How to weed eat for the first time when you're 41

Since the "How to fly for the first time when you're 40" post was so wildly successful {read my mom and two friends loved it} I thought I would add another installment to the "first time" series.

He lived across the street, and he was in high school. He was a senior in high school, but that didn't stop me from having a crush on him. 

Never mind that I was in first grade. 

I remember the day he was weed eating and something happened. He got slashed right across his chest. I was devastated. 

I guess you probably shouldn't weed eat with no shirt on.

And I'm not sure exactly how it happened. All I can figure is that they have made improvements in weed eaters in the last thirty years?

I think this was formative, though, in my slight fear of weed eaters.

I didn't give them much thought until I moved in with my stepmom and dad. My stepmom loved doing yard work.

I didn't really understand that. She said it was a job she could actually finish and get satisfaction from a completed job.

I didn't understand this either.

It would take me having children before I knew what she meant.

You know, they are finished eating dinner before you are done cooking it, dirtying clothes as you put away the clean ones, making a mess in the room you just cleaned while you clean the next one, and pretty much undoing everything you just did. 

Then I got it.  

A job completed. All at once. That stayed completed for awhile.

Ah. Gotcha.

So I always wanted to do yard work. I wanted to be like my stepmom in that. 

But my kind husband said that was his job. 

In the eighteen years we've been married, I think I have cut the grass twice. But it may be only once.

He just likes to do that for me. And how do you complain about that?

We had a yard service when the kids were young. I didn't care that it cost money; I needed my husband inside on the weekends helping me stay sane. There was this one day where the four year old and the two year old stood at the door crying with their snotty noses pressed against the glass watching him mow the grass while I bounced a crying newborn (I have a picture somewhere of this scenario but those days are sort of a blur, and I'm not sure I could locate it) and the very next day I called a nice man who came and did all the yard work during the week like magic and then the daddy held the baby on the weekends and entertained the other two while I tried desperately to find my brain. 

Then when the kids got older I decided to cancel the yard service because people were bigger now and wouldn't cry at the door. They could maybe even HELP THE YARD DADDY.

And all was well.

Fast forward to this month. It has been a hard, long month for my poor husband. He has worked so much and had so much going on. As I sat on the patio one morning doing Bible study, my eyes slid over to the weeks that had snuck up slightly higher than normal with all the rain and I thought, "Gosh, I hate to ask him about the yard." He hasn't even had time to be in the backyard, much less notice that the weeds were high. 

I casually asked him early in the week if he thought he would get to it any time soon and he sadly said, "It'll be Saturday morning." 

"No big deal!" I answered. See, I had thought of a plan. 

I texted my neighbor/dearloyalfriend and asked her to help me learn how to weed eat. She, who loves an adventure, and me, said she would. We set a time, and I met her in the back yard holding the weed eater. 

I was a little nervous.

I have a habit of falling down. And dropping stuff. And tripping over stuff. And being a klutz in general. And when it comes to yard work, I have proved less than stellar at it already.  

I think I went through three extension cords the first time I trimmed the bushes. 

It was a surprise for the hubs.

Yep. He was real surprised to find out we had to buy three new extension cords.

Those things are expensive, dangit.

Anyway, with visions of cut extension cords dancing in my head, along with lost toes and a flying rock putting my eye out, I was as ready as I ever would be. I had on jeans and close-toed shoes. I was properly outfitted and ready to take on the world.

Or at least the weeds.

Karen and I investigated the weed eater, got a plan, and I cranked her up.

Actually it's electric so I just pushed the handle.

It roared to life and I was a bit trepidatious. 

Karen may have even laughed. 

And she may have said out loud, "I wish I had a camera!"

Well, me being me, I whipped my phone out of my back pocket and then this happened:

You can tell she was surprised. 

She said I looked really scared. I agree with her.  

Then this happened. 

And then it just became like a party.

I learned as I went. And here's what I discovered:

• you have lots of time to think while you're doing yard work 
• you get really dirty when you're doing yard work
• edging is really harder than it looks {straight lines, anyone?}
• yard work is harder than it looks
• i hope i said "thank you" every time the husband got done with the yard work
• your back and arms get pretty tired. 
• your arms feel like jelly for a period of time after {how long does this last?}

But I got used to this machine, this weed eating machine, and once I figured out that I couldn't break it, and it wasn't going to eat me, I got aggressive with it and actually sort of had fun. I think I was even sad when I was all done. I even got out the blower that hubs had begged me to use every time he saw me with a broom in my hand, and I blew the heck out of those cut weeds too.

That was fun. Although there is an art to not blowing the weeds in a circle, right back to where you had just blown them from.

 I had to figure that out.

I knew better than to push my luck and actually mow something, since the day had been such a success. Hopefully this will be a surprise to the hubs when he goes outside to do yard work tomorrow, and I liked it enough to make it sort of "my" job. Maybe he'll mow still. But I might like that job too. {See, the kids can't come behind me and make the grass grow before I'm done. I see how this works. I do like it. A job completed all at once}

As soon as I got done, I heard another weed eater crank up in the neighborhood. I had to resist the urge to go find the operator and give them a fist bump. 

You know, from one expert weed eater to another.

***edited to add: Hubs looked at the picture on my phone when he got home that night and said, "That's not the weed eater. That's the edger. The weed eater is by the lawn mower." {It stands to reason I didn't see it there since I was AVOIDING THE LAWN MOWER.} Okay then. My friend said since it's whacks weeds, it's a weed eater. I tend to agree. So I weed eated with an edger. I still did it. But maybe this means I should leave the weed eating to the experts? Hm.....

I stepped

 out of the hotel onto the sidewalk.

The first thing I noticed was the blustery wind that whipped around me. I was glad we had brought warm clothes. 

I squinted against the sun and looked around. I needed the valet. We were rushing, late to our next stop. It took me a moment to realize that the mom and daughter in front of me were waiting for their car to arrive. 

I sighed deeply and looked behind me to make sure the kids were out of the way. I motioned them to line up against the wall and looked back to make sure the hubs, who was in the lobby of the hotel, was okay.

I breathed deeply and was taking in the scenery around me when it all happened. It was so quick. So fast. I was tempted to let it go- to let it wash over me like just a quick moment in a quick day.

I looked to my right and simultaneously noticed a man walking toward me and a woman right behind him. He was laden with bags of food and was walking quickly. Just as he got to me, he turned to his left and jogged up the few steps of the hotel into the lobby. Directly behind him, I saw her. She was pursuing him and yelling, "Sir. SIR. SIR..." 

Maybe it was my imagination, but he glanced at me as he turned to go up the steps. Was it panic in his eyes or did I just imagine it?

He darted into the same lobby where my husband waited. The doors slid closed and I looked back to her. She walked up the sidewalk where I stood. I saw my children out of the corner of eye, still plastered to the side of the hotel where I had placed them. 

"Good morning," I said to her, loudly. I smiled.

She startled just a bit, but responded quickly, "Good morning."

She kept walking. She looked back over her left shoulder, just past me, and smiled almost shyly, "I like your lipstick..."

I was taken back, but said, "Thank you" to her back as she walked up the sidewalk. She turned a corner and was gone.

My lipstick?

 Everything froze as stared after her, the wind still whipping around me.

Suddenly the valet was there, standing in front of me. I handed him my ticket and remembered I had pulled out my phone to Google how much to tip him. I had no idea. I punched the letters into my phone as I tried to process what had just happened. 

Had it even been 48 hours since I had heard the sermon on John 4? Had it been a month since I read the chapter over and over again? The woman at the well. She needed Jesus, and He met her there.

That woman needed Jesus. What could I have done? Leave my children on that sidewalk pressed into the stone wall of our hotel while I chased her up the sidewalk? What would I have said? What would I have wanted to do? Grab her hands, look her in the eye and plead with her to leave all of this behind? To take her somewhere safe? To point her toward freedom and peace?

The valet spun our van into the street in front of us and there was a flurry as we loaded our stuff and sorted out which way we needed to go. My thoughts kept going back to her, and I kept seeing her walking quickly up the sidewalk. What could I have done?

We got to our next destination. It was uptown. We had been downtown.

I decided that I preferred downtown. 

I always prefer downtown. 

I walked in front of stores with names like Tiffany & Co, Versace, Michael Kors and Jimmy Cho. I watched the women there. Perfect thin, perfectly dressed, perfectly acceptable. I walked, clutching my coffee, wondering who was better off. Wondering why I couldn't enjoy a simple day in a different city without thinking too much.

Why I couldn't let it just slide by.

How many are there like her out there? Why her?

What could I have done?

I'm tired of wondering what I could have done. Maybe I'm ready to start wishing I hadn't done something, instead of wishing I had. 

I don't know what to do with her still. I think of her. I pray for her. I wish I could go back. And do what I still don't know.

I still can't figure any of this out.

I heard the words again today: evangelism as a lifestyle

Not a checklist, not an obligation, not a hinderance or a burden. A joy. A way of life. 

Fulness of Christ that overflows into all areas of life.

Even to a broken, lost woman in a strange city who like my new lipstick.

I can't figure all of this out. 

I just keep praying. 

This is how you lose your soul

It was August. 

We had left our beach vacation after a mere 36 hours into it due to a hurricane headed straight for our condo. 

The husband was starting a new business, and he decided that since we were home, there was work he really needed to get done.

So the kids and I hung out at the house. For nearly a week.

We had fun, but we were a little out of sorts. Not bored, but just sort of stir crazy.

I'm glad now looking back that we rested for a bit.

Mainly because a hurricane of a different kind was brewing, and it was headed straight for us.

Busyness. 

The insane sort of busyness that slowly bleeds your soul dry.

And I was unprepared for it. 

I remember us leaving our first flag football practice and seeing one of the dads running across the parking lot, two small boys in tow. He was yelling over his shoulder, "We have to hurry! We have another practice across town and we're late...!"

We got into our van and inched our way out of the parking lot with all of the other families that had come to a sport practice of one kind or another and finally merged onto the main road clogged with weary commuters trying to slowly make their way home, and as we barely creeped down the road I thought, 

This is how we lose our souls...

We are so busy. We are so busy we don't think or feel or breathe. We just keep spinning constantly every day until we collapse into bed way too late at night so that we can get up way too early the next morning so that we can do it all again.

And then we die.

Really.

This entire life of ours spins and spins and then it's over. 

And it made me sick inside. And a little panicky.

I whined to the husband, and he said, "You got boys. They play sports."

Well, okay.

I mean, I understand that. 

I guess. I mean, I wanted them to have a fun thing to do. They spend all their time with me, and I really thought them having something fun to do outside the house would be... fun.

I don't think I really thought it through all the way. 

I narrowed my eyes at the husband and said, "I have spent the last 5 out of 7 days/nights in some way doing something with flag football. That is not okay with me."

It felt good just to whine about it.

The girl kid was also doing an extra voice clinic. That meant that the only night that we weren't busy during the week was Tuesday. That night quickly filled up too. Saturday mornings were now dedicated to football games, so that meant there wasn't a morning where we weren't up and at them early. 

I felt like I was going a little crazy.

And the whole world is like this. Everyone I knew was like this. When you greet someone and you say, "How are you?" they would respond, "We are so busy!"

And now I found myself saying this too.

Why?

One thing the Lord was clearly showing me here was that I needed to get out of my house. I need to be around people. I need to interact with people other than those in my own tiny little world.

I got that.

And it was nice. To meet new people and be around different folks. 

Okay.

And I realized that I cannot be at home all the time. 

I got that.

But how do I be this busy and not lose myself?

And getting this busy made me feel disconnected from God. 

I really, really hated that.

And then I hated even more when I started feeling okay about being that disconnected from God.

That made me really panicky.

I hated having one eye on the clock in the morning when I was spending time with Him. I hated knowing that I had only a certain amount of time and then I had to move on. I hated feeling the clock ticking all the time.

I hated how I felt: scattered and tired and emotional and in the middle of a giant mess.

The up side was that I didn't have time to think. 

I see why people get this busy. It's sort of like being drunk. You're numb and like a robot. 

Nothing real happens. 

We anesthetize ourselves so we don't have to deal with what's going on inside of ourselves.

And by "we," I mean "me."

And I think we use our kids to do that, for the most part. There's plenty for them to do, and you can literally spend all of your time shuffling them from one thing to another. 

I ended up this way, and it was quite by accident.

I kept wondering, "Why? Why do we do this?"

To avoid the realities of life? To avoid what's deep inside of us? Because life didn't turn out the way we had hoped it would so we pour everything into our kids and into making our lives busy so we don't have to think about what could/should have been? 

It's hard to think these things at the YMCA when your kids are happily at flag football practice. 

You feel sort of abnormal.

Maybe I'm over thinking it all. Maybe we can just be happily super busy and have deeply committed, active, intimate relationships with our Savior. Maybe this is just a joyously happy busy season of life, and when the kids are gone we settle back into a slower paced existence with our spouses, content to just be alone with them moving slowly through life for a change. Maybe we are allowing God to do a work deeply in our hearts and spirits more than I think we are, and there is fruit later from this season of life, and we will reap in joyous plentitude all that we are sowing in our lives now.

And by "we," I mean "me."

I'm reading a book on prayer, and this quote jumped out at me this morning:

Many Christians give in to a quiet cynicism that leaves us unknowingly paralyzed. We see the world as monolithic, frozen. To ask God for change confronts us with our doubt about whether prayer makes any difference. Is change even possible? Doesn't God control everything? If so, what's the point? Because it's uncomfortable to feel our unbelief, to come face-to-face with our cynicism, we dull our souls with the narcotic of activity.

It's easier to be busy than to think.

I get that. 

I also worry that when I'm this busy that there is the potential for me to mess it all up. I'm too tired to be kind to my husband. I'm too busy to listen to the depths of my daughter's heart. I'm too distracted to teach my sons how to be men of God. The house certainly isn't clean and we aren't eating healthy food and I'm bossy and nagging and weepy and angry and stressed and not good for a lot of anything positive, much less eternal.

Then our first sermon from a sermon series on prayer happened. 

I sort of knew that it was going to kick my butt. The Lord was gracious enough to have prepared me for that beforehand. I knew it was coming.

Luke 17 ~

And just as it happened in the days of Noah, so it will be also in the days of the Son of Man: 

they were eating, they were drinking, they were marrying, they were being given in marriage, until the day that Noah entered the ark, and the flood came and destroyed them all.

It was the same as happened in the days of Lot: 

they were eating, they were drinking, they were buying, they were selling, they were planting, they were building; 

but on the day that Lot went out from Sodom it rained fire and brimstone from heaven and destroyed them all.

I think mine would look like

she was cooking and baking and eating, and schooling and doing laundry and cleaning, and teaching and reading writing and running and trying to lose those exasperating 15 pounds, and dying gray hair and laughing and watching zombie television shows and doing lots of good in Your name and texting and listening and sharing and studying and talking and...

then she died.

(The Bible doesn't point out all the evil that society was doing during these times. Just the happy, normal business of life.)

So maybe that's not so bad. Maybe that's what we all want. Have a good education, get a family, and nice house, enough money to go to WalMart when you need to, go out to eat, take a vacation and be nice.

Don't get too wild and crazy. Don't talk about the Bible too much. Don't get all weird and make people feel uncomfortable. Most definitely don't ruffle any feathers. Just be nice, normal and go with the flow. Be ordinary. 

Then you die and stand before Christ, and you and He can hash it all out. There's grace, right? He understands. He understands that I had a house to clean and kids to get to football practice. 

I'm sure of it. He understands. 

He just wants us to be happy.

This is what my busy soul thinks, anyway.

Reflections on Revelation

We studied Daniel when Zane was a baby.

I'll never forget studying in the bed each night with commentaries spread all around me, trying to do so quietly, barely moving as not to disturb his little baby body snuggled next to me. I remember sitting in the floor sharing with the ladies of our Bible study group while he crawled over my legs. I remember literally being on my knees asking God to help me understand the complexities of the last half of Daniel. I remember making manipulatives and dancing them across the floor trying to explain verses and chapters. I remember being so completely exhausted at the end of that study, and I remember asking the ladies to do Revelation.

And I remember the resounding, "NO!"

Not that I can really blame them.

I have wanted to study Revelation since then. I tried a time or two on my own, but I felt the longing to study it with someone. I waited patiently, trusting that time would come.

And as God so often does, the opportunity to study Revelation didn't come when or how I expected it, but I also recognized the opportunity to grow in trust of this God. So there it was: a sermon series. 

I was a little nervous and very excited.

It started really well.

I plunged into this enigmatic book asking God to do a work in me.

And He did.

I wanted this to be a life changing study for me. I really did. I wanted to learn things that would change me forever. I wanted to raise an ebenezer that I could look back on for the rest of my life as a result of spending time with this book.

I decided I needed something tangible to keep my mind stayed on what I was studying. I chose this beautiful carnelian bracelet. {The lady that made it lives in the Canary Islands, and receiving a package from there was almost as fun as the bracelet inside.} I haven't taken this bracelet off since I received it. I love to rub the stones and feel the coolness and smoothness of them under my finger.

I am so very addicted to the tangible.

(And He who sat there had the appearance of jasper and carnelian...Revelation 4:3)


I studied and studied this book. I studied until I dreamed about it. I studied until I talked about it to nearly everyone who would listen. I read commentaries and articles and listened to sermons and taught it and thought about it and longed to have deep discussions with hot cups of tea until the early hours of the mornings. I stayed up late and got up early.  I studied until I was sad and nervous and discouraged and fearful and wanted to quit this life and run away.

I'm sure that's about ninety percent all the wrong things to do. But that's what I did.

I opened one of the books that I use for the kids in school one morning and these words leapt off the page at me:

I heard the imploration, "See the big picture." Stop studying the intricacies and step back. See it as a whole. What is the main message? What is the big picture?

I'm not good with the big picture.

I like the intricacies.

I like charts.

We got no charts.

{I'm still a little bitter}

But I learned something in that too. I'm learning to ask myself more, "What is the big picture here?"

In life. In my walk. In God's plan for my life. "What's the big picture?"

See? I'm practicing.

I also learned not to be too hard on myself here. I didn't walk away from Revelation with a perfect understanding of this book. Or even a perfect understanding of why it's okay not to have a perfect understanding of this book.

But God was so gracious to remind me of the first time I studied election. I studied and studied and came away from that study just as confused and broken and sad and searching as I did when I started.

God said, "Rest." So I did.

I studied it again later. I came away from the second study not as confused but still sad and less trusting of God. I felt like everything I had known had been wiped clean but I still didn't know what I truly believed. I felt unsettled and exhausted.

And God said, "Rest." So I did.

A sermon ushered me into my third study of election. I wearily opened the Bible and thought, "Here we go again."

And this is where God did a work. He showed me new things in verses I had read so many times before. He took me on a journey through Scripture and led me through this study with such sweetness and light, and I came away from it rejoicing in His perfect plan. I still couldn't fully wrap my mind around election, but my need to explain it all humbly crumbled to the desire to embrace it rather than process it.

It was good. Now I see this beautiful plan of God's woven all throughout Scripture and wonder how I missed it all before.

As I wrestled with the way I studied or failed to study Revelation, God poured out His grace in reminding me of this other journey. He reminded me that I have a sweet foundation of what I did learn in Revelation this time and there will be a time to study it again and build on this foundation.

I am so deeply and profoundly thankful for that.

We start a new series tomorrow in church. As Revelation fades into the rear view mirror, I find myself oddly sad. Tears drip down my face as I think about closing this book that seemed so daunting just a few weeks ago. I don't want to leave it behind. Ringing true is Revelation 1:3

Blessed is he who reads and those who hear the words of the prophecy and heed the things that are written in it...

I am sentimental by nature, but more than that, I want to remember what I learned. I want to stay changed. I want to be challenged by these words still, even after today.

Perhaps what I want to remember the most is the simple summary that rang from the pulpit and continues to echo in my head over and over again:

our God wins

Despite what my humanistic eyes want to see and what my deceptive heart wants to believe, this simple truth has the potential to change every single nuance of how I live. And I want to continue to strive to let it.

And oh I want to worship this way every single second of every single day~

"Worthy is the Lamb that was slain to receive power and riches and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing...To Him who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb, be blessing and honor and glory and dominion forever and ever." 

Farewell, Revelation, for now. I promise to think of you often. And I look forward to spending time with you again. I'm really thankful you are the most spectacular and unimaginable ending to this great Canon I love so much. 

Magnum Opus

I don't remember when I didn't write.

I have scrapbooks that I made in second grade where I documented in detail each and every item that went into that book. I have journals from nearly my entire life packed now in boxes under my bed.

They saw daylight just a few weeks ago and I was thoroughly embarrassed to read them now.  I think I'll give them to my daughter to show her how not spend her teenage years.

Gosh.

Anyway.

I have journals documenting my pregnancies. I have journals documenting my walk with God.

I hoisted my current journal, which has been relegated to a giant binder, onto the kitchen counter recently and asked my friend if I could take it to the beach with me. She shook her head "no" and I panicked, asking her what would happen if the house burned down while we were gone?

She wondered aloud if I might have a small issue with that journal, but I have no idea what she could mean by that. 

I do know that I am addicted to the written word. 

I can't remember a time when I wasn't.

I wonder if it's genetic. My girl kid has the same issue. She has numerous journals. Notebook after notebook is filled with stories, illustrated drawings, doodles and notes.  She has written stories since she could form letters. Her bedroom is a sanctuary of papers, most of which are written on. This drives me nuts, and I will sweep through and fill a trash bag frequently when I think she's not looking. There is no shortage of pages written on. She writes  something every single day. 

It has to be genetic.

When blogging came into being, I was hesitant. To think of people reading what I wrote was absolutely appalling. I had given up on the scrapbooking hobby when my main (fine, my only) goals became to feed and bathe the three kids I had that were four years old and younger, but I still wanted to document our lives for my old age in some way. Blogging looked like a great, and easy, way to do that.

Occasionally I would outwardly process something I was thinking about, but the main objective was to have fun and have a place to put things.

As the Lord started doing more and more of a work in me, I found myself really needing a place to process it all. Since my blog was there, that's where it all went. I still largely ignored the fact that people could read what I wrote. I just wrote. 

If on the (very extremely) off chance someone did comment on something I wrote, it always jarred me. I never responded well, but in my weird awkward way would attempt some sort of response and usually ended up just fleeing the scene quickly.

It was all really just for me. 

The first time someone asked me if I had considered writing a book, I literally laughed out loud.

No.

Why in the world would I write a book?

I'm a horrible speller. I don't think much about grammar or structure or anything that would make writing proper or easier to read when I pour out my heart onto a keyboard. I overuse the word "so" and use way too many adjectives and abhor long paragraphs and abuse the comma to the point of absurdity and center things strangely and pretty much make most every mistake the The Harbrace Handbook preaches against. 

(I still love that book, whether or not I abide by its rules.)

My husband asked me that question one day though: 

Why don't you write a book?

"Why would I?" I meant it. "Is there a book that hasn't been written?"

Yes. 

He only said that one word, but he meant it. 

Huh.

I still thought the idea was so completely ridiculous. 

The idea haunted me though. Not the idea of me writing a book, but the idea I had conjured up that every book has already been written. What if a musician thought every song had already been written? Or if an artist thought every painting had been painted?  Or every sculpture formed? What if my favorite authors had decided that no other books needed to be written before they wrote my current most favorite book ever?

It was an interesting thing to ponder. 

A friend and I talked about it. 

"I have nothing to say," I said to her. I didn't mean it in a a self-deprecating way, but in an honest way.

"Yes, you do," she responded. 

You have your story to tell.

Oh. That. Well. Ugh.

I'm not sure I want to write my story. And I'm not sure anyone would benefit from reading it. 

So writing stayed what it had always been for me; A processing outlet largely ignored by all but my mom and maybe two of my close friends who would faithfully read the dribble I had written and say kind things about it. I mean that's true friendship right there. I cannot image getting to the bottom of one of my posts.

The sort of posts like 10 Rules of Blogging only prove to me that I know nothing about blogging. I break nearly every rule.  

And that's okay.

It was all just for me and I was very happy about that.

Then...

That notion got a tiny bit upset.

One of my friend's father died. 

I wrote a post about it. I had been back in town for only twelve hours when I woke up from a fitful night of sleep, sat down with coffee and annoyed my entire family by stuffing earphones into my ears and clicking away until it was done. I barely edited it because I couldn't bear to read it more than once. It was too painful. I posted it and was much relieved of the burden of carrying it any longer.

She texted me and asked me what I was doing and I told her I had just gotten finished with a blog post about her dad. She asked for it, and I sent it to her. 

She quickly responded with the information that her mother loved it and was posting it on her dad's Caring Bridge site.

I nearly had an anxiety attack. 

I stuffed the earphones back into my ears, much to my family's chagrin, and started editing, all the while sweating profusely. 

I just wrote it for you. It was all just for you. I knew you'd be overwhelmed that day and I just wanted to be your memory... I told her this emphatically.

 But that's not exactly how it worked out.

I cannot tell you how many people texted and emailed and called and commented on that post. 

I was overwhelmed.

A friend sat across from me. Her eyes were bright and she leaned forward, clasping her hands between her knees. 

Amy. It was your magnum opus. You'll never be able to top it...

I shrugged.

"I didn't mean to write it. It wasn't me. It was him. It's because of who he was. That's all."

She shook her head. 

"No. Own it. It was good. Really good. It was your best ever."

"I can't top it, so why even try?"

 I wasn't sad. It was just a fact. It was an accident. I just pounded out something and it looked like God decided to use it. 

Which was fine with me.

My friend texted me from Dallas. 

"I am so tired of hearing about your blog post... Everywhere I go, people comment on it."

Um. What? Oh, sorry about that...

I went to check the blog. I clicked "stats" and good gravy. Over one thousand hits on that one post.

I felt sick.

Now I know that's not a lot. I guess it was just a lot for me. And a lot for something you think you and three other people might read.

And it gets more hits every day.

Oh well. It's done now. And besides, Brian, you deserve it. I'm glad it's about you...

There was another memorial service for Brian in Birmingham. Her uncle that I had spent the most time with in Dallas came up and put his hand on my shoulder. He said, "About your blog post..." She was standing next to me, and I grabbed her hand and held it tightly, trembling all over. He told a sweet story about his family and the post. He hugged me and walked away and my friend, after disentangling herself from me said, "I told you so..."

I still didn't know what to say or how to respond. 

The irony of it all is that I wanted the obscurity and the quietness of my little world back. I am quiet happy when largely ignored by the rest of the world. 

I don't know what the Lord had for me in the way of writing. I'd be perfectly happy sitting right where I am, listening to my music and punching my thoughts into this wonderfully clicky set of black keys. I nail them down here and walk away a bit lighter, freed of the burden of thought. 

{And it's quite embarrassing to read older posts. I wonder how far removed from this one I'll have to be until I'm embarrassed of it.}

I supposed if the Lord calls me to write a book, I would, but the thought of all that the "book world" would entail makes me want to burrow deeply into a hole and hide.

A book review? I'm not sure I could live through someone critiquing my book. It's my heart, soul, blood, sweat and tears for goodness sake. How do you critique that?

I guess we will all know if something like that happens, it really was the work of the Lord.

And besides, I can barely think of this, this writing thing, as anything other than hugely comforting. Give me a deadline? Make me write? I'm not sure that would work. I'm trying to imagine thinking of writing as a discipline, and that makes me want to twirl away from the computer and sink deeply in my chair and read a book someone else already wrote.

 I'd be quite happy to let my Magnum Opus stay where it is, uncontested.  

My Love

I read the blog post a long time ago. It sat in my email box waiting all this time.

I email myself things to read later and have for years. It is my version of Pinterest. If I find them especially compelling, I save them in a file folder named "Important/Keep for Later."

But I have thought about this blog post literally since the day I read it. I have been wanting to find a time to expound on it but for some reason a post just never came together. 

Until today.

The post I read, and emailed to myself, was about what stirs your affection for Christ and draws affection away from Him. How everything we do basically draws us to Him or away from Him. The issue isn't right or wrong. It's what's right or wrong for each of us, outside of what Scripture mandates as sin.

{that's always bad for us}

As I moved through my days after reading this post, I started asking myself with each thing I did, 

Does this make me love Christ more?

It became a dangerous question to ask. 

Perhaps not everything we do can be classified this way. 

For instance, does doing the laundry or cooking or cleaning or running errands or the plethora of other things I do each day make me love Him more?

In a round about way, I guess so. 

And I, being the base person that I am, am typically safe when I'm terribly busy doing things I need to be doing. 

I think this is one reason the Lord keeps me so busy.

But there is down time. 

So outside of what I have to do each day, I started evaluating each thing I did with that question: Does this make me love Jesus more?

And the results were very convicting.

There were some areas revealed where I truly found my affection for Christ being dulled:

~mindless television

~browsing on Twitter outside of the people I follow

~certain music

~some movies, even ones I used to love

~particular books

~certain people and the way they speak about others

~places I could go, especially ones that take me back to the decade of debauchery

and there's more

I knew that these areas were places and situations where I immediately felt drugged and heavy. I hated the way I felt when I pulled myself away from these things. It was like pushing back from the table where you overindulged in a heavy meal. 

Sluggish and miserable.

I hated it. 

There were gray areas too. Places I could stay briefly and be fine. But staying a moment too long would tip me into a heavy place I didn't want to leave. 

I continued to filter my actions through this question and found it helped in guarding my thoughts, my spirit and my feelings about Christ and His kingdom.

I felt myself pulled toward things that stirred my emotions for Him.

And that was fine.

And good.

But this morning suddenly things clicked as to why it was so important for me to continually filter each and every thing I do, exhausting though it is.

We are studying Revelation in church.

It's been good.

Hard, but good.

I settled in to study the part of the letter in which Christ addresses the church at Ephesus. 

The word gently lifted off the page and pierced my heart:

"I know your deeds and your toil and perseverance, and that you cannot tolerate evil men, and you put to the test those who call themselves apostles, and they are not, and you found them to be false; and you have perseverance and have endured for My name’s sake, and have not grown weary. But I have this against you, that you have left your first love. Therefore remember from where you have fallen, and repent and do the deeds you did at first; or else I am coming to you and will remove your lampstand out of its place—unless you repent."

And there is was. This was why God had taught and was still teaching me to so guard that love and affection for my Savior. 

It's easy to lose. 

Even when you are busy working for the church. For Christ. For Him. Doing what you think is best.  Serving. Being busy and pleasing and hearing affirmation and praise and rolling right along, perhaps even patting yourself on the back. 

The question seized my heart and repeated itself over and over again, relentlessly, demanding an answer:

Who do you love?

I was quick. 

"I love you, Lord. I do..."

But do I? My words say it, but does my life? 

Jesus called them out. He said, "You don't love me like you used to. And I know it. I cannot be fooled by your good works and your lofty deeds. I know..."

"But I do. I love you as I ever have."

I kept insisting it. 

Warren Wiersbe said this:

What is 'first love'? It is the devotion to Christ that so often characterizes the new believer: fervent, personal, uninhibited, excited, and openly displayed.

Oh. 

Well maybe I've gotten a little older and more mature in my faith.

Or perhaps I Tweeted and Honey Boo Boo'd my way straight into a huge pit of apathy.

Surely not.

I read the commentary and my eyes filled with tears. It said this love should look like a newly betrothed groom who clasps his love to his chest and declares for the first time that she is his.

Oh, that kind of love. 

I turned to Ephesians 3. Paul knew of this church's struggle with loving Christ. It's why he addressed this issue over and over in his letter to them:

"...you, being rooted and grounded in love, may be able to comprehend with all the saints what is the breadth and length and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge, that you may be filled up to all the fullness of God."

I set out under the morning sun to work this out with God. I asked Him to help me love Him more. More than any man or child or thing on this planet. I begged Him to teach me to love Him more.

And how I spend my time fit squarely in with that request.

Because Jesus said,

"Remember from where you have fallen

repent

do the deeds you did at first..."

What do I do that makes me love Christ more?

~spending deep and long times in the Word

~long, dedicated, purposeful prayer 

~intentional time spent in praise of Him

~speaking truth to myself initially and others secondly

~serving only where God tells me to and prayerfully considering any and all offers or requests to serve

~cultivating a listening ear for and an obedient heart toward the Spirit 

There's more, of course. 

And don't you dare slant any of this to a legalistic aspect that argues we are free in grace. 

We are free to serve and obey a risen Lord who deserves nothing less than a life spent in worshipful servant hood and obedience flowing from a heart so grateful for salvation that a simple eternity isn't long enough to fully express the gratitude felt. 

He deserves to be loved first, fully and completely.

And this is why that email from me to me sat in my inbox for so long. It was waiting to come together with the Word of God in a way that I hope and pray change me and make me more like His Son. 

I'd better put it in the "Important/Keep for Later" file. 

How to fly the first time when you're 40

She asked me at the end of a long, crazy day. We were standing in the lobby of our church.

Would you pray about going on a mission trip?

I'm not sure what I said. Or did. I'm pretty sure I said, 

Oh. 

It was like someone asked me if I wanted to go shoe shopping with free money. 

But a million times better. 

She told me a little about the trip, and I asked her if I could have some time to pray about it.

I know by now that just because I want to do something doesn't mean I should do something. 

And I needed to talk to the hubs about it. 

As I collapsed on the couch that night, I did tell him.

He wondered about child care and money. 

Then he said, "Well, I guess you're going to have to conquer that fear of flying..."

I was a little caught off guard.

I'm not afraid of flying. The opportunity has just never presented itself. 

I found myself feeling a little defensive.

I mean, I have spent two (2) nights away from my kids in ten and a half years. 

Now that, honestly, is my choice. And I don't apologize for it. This is how I wanted to raise my kids, and I'm really happy still with this decision. 

But it hasn't afforded me a lot of air travel. 

And as I thought about it, my mom hasn't flown since she was a child. My grandmother doesn't travel much. My great-grandparents didn't fly.

I guess we just aren't a family of fliers. 

I really haven't had a lot of time to think about it in the last decade or so. Except when it would come up in conversation and people would get this really shocked look on their face and say, "You've never flown?" 

That wasn't always fun. 

It didn't bother me, though. I'd laugh it off and say, "Well, no..."

I've been a little busy.

But now, my friend was in Dallas, and she needed me.

I checked it on the map.

632 miles. 10 hours and 41 minutes.

One way.

Hubs said, "No way. You are going to have to fly."

Oh. Okay. Right. 

Fly

Then I'll fly.

My friend and I  decided when I needed to arrive and depart. I arranged childcare.

(And can I say what amazing friends I have? I literally had more offers than I needed, and the sweet friends that did keep my kids complained that I wasn't leaving them long enough. I am so blessed with kind and precious friends.)

Another sweet friend help me buy my plane tickets. We opted for direct flights instead of my having to find my way through an airport with a 47 minute layover. 

Evidently people were worried about me being lost in an airport and/or missing a flight and having to live in an airport in another state. 

Or something. 

Direct flights suited me fine. 

I researched what I could take on the plane. I was coached and talked through what would happen by no less than five friends. 

After getting tons of texts about this I finally figured out that they were actually worried about me.

Good grief. We were talking about an hour and fifty minute direct flight. I wasn't worried about the flying. It was the security check and the finding the right gate that I was more worried about.

The great unknown.

An adventure. 

But I had to go alone. That did throw me a bit. 

I asked a friend if I could get one of those "I'm Flying By Myself" stickers. If they would escort me to my gate. Give me a pin with wings on it. 

She said that pretty much couldn't happen. 

The morning came while it was still dark. I dressed, kissed the hubs good-bye and crept downstairs. Soon there was a soft knock at the door and we were off.

My friend even brought me coffee.

I love her.

It was really early. 

I realized that I was actually nervous. 

I confessed this to her, telling her I felt like I was a disappointment because I was nervous. I'm usually not scared of anything. 

Maybe it's easy to be brave when your life is really just boring, I stated.

She laughed.

"You should be nervous," she said. 

We weren't meant to fly.

Oh. Well. That explains a lot.

She parked at the airport and walked in with me, instead of just dropping me off. She made me go to the bathroom twice and found us a seat to wait in. 

All of a sudden I heard a cat meowing. 

Loudly.

"Um, do you hear a cat meowing or am I just more nervous than I thought?" I was almost afraid to ask it out loud. 

She not only heard it, she went to talk to the owner and take pictures of the cat. (Even though I begged her not to.) The cat was about to fly too. And it wasn't happy about it. 

"I hope they aren't on your flight," she said. 

Thanks.

I got a little more nervous.

She offered help, love and support by photo bombing me.

This was me thinking that perhaps I didn't think through my ride to the airport thoroughly enough.

But at least I am well documented.

Then it was time to go.

My "thoughtful" friend then photo bombed me walking to security.

(I won't post all the pictures. Of me walking.)

She really wanted me to hug and pose with this nice man, and was urging me to do so loudly but I assured her through clenched teeth that he probably didn't want to play. It was here that another TSA agent began edging close to her. I think they correctly pegged her as a threat to something and she put the camera away. 

She missed the lady behind me who asked me why I was being photographed walking to security, and when I responded that I was flying for the first time, she said, "Whoa. I hope you aren't on my flight."

I blinked and said, "Oh. Okay."

Then I narrowed my eyes at her and said, 

I'm not scared. 

She recovered quickly and said, "Oh well then I'm sure you'll do great. My daughter hates to fly and she's a nightmare to fly with. Have fun!"

I sort of forgave her. 

I walked into the security area, paused, watched the people in front of me, doing the same thing they did, also following the instructions that five people had given me repeatedly in the precious days.

The TSA agent got a little amused as I walked past.

"What?" I asked him nervously. "Am I doing something wrong?"

He grinned broadly and said, "Nope. You're doing great. Why do you ask?"

"I haven't done this before," I whispered to him. 

He laughed, "You've doing just fine."

Then he poked his buddy and told him I was flying for the first time. His buddy yelled, "HEY! You're doing GREAT!"

Oh gosh. Good grief. I shoved on my shoes, grabbed my bags, and fled before they could say anything else. 

At least I didn't make any alarms go off.

I found my gate and texted a picture of it to my friend to let her know I had found my gate.  She had not stopped texting me since she had left my side.

I found my gate. 

I felt better when they actually put my destination on that board. 

I decided to look up my favorite passage to read while I waited. Instead of getting my Bible out of my perfectly organized bag, I pulled up my Bible app on my phone. I gasped when I saw the "Read" passage.

2 Samuel 22 was the passage that my friend had clung to the entire time her dad was in the hospital and during and after his death. 

When I saw that, I knew that God was all over this thing. 

That felt good.

Because no matter how brave I was desperate to be, my stomach would not stop doing flips. I had to make myself breathe normally and I kept quoting Isaiah 26:3 over and over again.

Dangit. What happened to my I'm not scared of anything self?

The plane arrived. I texted a picture of it to my friend.

It looks like a Pamprin capsule. 

That made me laugh. 

Wait. This lady is lining up already. Am I supposed to line up too? No one else is? I texted her this picture. 

No. You stay there until they tell you to line up. And those pants are a federal crime.

I tried not to laugh and told her to be nice. And I was glad for the distraction. 

Another friend of mine flew earlier this year and met up with a very nice girl that had never flown. My friend was kind and walked her through everything and helped her. This had encouraged a prayer in me. 

 I'd been praying God would give me a friend to sit with on the plane. Since this was Southwest, I had to pick my own seat. As I walked down the aisle of the plane, the Lord so clearly pointed me to a seat and said, "Sit there."

So I did.

The kind lady next to me reminded me of Paula Deen a little. She was so sweet and immediately started chatting. I'm not normally a chatter, but this was perfect to distract me from what was going on. The attendants were hilarious. They sang to us and told us jokes. I took a quick picture out the window and then decided to ignore the window for awhile. I just smiled and sat there like I had done it a million times. 

Soon we taxied down the runway and took off.

No big deal.

It was never the actual flying that worried me. It was all the other stuff. 

My new friend's name was Janet. After we got in the air I said, "Can I tell you a secret?"

The look on her face was hilarious. I don't think that's what you are supposed to say to someone you just met on an airplane. But she cautiously said, "Yes...?"

"This is my first time to fly," I told her, grinning. 

She was so sweet. 

"Well, honey, you just did great!" 

She started explaining things to me and asking me questions about me and my life. We just talked more and more and then she said, "Here. Get your phone and let me take a picture of you on your first flight so you can show your kids."

That was so kind. She showed me the magazines in the seat in front of me. I really liked this one and I took it home for the kids. 

I knew the middle kid would love it. He's my gadget guy. 

I thought these were really cool too. Janet laughed at my marveling of everything. She said it was fun to see it all with fresh eyes along with someone who was experiencing it for the first time. That was good. I pulled out the safety information and she said I should probably just put that back and not worry about reading it. I thought I should read it so I could be prepared but when I opened it up and saw all of that worst case scenario information, I decided she was right and quickly stuck it back into its home.

Soon I heard a strange sound and she patted me on the arm and said it was the wheels coming down. We were about to land. The landing was a bit bumpy and she said some pilots were better at landings than others. 

Then we were done.

I did it. 

No big deal. 

As we waited to leave the plane, she said, "Well, now you are like everyone else. You've flown!"

"I'm not an anomaly anymore!" We laughed about it, my new friend and I. She even pulled out her business card and said if I was ever in D.C., I had to look her up. 

She was in Dallas for a Mary Kaye convention. I won't ever see anything Mary Kaye and not think about sweet Mrs. Janet. I told her I had prayed for a friend and she was God's answer to my prayer. She patted my arm. We walked the length of Dallas Love airport and we hugged as we parted. 

As my friend and I rode down the interstate, I looked up and saw planes flying overhead. 

That was just me. 

How funny. All those mornings I would walk and catch sight of a plane flying overhead, wishing I was on one, and I was just in a plane just like that. Wow. So amazing.

Soon we drove past the Mary Kaye headquarters. My friend wasn't up to hearing about all of that yet, but I smiled as we drove past.

You are so faithful... 

The return flight home was easier. I just followed the person in front of me through security. I snapped a picture of this man, since the baby kid was very concerned about me spotting a "cowboy" when I was in Texas.

I wasn't nervous about looking out of the window this time, and I marveled at my beloved clouds from this vantage point. 

I didn't talk on the flight home. I had waited at the wrong gate in Dallas. I was sitting there when the Lord so clearly said, "You are at the wrong gate." I had looked at the "arriving" screen and not the "departing" screen. Thankfully I had only been there five minutes and had plenty of time to get to the correct gate. I soon met a new friend at the correct gate, and we chatted. That passed the time quickly. We were delayed when a lady had a panic attack and had to exit the plane. "Whew. So glad that wasn't me," I thought. The lady next to me was studying Daniel, and I really wanted to talk to her about it. I was still though. It felt good to be still. I felt each dip or climb of the plane in the pit of my stomach. There were storms we needed to avoid and a warning of turbulence. As we descended toward the airport we flew right by my old church. I had just left people that I had gone to that church with and tears sprang to my eyes to see it again. I was sad I didn't catch that picture with my camera.  We had to circle the airport a couple of times, and seeing the ground out of the window on one side of the plane and clouds out of the window on the other side was a bit surreal. We bounced down a little more smoothly this time, and I thought of Janet. "This pilot was better at landings," I thought to myself. Oddly enough, I missed Janet. 

I was soon in my brother-in-law's truck headed home, stuck in traffic just like all the other non-fliers on the interstate. 

My great adventure was over. I flew. All by myself.

It's not a big deal, really. I know that. But I'm thankful that I was in a place where once again, it was just me and God. He provided for me faithfully each step of the way. And once I was walking through the airport in my home city, I said, "Lord! We did it! Thank you!"

That felt good. 

He is good.