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.  

The First Day of School

It was time. 

All the prayer. All the preparation. All the anticipation. 

Fine. Dread.

Anyway. It was here. 

It was Sunday night. I made myself a cup of tea in my favorite mug and went to work. 

Copy work. 

Prayer corner. 

More prayer. 

Glad that date was written in pencil...

I quit panicking when I realized we really only started 7 school days later than I had originally planned. 

No big deal.

The Lord sweetly gave me some fun things to do for them for the first day.

~write them letters

~decorate

~do something fun after school

Okay. 

I love it when He helps me homeschool.

Then the day dawned...

The quiet before the storm.

The kids made their "first day of school" signs. 

And they read their cards. 

They liked that.

Thank You, Lord. 

We didn't have all of our books yet, but we had enough to have a pretty full day. 

Even Fluffy got in on the action.

They liked the new stuff and seemed excited about the ancient time period we'll be studying this year. 

Egypt, here we come. 

Speaking of Fluffy. In a moment of lunacy, I scheduled her a grooming appointment for this same day as the first day of school.

My mom is keeping her for us next week, and in trying to space out all the extra things I had to do this week, I decided to get this taken care of on Monday. 

This made the day a little extra crazy.

When we went back to get her, they weren't quite through yet. She saw the kids and nearly dove off the table. She went nuts.

She does not like the beauty shop.

She was glad it was over. And we were glad it happened. She looked good and smelled better too. 

Whew. 

One of our favorite things to do is get Sno Cones. 

So we did. That was our fun (quick and cheap) treat.

The extra fun part was that they got mediums instead of smalls.

I know. I know. I'm spoiling them rotten.

(joke)

They were pretty excited, though. 

Another bit of scheduling chaos resulted in this also being the first day of flag football practice for the boys. 

They were beside themselves with excitement.

No, really. They were.

They just didn't show it when I paused the happiness to take a picture.

In which they look rather blasé about the whole thing.

Stinkers. 

So they really liked that.

Then it was dinner, baths and bedtime.

Then the sweet and simply amazing girl that does Bible study with me on Monday nights brought a treat.

It was my "back to school you did it and it's over and it wasn't a terrible disaster like you had worried it would be and you got everything else done today too" treat. 

Oh, it was such a good treat. 

Lemon Icebox might be my new favorite.

So that was the first day of school.

Only 179 more to go...

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. 

This homeschool mom might...

The school year looms large, intimidating. 

Long days, short minutes to get it all done, shorter nights to sleep, and a great distance to travel until the next break.

I can't look too far down the calendar or it becomes difficult to breathe.

I might say that, much like motherhood, this is the best and hardest thing I've ever done. 

I might say that just because it's hard doesn't mean that it's not what I'm supposed to do.

I might ask that if I step outside of my resolve not to complain, listen gently and smile. I probably don't need to hear the suggestion to put my kids on the school bus. I probably don't need to hear "this is what you wanted" or "why don't you just send them to school?" I need to be reminded that the God who called me to do this is the God that can enable me to do this.

Because He did. I never really dreamed I'd homeschool our kids. I spent five years getting a degree so that I could teach kids in a PUBLIC school setting. 

Oh, the sweet irony.

I might sigh heavily when I miss coffee with friends that are child free during the week. I might squirm in my chair a little when I think about the ease that a part time job might put in our budget. I might feel left out when play dates happen during the times when we just can't attend. 

I might have to apologize to my husband and to company that comes to the house when it's not as neat and clean as I want to. I may have to apologize for a "quick" dinner, or for having spaghetti, again. I might have to say that I'm sorry that the clean clothes stayed in the basket too long or that I forgot to get the suit to the cleaners. I might have to apologize to my kids' friends when they want to play and we still aren't done with school for the day. They hate to miss playing with friends, and I hate it for them. 

There is a lot of room for humility in the life of a homeschool mom as she confesses over and over again that she simply cannot get it all done. 

I might have to say to the next person that says "Oh, I could never homeschool my children" that yes, you could, if He called you to. I'm not any better or any more patient than any other sort of mom. I am used to my kids being home 24/7, but that's just how we are. I don't know anything else. So not saying that is probably a good thing. 

I do need to hear that there are problems in public school too. I do need to hear that public school moms can't get it all done either. I do need to be reminded that even if my kids go to public school, we'll still have tears at the table over math problems and that I'll still have to convince the middle kid that he loves to read and I'll still have to coax the baby kid to read to me more than one Bob book at a time.

I might need to be reminded to use my time wisely. 

I might need to be reminded that any good thing I do is done as unto the Lord and not for any praise or glory here.

(I mean really, are my kids ever going to cheer at the dinner table because Mom gave up her day to homeschool them?)

This is as much about sanctification for me as it is school for them. 

I have no doubts about that at all.

I am thankful I get to do this. I love being with my kids. They make me laugh and I learn from them and with them.

There are horrible days at our table as we try to get school done. And there are horrible days simply because I don't want to do school that day. There are days that I'm selfish and grumpy and short tempered and prideful and snappy and snarky and tired and weak.

And my kids love me anyway.

And the days they fail, I try to show them as much love as they show me on my bad days. Except they are better at unconditional love than I am. I admit that they are teaching me about that more and more everyday.

And I'm glad.

I'm glad for this whole crazy journey. I'm glad that after five years I'm just as lost and clueless as I was that first day my sweet girl kid and I sat down to do school for the first time. I'll say that I wasn't sure we'd do it more than a year and so far there is no end in sight.

I'll say that's scary.

I'll also confess that I do second guess this decision often. Am I teaching them enough? Am I teaching them well? Am I teaching them what they need to know? Are they going to be weird and awkward and socially inept because they had to sit with me all day every day and learn here at home? Will we make up for the ministry opportunities missed by not being with other kids and parents in a broader setting? Will my friendships endure the lack of care due to my time constraints? Will my husband continue to forgive my being in bed when he gets home from work at 9pm because I'm too tired to stay up much past that? 

I might want to remind myself that this isn't really a big deal. It's just school. As long as I go by the curriculum, they should be fine. 

Hopefully.

I might want to say that the job of being a wife and mother is a beautiful thing. Though undervalued and misunderstood by a large part of our society, it is a sacred privilege. Homeschooling is also.  I might embrace the opportunity to tell people that when they react with less that favorable response after asking where my kids go to school. 

I might even tell people when they jokingly as me where my denim jumper is that the homeschool moms I know are beautiful, hip, fun, hilarious, quick witted, smart, hard working and dress really, really well. 

Okay, that last one isn't true at this house. I wear the clothes I exercise in all day and don't wear makeup and wear my hair in a bun everyday. Except on Sunday. 

I should probably apologize to my husband and kids and anyone else who I see during the week for that.

I might tell people that I don't have time to get snazzy looking every day, but it's worth it. It's all worth it.

I don't have to do this.

I get to do this. 

And come Monday, I'll get to do this for 180 days until I get a break. 

But that's okay.

I might need to remind myself of that.  

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.