  One answer.  Not an audible answer.  But an answer deep in my soul that says YES.  This is where I want you. This process of selling and buying a home looks nothing like I pictured in my head five weeks ago when we listed our home.  I couldn’t have come up with this plan on my own.  God’s hands are all over it. What I’m learning is that God cares about the little things in our lives.  He cares about the details.  His timing is perfect.  And He only reveals His plan when we fully submit to Him and His leading. This isn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last time, I have to re-learn this lesson.   And it probably won’t be the last time that I have to re-learn this lesson in the next 30 days. Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not worth much more than they? Matthew 6:26

Izzy was working independently reviewing some (addition) story problems.  I overheard her reading one particular problem out loud to Maddie.  It went like this: Chip collected 16 acorns and Dale collected 26 acorns.  How many acorns were added to their stores? Izzy follows up by saying, what cute names for chipmunks! Maddie suggests Izzy name her stuffed animals Chip and Dale. I start laughing, but keep my mouth shut despite the stares from my two innocent daughters.  Chip and Dales for characters in a math problem?  Hmmm. Apparently mathematicians have a sense of humor. Or not?

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten thousand tongues. They are messengers of overwhelming grief, of deep contrition, and unspeakable love. -Washington Irving I don’t know where your heart is at today, but if tears are apart of your journey–that’s okay.

“Mom, Mom!” Izzy comes rushing through the front door, out of breath. “You know those kids in the blue house on the corner?” “Yes.” “Well, guess what they called Maddie and me?” Uh oh. “I don’t know. What did they say?” “The “S” word.” “Really?” “Yes,” (whispering in my ear) “they called us Stupid and Poopy Heads.” “Well that’s good. I mean, it’s not, but it’s not as bad as it could have been.” Dodged a bullet there.

On a cold, blustery, Colorado day in January, we sat around our dining room table and planned out our August Vacation to a beach destination in Florida.  It was like a mini-vacation in itself–looking at the resort pictures online. As the year rolled along and the departure time drew closer, we kept the resort pictures tucked in the back of our minds and persevered through life’s challenges and busyness.  Somehow, looking forward to something makes it easier to navigate through the difficult times. Finally, two weeks to departure.  And then a week.  And then.  What?  A hurricane?  Seriously?  How does this happen?  Besides the obvious fact that it’s hurricane season in the Gulf.  We watched the news.  We Googled.  We read articles.  We perused the National Hurricane Center’s website.  Anything that would help us make our decision.  And then on Thursday morning.  One day until departure.  The decision was made.  We shouldn’t go. We called our timeshare agent.  Bless your heart, Brenda—wherever you are.  We looked at other vacation destinations.  Nothing, except for Branson Missouri, and somehow that just wasn’t a close second to the beach. As the morning went on we decided to try destinations outside the US.  Cancun, Mexico.  Ahh.  That’s sounds nice.  There was availability.  We could even change our flights without penalty.  Done. Booked.  Then we got the passports out.  Uh oh!  The girls’ passports expired in April. No problem.  I’m sure there’s something we can do.  And just like that I was at my computer and found a place that expedites passport renewals.  I called.  I became excited.  Then my countenance fell.  Again.  It would cost at least $600 with no guarantee of arrival by the time we had to leave. We sat silently.  The girls cried.  We looked from one to the other.  What now?  And like a knight in shining armor, coming to the rescue of his girls, Matt said he would call Brenda once again.  The odds were stacked against us.  In the world of timeshares once you make one destination change you can’t make another.  We were pretty certain we had lost a vacation week. My heart pounded, and if it had been a hot day, I’m sure sweat would have beaded on my brow.  I couldn’t even walk into the room where Matt was talking on the phone to Brenda.  Somehow I thought we were the ones who had messed up. Royally.  We were the ones who made the mistake of canceling our Florida trip. But then it hit me.  Scriptures.  God’s Word.  Maybe this wasn’t a colossal mistake in the world of travel and parenting.  Maybe this was God.  After all we are under the umbrella of his protection.  Maybe this was his protection. Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High
 will rest in the shadow of the Almighty. Psalm 91:1 NIV Loud sobs were coming from the girls’ bedrooms.  I marched upstairs with this new found hope from scripture.  I stood in the middle of the hall at the doorways to each of their bedrooms. Girls, I want you to understand something.  Sometimes when we get ahead of God.  When we try to push our own agendas that aren’t meant to be pushed, God blocks it.  I don’t know if he’s blocking our plans for this trip.  I just don’t know.  But it shouldn’t be this difficult to go on vacation.  And I think we need to quit trying so hard to make this happen.  Let’s rest in him and see what he does.  Do you understand? Cease striving and know that I am God. Psalm 46:10 NAS They understood. When I went back to check on Matt, I could tell he was no longer upset.  He gave me the thumbs up sign.  He looked weary after three hours on the phone, but things seemed to be looking up. Well, it’s been two days since that difficult morning.  I am writing from our condo at the Desert Oasis Resort in Scottsdale, Arizona.  It’s beautiful.  It’s not Bonita Springs, Florida.  And it’s a fry car from the beach.  But it’s sunny, warm and comfortable.  We are receiving refreshment.  And for one whole week we are leaving the daily cares of home, at home.  It’s lovely. I can’t explain it really, but I feel at peace in my heart.   This vacation is just what it was meant to be all along. Oh, and The Keanes won! For My thoughts are not your thoughts, 
Nor are your ways My ways, declares the Lord.  For as the heavens are higher than the earth, 
So are My ways higher than your ways 
And My thoughts than your thoughts. Isaiah 55:8-9 NAS

Sometimes I look at him, and wonder.  His beautiful brown eyes and long eyelashes.  His curly brown hair.  His playful ways.  His quirks. His preferences.  And I think, you are the most immature 28 year-old I know. Grow up already.  Okay, 28 in dog years. I recently took Chester, our 65 pound, Chocolate Labradoodle to dog camp.  Let me back up a bit.  I took him for an “interview” at dog camp.  He had to pass the “getting along with other campers interview” before he could have any other camp privileges.   He passed!  And now he will return for a full week of camp while the rest of the family hits the Desert Southwest for vacation. It is a state-of-the-art facility for all things Canine, but I still felt nervous.  Aside from greeting the neighbor dogs through the fence, Chester’s not been around other dogs very much.  So dog camp seemed like a stretch—for him and me. The ordeal started at 7:30 a.m. Tuesday morning.  Chester is always ready for an adventure.  Whether it’s a walk around the hood, or a beloved car ride to run errands, he’s all in.  Except for this morning.  I couldn’t find him anywhere.  Didn’t he know this was his chance to escape his ordinary day of chasing butterflies, birds and squirrels in the backyard? Finally he appeared through the dog door.  I excitedly told him we were going to dog camp!  Woo Hoo!  And then I realized, as I so often do, that I was speaking to a dog.  After much coaxing Chester entered the garage.  Seriously, he is never tentative about going anywhere.  After offering many dog treats and climbing in the back of the car myself to coax him, we were safely on our way.  Whew! As we entered the parking lot for dog camp, I could hear the faint sounds of barking, and so could Chester.  I could sense his timidity getting out of the car.  But the minute we walked in, well there’s not better way to describe this than to get my “dog” on: Oh my, oh my.  It smells so good in here.  Tail wagging ferociously. Jump. Jump.  Wow I love this place.  Let’s go.  Let’s see.  Oh my.  Must jump up on the counter and see.  Ooo treats.  Yummo.  Jump some more.  Oh little kiddos.  Let’s sniff. Sniff them.  Ooo they smell like breakfast.  Yummo.  Ooo the pretty lady is coming to get me.  Must jump on her.  I’m as tall as her.  Yippee.  Bye, Mom. Don’t look so tired and worn out.  I’ll be fine.  Yep.  That pretty much described my first hour of the morning.  I was exhausted.  And I was almost convinced, after watching several other dogs being dropped off for camp, that Chester is quite immature for his age.  Some walked through the door like they owned the place.  Others walked through in quiet observation.  Some sadly glanced back at their owners as they were being drug away to the campground.  None of them had leashes or choke chains.  What was their secret? The kind attendant even said, after Chester knocked off the neatly stacked clipboards from the four-foot counter,  “Why don’t I get him out of here so you can fill out the paperwork.” Oh no, he’s not even going to pass the interview is he? Thankful for the many advances in technology, I was able to download an app onto my phone and watch Chester at day at camp.  He never sat down.  Not once.  He played—hard. At promptly 3:00 p.m., I picked him up.  I saw him say good-bye to his new-found friends and walk calmly down the hallway to meet me at the door.  But when he saw me he practically knocked me over with his excitement. Oh, Mom, Mom!  You came back.  Lick. Lick.  I’m so sorry for how hyper I was.  I’m fine now.  I was just nervous before. Hmm.  Maybe it’s not immaturity.  Maybe it was just nerves.  New place.  New smells.  New look.  New people. We humans like familiarity too.  We are more comfortable when we are surrounded by what we know.  I wonder if we took the time to understand someone a little better—to know their story before we make decisions about them—maybe our world would be more like camp too.

Yesterday was our 15th Wedding Anniversary.  We knew as that day drew closer that we had done our celebrating back in April when we went to the Bahamas for vacation, but still the thought crossed our minds that we should do something on the day.  However, I can’t say that either of us felt in a celebratory mood yesterday. Don’t misunderstand me, our marriage is great, and 15 years is an accomplishment worth recognizing.  Any anniversary is.  And even though we didn’t go out on the town, we enjoyed a wonderful evening on our back patio with California Pizza Kitchen take out, the Olympics, and our daughters. What happened yesterday is that our emotions finally got the best of us.  Daily life became too much.  Sleepless nights caught up.  And two drained people sat side by side on an outdoor love seat trying to get their bearings. Sympathy will do that. Sympathy: Deep concern or understanding to the distress of another human being; a concern for the well being of another.[i] Last Friday night we received word that, Jenna, the 15 year-old-daughter, of some family friends had been admitted to the hospital.   Later that night an MRI revealed a brain tumor.  As the weekend went on, more tests revealed the tumor was malignant and aggressive.  Tuesday a biopsy was done.  And now the family awaits the next step. Can you imagine?  Maybe you can.  Maybe you can more than sympathize.  Maybe you can empathize.  I like to think of empathy and sympathy as sisters.  Both are emotions of deep concern for another, but empathy means sharing a specific emotional state or experience with another person.[ii]  Perhaps you know all to well what Jenna is facing. On Friday night our family stepped into their tragedy as sympathetic by-standers.  We anxiously awaited phone calls, texts, and Facebook updates.  We reached out to help, dropping our own agendas to come along side them in anyway we could.  We prayed continually and pleaded with God for healing.  We couldn’t relate first hand to what they were going through, but we could sympathize on many levels—especially as parents. I’ve never experienced sleeping problems, but since Friday night I’ve found my sleep to be restless and disconnected.  I’ve woken many times to a glaring red clock at wee hours of the morning.  Each wakeful moment during the quiet hours of the night I’m compelled to pray for Jenna. Sympathy will do that. Yesterday it all hit.  The reality of the situation slapped me in the face.  The thoughts I tried to dismiss came to the surface.  And tears flooded my eyes. This could so easily be us. And it’s that thought that propels me to pray just a little harder; to reach out just a little more; to be thankful for all the little things in everyday life, and not take one moment for granted.  I know I’m not alone in this realization. The Bible speaks of sympathy like this.  Carry each other’s burdens and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. (Galatians 6:2)  It’s not a suggestion, or a great idea, but a pretty straightforward assignment. It’s not easy being sympathetic bystanders.  Or carrying other’s burdens.  But in the end it’s what we are called by God to do.  And someday, maybe, as the one with the burden, we will know the great importance of the burden carriers in our life. [i] Wikepedia.com [ii] Wikepedia.com

I guess you could say I’m an Olympic watcher, not a fanatic, or a die-hard, but I do get excited and inspired every couple of years when the Olympics are televised. As I’ve watched the 2012 Olympics I’ve wondered something though. Does a silver or bronze medal matter anymore, or is it all about gold? I was talking with my mom on the phone. (She is definitely a die-hard Olympic fan.) We were commenting on a 400-meter Men’s Swimming Relay that our American team had won four years. Actually it was a surprise victory for the US, who was not favored behind a powerful French team in 2008. This year, however, the gold medal was not meant to be for this American relay team. My mom and I both commented on how it was sad that they had lost. Wait a second. Lost? No, no. Isn’t a silver medal still a win? Isn’t standing on the medal podium in any position a win? Actually, isn’t making it to the Olympics a win? No sooner had I hung up the phone, I saw an interview with two US Women’s Volleyball players. They were making the following statements: We are going for the gold. Losing isn’t an option. We are winners. Nothing less (than gold) is good enough. Slow down turbo. Keep your pants on. I mean your skimpy, spandex, bikini panties on. You get my point. Just when I thought a win really wasn’t a win if it’s not a gold medal, I watched Men’s Gymnastics. What drew me into the drama unfolding in the gymnastics pavilion on Tuesday night was not the difficulties the US team was experiencing, but the success Great Britain was about to find. As the gymnasts were finishing up their rotations, and team scores were being calculated, something amazing began to happen. Even the young men from Britain couldn’t believe it. The final scores were posted on the scoreboard revealing they had captured a medal. And when I say drama, I mean drama. At first they were awarded a bronze medal, but then one of the Japanese gymnasts received a low score on the pommel horse, moving Britain into silver medal contingency. Japan appealed the score. And back to bronze it was for Britain. The commentator explained that Great Britain had not medaled in gymnastics for a century, nor were they really expected to medal in this Olympics. The young gymnasts were momentarily stunned. They looked from one to another and at the scoreboard. Then, in unison, they cut loose. They cheered, hugged, cried, jumped, high fived and fist bumped. They were winners. Silver medal, bronze medal, third place, runners up—it didn’t matter. They were winners. So, yes, silver and bronze medals are good enough. Congratulations boys from across The Pond!

This was the conversation, I’m sorry, the panic-stricken, terror filled, pleas I heard coming from the upstairs of our little suburban home recently. “Maddie, save me. Please hurry. I’m in your house. Come get me. Quick.” “I’m coming Izzy. Where are you? I don’t see you. Izzy, Izzy, where are you?” “Maddie, come back to your house. I’m dying.” Oh good grief. I showed up in the hallway between their bedrooms to assess the situation. No one was dead, or even injured for that matter. No one seemed in trouble. “And for Pete’s sake, this house belongs to Daddy and me (well technically there’s a bank involved too) so what on earth are you talking about? Your house?” Both girls were sitting quietly on their bedroom floors. One on the iPad. One on the laptop. The yelling had stopped. No one even looked panicked. Maddie looked up: “What’s wrong, Mom?” “What were you yelling about? And why is Izzy dying?” “Oh Mom, it’s not for real. It’s a game. Mine Craft. We’re playing Mine Craft.” “Super. What’s Mine Craft?” With smiles that lit up their bedrooms, and with a look that said, Oh Mommy Dear, pull up a seat and we will show you this most amazing electronic game, I stepped in for a closer view. I can’t say I understood much. There were no birds having temper tantrums, or cars needing to be parallel parked into tight spaces. Nope. It was pretty much a game that required building a house, a yard, and perhaps a pool. It took skill, creativity, some brief combat with zombies, but mostly it seemed harmless. I’m not going to get on a soapbox and quote statistics about how the Internet, electronic devices and the Media are taking over our children’s minds, because they aren’t taking over my children’s minds. I can only speak for our family. Yes, we’ve established a few rules about when and how long electronic games can be played. But for the most part, I’m not concerned. For a few 20-minute periods, on any given day, you might find Mine Craft being played by my girls. But what you may not see is the brilliant ways they use their imaginations in between game times; pet store, vet clinic, school, dress up, dance company, rock star,  and the list goes on and on. I’ve seen different versions of an “email forward” from a disgruntled child of the Sixties who has a beef with how our children of this generation are entertained. It goes something like this, “When I was a kid in the 1960’s, we drank out of the garden hose, and we didn’t come home until after dark, and we didn’t wear seat belts and bike helmets, and blah, blah, blah.”  Has it popped into your in-box yet? Just wait. You know what? Each generation is different. And what entertains each generation is different. I’m sure the kind, nostalgic soul who drank out of the garden hose as a young child didn’t mean to get me fired up with that email, but he or she certainly got me thinking. My kiddos love life. They are each other’s best friend, and on occasion, worst nightmare. They are having fun this summer. They are using their minds and their imagination—even if it comes in the form of an e-game once in a while. The truth is, they don’t know any better. This is how fun looks to them. And that’s okay.

A moment is a brief period of time, often in the present. To define is, “to determine or identify the essential qualities or meaning of.” Recently, the staff pastors at our church asked me if I would officiate at a memorial service, and I agreed. The deceased was a man in his mid 50’s who had died by suicide. Some of our church members worked with him, but the family was not a part of our church and told us they were “not very religious.” They didn’t want any scripture or sermon. They went back and forth about even having a pastor officiate. Finally deciding yes on a pastor, the family only wanted two prayers and nothing more. Offering the opening and closing prayer and officiating the open mic time when people could share memories, was my assigned task. Before the service, I spent some time with the widow, and since I was sensitive to the limitations on my speaking, I asked if I could share a very brief closing. She said that would be fine, so I let her know what I intended to say. I told her that my main point was that his choice at the end should not define his life. There were years of happiness, family, friends, love, and fond memories. She then made the point that his choice should not define their lives either. They need to get through this and move on. Even though many of us has been touched by someone who chose suicide, the principle of one moment defining a whole life goes beyond that. Aren’t we all glad that our lives are not defined by a moment of foolishness, thoughtlessness, or even sin? Yet there are defining moments in our lives that make huge, positive differences that shape us. Some moments even shape our eternal destiny. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying suicide determines someone’s eternal destiny. I believe that suicide is determined by other moments and choices along the way. There are defining moments: Some that we would never want to be our legacy. And some that we would want to be what defined our life. Even though our lives can be summed up by a series of moments, we need to be mindful of those life changing, destiny shaping, moments we all experience. Let’s not miss one defining moment. It could change our lives. There is a time for everything,
 and a season for every activity under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die,
 a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal,
 a time to tear down and a time to build, a time to weep and a time to laugh,
 a time to mourn and a time to dance, a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
 a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing, a time to search and a time to give up, 
a time to keep and a time to throw away, a time to tear and a time to mend, 
a time to be silent and a time to speak, a time to love and a time to hate,
 a time for war and a time for peace. Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

[I realize that lately I’ve focused a few of my posts on weather related themes.  This one is no different.  Weather keeps moving across the Rockies giving me inspiration for stories.] It was 8:30 on Monday morning.  We had been plagued by dry temperatures producing destructive wildfires in our state, but temperatures had cooled and we were enjoying some much needed moisture. I was driving Izzy across town to her first day of Horse Camp.  For five days, two hours each morning, Izzy would learn the basics of caring for horses; saddling, grooming, leading and riding.  It promised to be a great week. As we pulled onto the main street from our subdivision, the rain started coming down in buckets. I kept turning my windshield wipers up a notch because my visibility was becoming less and less. Soon I had them going at the highest speed possible, and that just looked, well, silly. I have to wonder if the speed of the wipers really makes any difference when the rain is so heavy. My heart started to race a little, and panic crept in. I looked at the panel of knobs and buttons. What do I do? I can’t see much in front of me. Ahh, the defrost setting. That’ll work. It helped a little. The windows were at least un-fogged now, but the rain was pounding, and now gigantic puddles were forming in the street. Cars were slowing. Should I pull over and wait it out? No, horse camp awaits. Onward Krista. Then questions started coming from my passenger in the backseat. Mom, are you okay? Why do the wipers look so funny? Is horse camp really going to happen? What if it’s muddy? I don’t have boots. Ugh. I don’t know. I really don’t know, Izzy. I think this is just a freak storm. Then my car radio did that series of beeps and computer weather guy started talking. (You know him—he announces the storm warnings.) A flash flood warning was in effect. Really? But it’s Horse Camp day. Please no flash flooding. Soon we were slowly merging onto the highway. Traffic was almost at a standstill. Then, off in the distance, I saw it. Through heavy splattering raindrops and a parade of taillights, I saw it. The sun. It was shining. On the foothills of the Front Range. And where Horse Camp would be held. Yippee! Look Izzy. Do you see the sun shining over there? I think that’s where the stable is. Oh good, Mom. This is going to be a good day after all. Sure enough about a mile and half away the rain stopped. By the time we reached our exit the roadways were dry and the sun was shining. Brightly. My heart no longer raced. Panic was not an issue. There were no questions coming from the backseat. Before me, blue sky. Behind me, dark clouds. But what if another storm comes? What if the sun only shines briefly? Focus Krista. Look ahead, not behind. Then it dawned on me–no pun intended. When caught in the middle of a torrential downpour we so easily go to that place of panic and uncertainty. We snap at those we love because we don’t have answers. We question all we’ve learned about God. We wonder where He is in the midst of OUR storm? And then we see light. It was there the whole time. We just couldn’t lift our heads enough to see beyond the dark clouds. Or maybe we were focused on the scene in the review mirror. Whatever it is, we are now more hopeful. The future is looking a little brighter. We utter prayers of thanksgiving instead of panic prayers. We smile. We know this will be a good day after all. But if only we had that same faith and hope during the storm. Teach me, Lord. Teach me how to have that kind of faith. We know that our suffering gives us the strength to go on. The strength to go on produces character. Character produces hope. And hope will never let us down. Romans 5:3-5

They were a nice looking couple, maybe in their mid-sixties. I’m not sure what drew me to observe them. Perhaps it was what they were purchasing—clothes, shoes, and a belt or two. I noticed they had great taste in clothing. After all our paths were crossing at the factory outlet mall in Silverthorne. As they were checking out the clerk asked the gentlemen if he would like to donate $5 to the Colorado relief efforts for the fire victims. He paused. His shoulders slumped a little. He took a moment before he responded. I couldn’t quite make out what he said to her, but I knew in that moment he was a victim of the wildfires that have ravaged our state this summer. The clerk was taken back. She didn’t quite know how to respond. I wanted to go tap him on the shoulder and ask him if he said what I thought he said, but I felt a gigantic lump forming in my throat. Then I noticed his wife. I couldn’t see her face, but by her body language I could tell she would rather be anywhere but there. I’m sure in the midst of public tragedy and loss the questions become unbearable. That might be why she left the store while her husband completed the transaction. The clerk, a little more composed now, asked him what fire he had been in. It was the Colorado Springs fire. We had lived there less than a year. (pausing) It was our dream home, he said, barely audible. I wasn’t the only one observing this scene. I think the shoppers and other employees in earshot of the conversation had paused to listen. He went on to say that they owned a home up in Summit County and were staying there for the time being. His purchases started to make sense. Then my mom stepped forward, compelled by compassion for this couple. She went up to the man and with tears in her eyes asked him about his loss. He reached out to her and placed his arm on her shoulder. I could tell he was moved by her tenderness. We visited a few more minutes with him. He explained that he had felt a wide range of emotions in the last several days—grief, anger, loss, and depression. His honesty was moving. He said they would never build a home in the same area—too many memories. Then he told us that when they were allowed back into their community to view the destruction, he found one item that had remained in tact. Everything else around this one piece was charred. But the statue of St. Francis, that he had given to his wife for her garden, was still standing. I’m a believer now, he said. He thanked us for our concern and walked away. Oh how I longed to ask him what he meant by that last statement. Do you believe in the statue? In St. Francis? In God? What do you believe in? Curiosity got the best of me. I pulled out my phone and quickly Google-d Saint Francis. This is what Wikipedia had to say: Francis of Assisi, the patron saint of animals and the ecology, was a Roman Catholic saint who took the gospel literally by following all Jesus said and did. I thought it was appropriate for a garden statue, but I was a tad disappointed. I wanted him to say he had found a personal relationship with Jesus in the midst of this tragedy. That he was now a devoted follower of Christ, just like St. Francis. I tucked my phone back in my purse, and as I did, I realized that this little statue, and all it symbolizes, is weaving his story to point to Jesus. Thank you St. Francis.

After running around all afternoon, the last thing I wanted to do was prepare dinner.  I had about twenty minutes to whip something up.  Hmm, I thought, what could I make that’s healthy, organic, gluten free, dairy free, with no partially hydrogenated oils?  My mind drifted.  Wouldn’t life be so much healthier if we could eat like the pioneers did?  They didn’t worry about cholesterol, heart disease, or cancer, to the extent that we do.  They simply ate what they could hunt and gather.  How nice. I opened the freezer and found a bag of freshly, frozen, organic broccoli (the bag was PBA free).  I placed it in the microwave and steamed it for a few minutes.  Meanwhile I added a cup of organic brown rice to my rice cooker and diced up some free-range, organic chicken.  I sautéed the chicken in a gluten-free seasoning.  And voila!  About that time my husband walked through the door from a long day at the office, the timer on the rice cooker dinged.  Dinner was done!!! ***** It was a hot day on the plains in the late 1800’s.  She had spent all morning tending to her family’s garden, milking cows and collecting eggs.  It was late afternoon and soon darkness would overtake the small Kansas farm.  She prayed to the Good Lord for enough strength to prepare supper. As she kneaded the dough for the bread with one hand, and wiped her perspiring forehead with the other hand, she cursed under her breath.  Her eyes were growing heavy and her muscles ached from all the hard labor she had done on the farm.  Then the slightest smile crossed her lips as she stirred the hot pot of stew and thought: Maybe someday, someone, in a future generation will figure out a way to genetically modify food.  Oh, and maybe  design appliances that would cook the food faster. It would make life so much easier. Sometimes it’s just our perspective.

It’s 10:56 am on Wednesday morning. The phone rings. Caller ID reveals it’s Taste of Home cooking magazine. Slightly panicking. I think I’ve been receiving Taste of Home for a year now without paying. Deep breath. And after a brief moment of visualizing I’m incarcerated for not paying this debt, I answer. Hello. “Hello. Mrs. Key-on-nae Please.” This is. Why bother correcting the gross mispronunciation of our name—especially if I’m off to the Slammer anyway. “Yes. Hello. This is Janesha from Taste of Home. I’m calling from Greenville, North Carolina, where it’s sunny and beautiful today.” Okay. So far so good. “How’s the weather where you are?” Um, it’s nice. “What’s the temperature today?” Uh, in the 80’s. What? The weather? “Well the reason I’m calling…” Oh, not to talk about the weather? “..you are one of our most loyal customers,” Phew. I’m a loyal customer, not a criminal. “and we would like to offer you Taste of Home magazine for $1.57 each subscription.” And there it is. The pitch. “That’s $1.57 each.” Got that, $1.57 each. “And you don’t have to pay now. We will bill you later. So can I have your permission to send this out right now?” No. I’m good. But thanks. “Alright Mrs. Key-on-nae. You have a great day.” Bye. And Aloha to you too. It’s KEANE. We are not Hawaiian.  But that might explain Janesha’s weather curiosity. I’m thankful for Caller ID, and in this case, I’m thankful I answered.  Orange just isn’t my color.  However, my recipe collection might be slim pickings for a while.

There’s a Christian radio station I have listened to for years. They boast about their positive and encouraging content. And it’s true. If you are looking for positive and encouraging radio, this is your station—even the news takes on a similar spin. I’ve hit my wall with said station. Yep. Don’t get me wrong. I love Christian music and I love the message in Christian music, but I can only handle so much positive and encouraging words from the radio hosts. That’s it. It’s really not the music. It’s the radio personalities. Every time I listen (well today anyway) I feel like they are picking and choosing their words so carefully. You can hear the restraint in their voices. It’s as if someone is standing over them with duct tape in hand ready to tape their mouth shut should they utter the wrong words: “You can share something personal, but don’t give too much information.” “You can laugh, but not too hard.” “You can tell a sad story, but smile the whole time you’re telling it.” Oh for heaven’s sake people. I’m in a punchy mood today. Sorry. What I want to say. What I want to scream through the listener call line is, BE REAL! For the love of Pete, BE REAL!! No worries. I didn’t call. Positive and encouraging is a great concept—brilliant actually. But it needs a dose of realness to keep me listening. At least today.

Conversation One Izzy:  Mom, If I had an electric toothbrush I think I would brush my teeth more. Mom:  Do you brush them now? Izzy:  Well, not two times a day, and sometimes zero times. (She’s dancing around and giggling like this is something to be proud of.) Mom: Oh? This is news to me, but not shocking. Mom:  Izzy, it’s so important to brush your teeth—at least once a day for at least a minute and a half. Izzy:  So get me the electric toothbrush already. Not quite knowing how to respond to that sassy-ness, I decided to go hide in my closet, and laugh.  Conversation Two Izzy: Mom, what does elated mean? Mom:  It means you’re happy and a little excited. Izzy: Okay Fast forward a few hours and we are at the Chiropractor’s office. Izzy:  I’m elated today, Dr. Micah! Doctor:  That’s great.  And that’s a big word.  You have quite the vocabulary. Izzy:  Thanks.  It means I’m happy and excited.  My mom told me what it meant, but I looked it up anyway on Dictionary.com.  My mom is pretty smart. Now I’m elated.    

Last night I noticed a beautiful lightening display out to the east.  It wasn’t the dangerous kind, like the storm produced a week ago.  It was pretty.  And given the distance from us, it was safe to watch outside.  I called the family and we sat on the porch laughing, talking and taking in the beautiful show nature had produced.  Then the strangest thing happened. Matt started noticing some neglected areas in our yard. He started fiddling with a burned out lightbulb from one of our garden lights.  And fixed it!  Then he remembered a garden light he had purchased, oh about a year ago, but never had time to install.  It’s been sitting in the garage, in its box, gathering lots and lots of dust.  Soon he had his tool box out and was installing the new garden light. We continued to watch the lightening show while Matt worked away, tidying up here and there. I’m thinking tomorrow night we’ll sit in the garage?  And the next night in his closet?  Who knows what could happen.  By the end of the month this house might be as I’ve always dreamed…tidy and organized in every nook and cranny. Better to live in a desert than with a quarrelsome and nagging wife. Proverbs 21:19 Oh yeah, and then there’s that little nugget of scripture. Never mind.

I’m sure you’ve had those parenting moments where you secretly pat yourself on the back for the great job you are doing with your own children.  Usually those moments creep up on us when we witness someone else’s children behaving miserably.  I had this experience recently.  It went something like this. We had decided to take Matt (Dad) for an early Father’s Day Getaway Weekend.  We didn’t go far, just downtown.  The weekend was filled with lots of food, shopping, bowling, carriage rides, and of course, swimming.  What is a family getaway without a hotel swimming pool?  If you ask my kids, it doesn’t even qualify as a vacation if swimming is not involved. Upon check-in, okay maybe a few minutes after, the girls had changed into their swimsuits and were impatiently waiting on the couch in our room to head down to the pool. With pool toys in hand we road the fancy elevator down nine floors to the pool.  Score!  We had it to ourselves.  Matt and I settled in some comfortable lounge chairs with our e-readers and were soon lost in our books while the girls enjoyed having the pool all to themselves.  It was nice—a perfect Friday evening. All of the sudden, out of nowhere, the pool door bursts open abruptly and two siblings (a boy and a girl) ran from the door and canon-balled into the four-foot pool.  It was startling.  I sat in shock with my mouth open and heart racing.  Where did they come from?  Izzy and Maddie stared at us in horror.  I could see the questions in their eyes.  What is up with that?  Should we stay in or get out?  Who are these cannonball kids anyway? Then the screaming started—piercing, fingernails to the chalkboard–screaming.   Not that pools are supposed to be quiet, but this was migraine-provoking noise.  Looking up from my book and observing the situation, I realized it was the boy who was screaming.  Honestly.  Boy up.  You scream like a girl.  Those were my thoughts.  I didn’t actually speak that out loud.  I have some tact. We could only take so much.  The girls could only take so much.  And after Matt leaned over and said, I wish one of them would just hit their head, I knew it was time to leave. Ah, dinner.  A nice, quiet dinner in the hotel restaurant.  We admired the architecture.  We watched other guests.  A sweet, older couple sat sipping wine by the window.  A group of young men were gathered at the bar—perhaps a reunion of some sort.  And then it happened.  In walk, I mean skip, the Cannonball Kids.  Now surely there’s a parent around somewhere?  Nope.  No one.  I see them talk to a server.  Then they discover the twirly chairs.  Yep, you know the ones. A few minutes later, they walked out carrying their own heaping portion of a Chocolate Mousse Torte.  Let’s just say the four of us shared one. The next morning, I was waiting for an elevator to take me down to breakfast.  The girls and Matt had gone ahead.  The door to the elevator opened.  Guess who?  Cannonball Kids!  And look the boy is holding a toy shot gun.  Super.  Of course the elevator stopped on almost each floor.  And each time the girl got out to peek at that particular floor.  They’re all identical; I wanted to scream.  Finally I made it to the bottom floor, and breakfast. We seemed to run into the Cannonball Kids all weekend.  Each time a different setting, but the same behavior.  My girls talked about them.  I pondered what their story was.  I think I saw a mother?  And maybe an older brother?  Why didn’t they correct them? Or tell them to shape up? I will most likely never know the answer to that question.  And that’s okay.  Maybe it’s not really my answer to know.  Yes, those children were misbehaved.  Yes, they needed some boundaries.  And yes, I stood in judgment of a situation I knew nothing about. And then, like the wave from a cannonball jump, it hit me.  God loves those kids.  He loves them.  He really loves them. Maybe I need to love others better.

On a recent drive to run errands, I made a comment about a, shall I say, slower driver.  After I said it, I realized my error and apologized to Izzy who was staring contently out the backseat window. She replied, “That’s okay Mom.  We all are judging sometimes.” Well I wouldn’t have put it that way, but yes, you are probably right, NINE YEAR OLD.

Maddie:  Izzy, I saw this cute hairstyle on CuteGirlsHairstyles.com and I want to try it out on you? Maddie is passionate about all things GIRL and peruses this hairstyle website daily. Izzy:  Okay, but it can’t take a long time. (Heavy sigh.) Izzy’s not very patient in general. Maddie:  Hold still, please! (Slightly exasperated and tugging at her sister’s hair.) At least she said “please.” Izzy: I am!! Quit being so sassy. (Temper rising.)  Ouch!!!  You are hurting my head, Maddie!  Stop it! (Yep, she’s angry now.) Maddie:  I’m almost done.  Just hold still. (A little more exasperated.) Izzy finally complies and holds still. Maddie:  Okay, I’m done. (Relief)  Mom, come look at this. Me:  So cute!  Good job! Maddie’s pleased with her work.  Izzy’s all smiles with her new do.  And I’m just thankful for sisterhood.

It used to be.  When I was growing up it seemed fitting.  It meant barbecues, picnics, a day off school and work.  Happy described it perfectly–merriment.  But now?  Today?  Happy isn’t the word.  It seems too little, not enough. Maybe it’s because we live in a post September 11th world.  We endure travel restrictions.  We use colors to describe the terrorist threat level.  Our children know a word we never used when we were growing up—terrorist.  We hear about war and rumors of war.  We are a little more cautious and aware. We read of soldiers and their families.  And this time it hits home.  We know them.  We interact with them.  We honor them.  We grieve loss with them.  We are them. The flag.  It even holds different meaning for some of us.  It graces our porches more than it used to.  It stands high atop buildings and rooftops, perhaps showing unity in our country.  It whips around in the wind and whispers, “We will never forget!” But to say, “Happy Memorial Day.”  I can’t.  I only speak for myself.  There has to be a better word.  A stronger word.  A word that holds deeper meaning.  I don’t know the word.  But happy isn’t it.

This has been on my mind today.  And rather than reinvent the wheel with a catchy, new post, I’ll just let these long-ago writers speak to your heart.  May their words strike a chord with you too.The Road Not TakenTwo roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear, Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same, And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I marked the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.Robert Frost Enter through the narrow gate. For wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it. But small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it. Matthew 7:13-14 The Bible

A few weeks ago the girls and I were browsing the shops in downtown, historic, Littleton and Izzy spotted Serendipi-TEA House.  It was a Monday afternoon and to her dismay the quaint place was closed that day.  She peaked in every window, perhaps willing it to open just for her.  She carefully read the menu that was posted on the door and begged me to bring her back for tea someday soon. By the time we had driven home from our afternoon outing she had devised a plan to go to tea.  Since Grandma would be coming for a visit soon, and since Grandma had just celebrated a birthday, maybe we could take her for tea.  Pretty please, Mom.  I casually agreed and didn’t think much more about it. Well Grandma is here this week and we are in the midst of enjoying some fun, inexpensive, outings around the area.  I was feeling pretty good about the events we had planned—giving myself the little “you really are a fun mom” pat on the back. But then Izzy brought up the tea thing.  Here we go again.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not opposed to going to tea, but it was a little pricey and reservations were required, plus the forecast called for 90 degrees. Not really tea drinking weather in my mind. It was all just a little more work and thought than I wanted to deal with at the moment. But if you were in earshot of our home about 8:30 that evening, you would have heard the wrath of Isabelle.  Armed with determination and a little rage, we were going to tea come you know what or high water. Now don’t think I’m a mom who gives in easily just because I don’t want to see my children upset.  This was different.  As I looked beyond the anger and disappointment in Izzy, in that moment, I realized the importance of this outing in her nine-year-old mind.  I’m not sure I fully understood, and maybe she didn’t either, but this was something we needed to do. ****** Yesterday was the big day.  We enjoyed a delicious lunch followed by tea and scones.  It was delightful.  I watched as Izzy poured over the menu and carefully ordered Mac and Cheese to her liking.  She perused the tea menu and asked the server questions.  She even spent her own money to buy a little silver tea strainer.  Guess I need to stock up on loose tea now.  There was a smile on her face the entire time. But I didn’t truly realize how much she enjoyed the tea outing until last night when she was tucked in bed and sound asleep.  Under her pillow was a folded up menu from the Tea Room and on her bedside table was her new tea strainer still neatly packaged in the box. With tears in my eyes and fullness in my heart, I knew I had given into the right thing this time.

I have found that this season of life makes little room for time with friends.  Trying to organize and plan a simple dinner party seems impossible.  But if time is not made the results can be costly.  We need friends.  We need to spend time with friends. Tonight I have done just that. My belly is full.  My mind is full.  My heart is full. Thank you my friends–for making the time.

It’s getting close.  Seventy days and counting.  Ten weeks until the world’s attention turns to London for the 2012 Olympic Summer Games. It’s not often that I turn on the news or read an article that I don’t shake my head in disgust, or wipe my eyes because tragedy has struck once again in our world.  It’s difficult hearing the words that make up the news of the day.  Words like enemy, warfare, suicide bomber, rebel, casualties and so on, ring in my head.  It causes me to question the world—to wonder what is ahead economically, politically, spiritually, and otherwise. There’s something about the Olympics, though, that makes me stop for two and a half short weeks and put aside thoughts about current issues of the day.  I’m drawn into the stories of amazing athletes who have sacrificed, trained, overcome, and accomplished many challenges to get to this place—all for the love of sport.  Their stories encourage me and give me hope about the future. I see in these athletes a glimpse of what it looks like when the world comes together.  Think about that, when the world comes together. It’s a sobering thought—beautiful actually. There are two young men from New Jersey.  They are brothers.  And they are in the midst of competing for one open spot on the US Men’s Trampoline Team.  I saw an interview with them on the Today Show.  Matt Lauer asked the question many were wondering.  How do you do this when you’re brothers?  The younger one responded with something like this:  When we walk into the gym we are competitors.  When we walk out we are brothers. When the World converges in London this summer, perhaps we walk in as strangers, but after two and half weeks together, maybe, just maybe, we walk out as friends.

I truly hope that if you are a mother, today has been all you dreamed it could be.  I hope that you have enjoyed being pampered with wonderful gifts, handmade crafts, meaningful cards, pretty flowers, much needed rest, and a lunch out at your favorite restaurant.  But if Mother’s Day has looked a little different than that, I want you to know I understand. Today I had the privilege of praying with women who know a different side of Mother’s Day.  They have experienced loss, infertility, singleness, troubled children, health issues, and the list goes on.  I admire these women and their courage to move forward when every step they take seems to be met with a challenge.  I mostly admire them for having the boldness to share their story and reach out for help. I sat.  I listened.  Tears stained my eyes.  I knew that there were no quick fixes or great advice to offer. All I could do was point them to God, the One, the Only One who can carry their burden. Praise be to the Lord, to God our Savior, who daily bears our burdens. Our God is a God who saves. Psalm 68:19-20 If you are experiencing a “not so happy” Mother’s Day, I pray you find hope, peace and most of all love from your Lord and Savior, Jesus. He knows.  He cares.  He loves you.  And He wants to join you in your beautiful story.

While He (Jesus) was in Bethany, reclining at the table in the home of Simon the Leper, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, made of pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the perfume on his head. Mark 14:3 I wonder if anyone noticed her at first?  Did Andrew or Peter see her, but dismiss her because they were so engrossed in the conversation with their Master?  Did James make eye contact with her as she approached Jesus? Did the room suddenly grow quiet, or could whispers be heard as attention turned to her?  Did anyone wonder what was in the jar she was carrying? As Mother’s Day approaches this Sunday, I know that a special corner in my living room will begin filling with wrapped packages.  It’s not that this corner is so special. It’s just where we place gifts as birthdays and special occasions approach.  It gives the one we are celebrating something to look forward to.  I’ll be passing by those wrapped packages this week wondering what’s in them.  What gift was crafted by one of my girls?  Did Izzy take some existing jewelry out of my jewelry box and wrap it?  Did Matthew really remember Mother’s Day is this weekend? It’s the packages that intrigue me because they are hiding something special inside—something that will mean the world to me because it came from the most important people in my life.  However, by Sunday afternoon those pretty papers, bows and bags won’t even matter.  They will be put in the trash because the true gift will have been revealed. The alabaster jar was not the focus that day in Bethany, and in my opinion, neither was the perfume.  It was the woman, and the act of love she poured out on Jesus.  She gave something to Jesus that meant more than the package it came in—more than the gift itself.  She was chosen by God to deliver a prophetic message through a selfless act of love—a beautiful gift that would long be remembered. She poured perfume on my body beforehand to prepare for my burial. Truly I tell you, wherever the gospel is preached throughout the world, what she has done will also be told, in memory of her. 14:8-9

It is 6 O’Dark on Wednesday morning.  My husband is in the shower and I am enjoying the last twenty minutes of precious sleep.  In my mind, the best sleep of the entire night, which makes this such a sad tale. From out of nowhere, the doorbell rings.  I think to myself, surely this is a dream.  I’m dreaming. Yes. That’s it.  Then I think, maybe I’m not dreaming.  Okay, wake up.  I jump out of bed so fast that I’m lightheaded.  Steady.  And there it is.  A loud knock.  I can’t think straight.  Oh yes.  Must put on a robe.  I fly downstairs.  The lightheadedness has passed.  I’m just ready to open the door when I realize the security system is on.  Cra* I think.  Really?  Knocking continues.  I disable the alarm and finally answer the door. It’s the Deck Stain Man!!! (Okay, not really that excited.)  He just wants to let me know at 6 O’Dark that he will be back this evening to finish our deck, and if I could please tell my husband.  I nod, still baffled that this is even happening. I return to bed for 10 minutes and the alarm clock goes off.  Yippee, the day has begun.  It’s not that I’m tired.  He only woke me up a few minutes earlier than normal.  But it’s the way in which I was awakened.  It disrupts my routine.  And when you disrupt the routine right off the bat, the day seems to take a whole new turn. That afternoon I convince myself that I deserve a nap.  Of course.  After all, I was so rudely awakened this morning.  I tell the girls that I’m tired and I’m going to lie down for a short nap.  They decide to play outside in the backyard and give me some space. No sooner have I fallen asleep, and a deep sleep mind you, the doorbell rings.  For heaven’s sake, what now?  I jump off the couch.  Again, feels like whiplash.  I head upstairs, willing myself to look awake.  Because who wants to be caught taking a nap mid-afternoon? Well, guess who?  Deck Stain Man!  He’s here early to finish the deck.  Super. Just super.

I never realized how often I answered the question, “Where do your kids go to school?” until I pulled them out of the public school system to homeschool.  Now I dread the question.  It’s one of those questions that you never know the response you’re going to get. In fact it brings back some painful memories of my youth when I was at the dating age.  I would be talking to a cute boy and somehow, just before (I was certain) he was going to ask me out, the conversation would shift to my dad.  The cute boy would say something like, “What does your dad do for a living?”  And I would respond in a whisper, “Um, well, uh, he’s a pastor.”  Yep, that pretty much ended all dates before they even started. With the homeschooling question it goes one of two ways.  The conversation either takes an abrupt turn in another direction, or the mom (usually it’s a mom) responds, “Oh, I don’t have the patience for that.” In my head I’m thinking: Why do you feel you need to tell me that?  I didn’t realize we were confessing our struggles regarding the Fruits of the Spirit. I don’t know if I’ll ever fully understand the responses I get about homeschooling, but I do know as a mother, I find myself stumbling into the sin of comparison.  I wonder what other mothers think of me as I walk this homeschool path.  What I’ve discovered is that you and I are not that different at all. Homeschooling is not for every student, but as mothers we are wired for teaching. In fact, I believe every mother homeschools.  We are the ones who teach our children about God, and manners, to walk, talk, potty train and interact socially.  And I’m certain that we’ve all struggled with patience as we’ve taught those skills.  We are our children’s first, and in my opinion, best teacher they’ll ever have. Whatever your children’s education looks like, whether it’s in a classroom outside the home or inside the home, God has given you an amazing, sometimes overwhelming, assignment to teach them.  Is it intimidating at times?  Yes.  Does it test your patience every minute?  Yes.  Does the task at hand cause fear, heartache, comparison, inadequacy, and doubt?  All the time.  Is it worth it?  Absolutely! And these words which I command you today shall be in your heart. You shall teach them diligently to your children, and shall talk of them when you sit in your house.  Deuteronomy 6:6-7a NKJ

If you know my husband, you know that music is an important part of his life.  He knows God has equipped him with an ability and given him an assignment to use his voice to point others to God.  Recently Matthew has experienced a difficult season of life called busy-ness.  I am not a poet, but as an observer of my spouse over the last several months, God gave me these words, and I penned them in the form of a poem. I Hold Your Voice Sickness has overcome.  His body is weak. Grey clouds move into the recesses of his mind Quickly turning dark and stormy  Darkness snuffs out the light—the truth His mind goes to that place—what if? He tries to utter a note, hopeful to sing as he always has But nothing escapes from his mouth Suggestions, advice, remedies, to no avail—what if? Could this be it?  The God-given talent—gone? No God.  I will fight.  This won’t happen. Son, you need to rest.  I’ve called you to rest. Doubt, fear, and unbelief take root Then clarity. The storm passes. He obeys.  He rests.  God restores. A note is sung, and another, and another. A whole song is sung.  Well done. Thanks is given to God. Son, I hold your voice in My hands–always. All the time

No matter what age we are, I believe we can discover new things about ourselves.  New likes.  New interests.  New ideas and thoughts.  I had one such revelation the other day. We stopped by our local Chick-fil-A to grab a quick bite.  It happened to be Ash Wednesday.  The young lady that took our order had a rather large smudge of something on her forehead.  At first I wanted to save her from embarrassment and point it out, but then I realized the smudge was really ash, and she must have attended a Lent service at her church. I could feel a large smile cross my face. “I practice Lent too,” I wanted to yell as she filled our drinks.  I wanted to share with her what I was giving up, and to hear her story too. But to save myself from embarrassment, I decided to keep my excitement to myself. As I walked away from the counter, I felt a tinge of jealousy.  I wanted a smudge of ash on my forehead too.  The symbol it represents holds deep meaning to me.  It represents repentance and turning from sinful ways.  It represents a period of reflection as Easter approaches, and fasting from something that causes distraction in daily life.  A symbol like ash on my forehead would make it more meaningful to me. My new revelation: I like religious symbols.  I like to wear crosses around my neck or on any other piece of jewelry.  I cherish my Star of David necklace purchased on a recent trip to Israel.  I have a Mezuzah nailed to our front door frame that tucks portions of Deuteronomy 6 inside it.  I like to keep a bottle of anointing oil by my bedside table.  Sometimes, when my husband is traveling, I sleep with my Bible under my pillow.  It makes me feel secure. I realize that there is nothing supernatural about these items.  They don’t make wishes or prayers come to pass if I hold them tightly.  But the meaning, the symbolism behind them—that is supernatural to me. Thank you Lord for tangible reminders of my faith in you! These commandments that I give you today are to be on your hearts. Impress them on your children. Talk about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up. Tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Write them on the doorframes of your houses and on your gates. Deuteronomy 6:6-9  

Izzy: “Mom, I want to have a farm someday, in Aurora.” Mom: “Well, Izzy, Aurora is more of a city, not really a farming community. Maybe you could live in Parker or Elizabeth? There are farms there.” Izzy: “Ok. Just as long as I’m close to you and Dad.”

Izzy: “Mom, if I saved my money for a dog, would you let me get one?” Mom: “A real one?” Izzy: “Yes.” Mom: “No. One, we have one already; and two, I don’t know if you would take care of it.” Izzy: “I would. I take care of my fish.” Mom: “Well, I wouldn’t say that. I feed them about half the time because you forget.” Izzy: “MOM….A dog is different. They bark when they need to drink, eat or go out. My fish don’t tell me to feed them so I forget. All the fish are good for is the night light in their tank when I’m sleeping.” Moral of this story: Why does Izzy even have fish? Hmmm.